What can we possibly do as a society to grieve, especially for a crime that has no obvious explanation? What can we do to help others grieve? To help the families grieve? How do we put the next foot forward? How do we send our children to school, our parents to work? How do we walk through the grocery store and trust we’re safe? What do we do to recover some hope, some faith in the future, some reason to keep going?
I almost think tuning into the country station began as a joke. I found myself driving with the windows down (there was no ac), eating blueberries out of a brown paper bag, tapping my leather cowboy boots as Tim McGraw belted on the radio, feeling young and liberated.
When ESPN GameDay came into town, people in South Bend started acting a little punny.
It was a Wednesday, a night when all our peers flocked to Finny’s for dollar pitchers and the bouncer with the boundless handlebar mustache. But we were coated in sweat and ice shavings from our broomball victory and decided an appropriate celebration would be to waddle to the Backer.
At the Notre Dame of decades past, you arrived on campus with your suitcase teeming with dungarees or flannel shirts or leg warmers, anxiously anticipating the first sweaty handshake and nervous mumbles with the person you would share a 10×12 cell with for the academic year.
As campus revives from the lull of summer and pulses to the beat of student energy, I realize I am no longer en tempo with Notre Dame.
The Irish banded together on Chicago’s Southside. They fixed each other’s roofs, watched each other’s children and fed each other’s husbands. They married and had children who dropped the Irish brogue and grew up American, but with Irish culture woven tightly into their lives. Then they married other Irish and had children. Children of the children of the Irish immigrant population. Children who have an even more watered-down Irish-American upbringing, but still some sort of one. I am one of those children.
I’ve used much of my time thus far to prepare myself to get to this stage of life. Time was spent in class, doing homework and filling free seconds with outlandish numbers of extracurriculars so I could bolster my college apps and get into school and find a job. But with a job, the end to which I’ve worked, secured and underway, now what?
Tis the season to be competitive. The season to push and shove. The season to be greedy. ’Tis the season for Black Friday.
Long before technology wrapped its gnarled fingers around man and became its master, Henry David Thoreau wisely said, “Men have become the tools of their tools.” Decades and now five iPhone versions later, we have entered an age where instead of holding our smartphones, our smartphones have a chokehold on us.
Notre Dame graduate students Matt Barnes, Andy Deines and Sheina Sim are not your average chefs — really they’re not chefs at all — but they are convinced their studies of invasive species can help you put together both an eco-friendly and appetizing menu for your next tailgate.
In theory, the invasivore idea is brilliant: Eat what you want to reduce. But is it reasonable? Should people who don’t frequently peruse edible plant and survival encyclopedias forage in the woods and try to make use of nature’s ingredients? I decided to find out.
It starts with a home-town honey, but the Notre Dame love story is only beginning.
I have a gun. A battle rifle to be specific. My right forefinger controls the trigger. My left forefinger throws grenades. Wait . . . do I have any grenades? My left thumb controls my head . . . or was it my body? Why do my head and my body have different controls? I can’t play Halo; this is obvious.
I am a proud Notre Dame student who tries to embrace every bit of ND culture: I have slapped the “Play like a Champion” sign. I have done hundreds of Irish pushups. I haven’t yet walked up the steps of the Main Building. But I can’t help but be wounded by the disappointment of alums as they bemoan traditions that have faded away.