Waiting

She knew something was wrong, she could feel it deep down in the pit of her stomach. He was agitated and pale, as if he had just seen a ghost. She asked if everything was all right and he nodded keeping his head down, eyes intently tracking his hands. Placing the newspaper down on the kitchen counter, he turned and headed up the stairs, without uttering a sound.

John had just finished his first tour in Iraq, and had seen some horrible stuff. These were things he didn’t want to share with anyone, including his wife, his best friend. Sleep was rare - reruns of his tour overseas played constantly. When he would finally drift off, his dreams would usher him back to a place of fear, death, and destruction. In the dreams it was so real, John would jolt forward, eyes open wide, soaking in his own sweat, only to realize that Iraq was no longer his reality.

John did his best to make his wife, Claire feel as if nothing had changed, but things had. He was always looking over his shoulder, watching and waiting. They had told him this was normal and that it would take time to adjust, but that neighbor, there was something about him. Each time he saw him it brought him back to a place of uneasiness and heightened awareness. The way the guy moved, looked, and acted – it just wasn’t normal; and he kept odd hours constantly loading and unloading things to and from that windowless cargo van. It was more than strange.

It was becoming evident that the dynamics of their marriage were changing. Things were different, but Claire was hopeful. Things would get better, she was sure of it. She was good at that. She was always patient and she could wait.

As he walked up the stairs in silence she wondered what had just happened. Retrieving the paper was a simple and painless task, or so she thought. It was 4:30 am, a lonely hour on a Sunday; a time when most everyone slept – most normal people anyway. What haunted John today? Claire hoped that it was probably nothing to be overly concerned with and decided that some space was the best option - for both of them.

Claire was optimistic that a little more time and her love and support would help bring him back to her. She wished she could do something, to fix everything, and to stop the nightmares so they could both get some rest. She assured herself that tomorrow would be a better day and fully awake now she started a pot of coffee to kick start their day.

Around 6 am John ventured downstairs, giving Claire a big kiss on the cheek. “Sorry about before,” he said. “I saw our neighbor this morning when I went to get the paper, and I guess he just caught me off guard – there’s something about that guy that puts me on edge.” Claire looked at him, confusion written all over her face, “John, he just caught you off guard?” He nodded his head intently. Claire understood that since returning home he lived in this altered state but still she worried and she couldn’t hide it. “Claire, don’t worry, I am sure it was nothing and that I am just being paranoid.” Claire trusted that John was right and ran upstairs to change.

What Claire didn’t know was that John had been keeping a mental note of all the strange things that the neighbor did. Just a week ago, while Claire was at the supermarket, the police arrived at the neighbor’s home and rapped on the door for what seemed like hours, but no one answered. The cargo van was parked in the driveway all that day. Some in the neighborhood, including Claire, had noticed that the neighbor’s wife, a very quiet and introverted sort, hadn’t been seen recently watering her plants, cleaning up outside, or gathering the mail and newspapers. Maybe she was ill or away visiting family. Maybe. In any event she had been MIA now for too long. Asking around the neighborhood proved to be no help. No one had seen her for weeks and it seemed as though no one knew as to her whereabouts. This seemed to be particularly unnerving to John.

By noon the following day the police finally agreed to treat John as a missing person and began the routine of interviewing and searching. Forty-eight hours later they had accomplished little – no John, no car, no leads, no witnesses and only one small clue. John’s dog tags had been found, chain broken, at the end of their driveway. The police, assuming the tags had simply fallen from John’s neck at some point earlier that week, turned them over to Claire. Claire was frustrated by their indifference and knew otherwise, sure that those identification tags were stolen or removed by someone other than John. The dog tags were special to him. They were a connection between John and all the guys in his unit, both dead and alive. Now they were special to Claire. They were the connection between her and the man she loved and waited for – again.

Alone and scared, Claire returned to her familiar post, the second floor window at the front of the house that overlooked the drive. This is where she waited. This is where she always waited. This is where she dreamt and where she prayed. And this was where she now cried. She cried because she hated to wait but was a dedicated soldier and knew she would be spending a lot of time at her post once again.

Peering through the blinds she waited, hoping to see John’s face again, if only for a moment. She stood her ground, refused to move, fearing she would miss something. She was a good soldier, like John. And so she would wait.

Hokie Pride

As I sat in Squires Student Center, at Virginia Tech, one morning, attempting to study for an exam I had later that afternoon; I couldn’t help becoming distracted by a noisy commotion. From the corner of my eye I could see a child, so small that she could barely walk, working hard to hurry her father through the main doors and into Squires. He stood with his tiny redheaded daughter looking for someone or something.

Working hard to entertain and distract her, he began to point toward different objects asking her what color each object was. The little girl seemed to know her basic colors pretty well; however, her vocabulary skills seemed otherwise undeveloped. The father would ask his daughter to name the color, reward her with praise for a correct answer and then tell her the name of the object. She would then repeat it.

Just as I thought they were finished, having color-coded and named every single thing in the Squires atrium, the tiny redhead walked up to a huge statue, pointed and spoke one word loud and clear. “Hokie,” she said. I was shocked that a toddler who could barely talk knew what a Hokie looked like and then was able to enunciate the word with such clarity. As big and interesting as the statue was, the Hokie failed to hold her attention for long.

Stumbling on, she next caught the attention of one of the janitors working in Squires. He walked over to a kiosk, grabbed a miniature orange football that the homecoming committee were giving out as part of a promotion that day, and approached the little one. He proceeded to get down on one knee, and at eye level, extended his hand with the football and said, “Here you go.” The little orange football was almost a perfect match to her curly red hair. She stopped moving, looked at the man confused and stood very still. Slowly a small smile crept across her face as she reached out and took the ball. Ball in hand and now wearing a big smile she was off once again. The dad, also smiling now, stepped over to thank the janitor for the gift.

It was that day, in Squires, that I realized why so many people fall in love with Virginia Tech. Yes, we have great football and basketball teams and yes, we have a great campus with phenomenal resources and yes, there’s lots to do and great places to eat, but all of this is only a small part of what makes Virginia Tech a special place.

It is the “Tech Family” that makes this place truly remarkable. The Tech Family of janitors, students, little red heads with orange footballs, little boys wearing their number five football jerseys, and the little ones’ parents. The Tech Family of professors, TAs, counselors and the Blacksburg families playing out on the drill field on Sunday mornings.

The Tech Family of all those who choose to make themselves part of this community and who share a smile, hold a door, lend a hand and make you feel good just being here. It is this family, my family, that makes me smile and makes me proud to be part of it all. This is Hokie Pride.

A Room Can Speak the World, Without Saying a Thing

Not your typical room. It seemed empty, tall ceilings with empty walls. First impression was a lasting impression. This class and this room were shortly going to become my worst nightmare. The computers screamed late nights and lots of papers. I suddenly realized that failure to listen to my gut instinct (that was telling me to run) could result in a lower grade point average this semester. However, I thought about one thing as I sat in the white-walled, maroon chaired, computer infested room; I thought “This is my chance, my opportunity to immerse myself in the unknown, to battle something I have long tried to avoid and become a much better student than before.”

Defining

My entire life has constantly consisted of defining who I am. Who I am as a person, where I stand in a person’s life and how I’d like to be remembered. I refuse to be considered average, and just become another passer-by in someone’s life. Virginia Tech, my dream school, the only place I ever wanted to be was considered a school far out of my grasp, a school who wouldn’t accept me as my SAT scores and GPA just did not measure up to the university’s standards. I decided to take a chance, a leap of faith, and shoot for something others claimed unattainable.

Virginia Tech saw me for me, and in that instant I no longer had to try to define and prove whom I was to those I felt had failed me. I never had the option of taking an honors class in high school, let alone an advanced placement course. After taking the SATs three times my scores did not improve, all that much. Despite the lack luster numbers Virginia Tech looked at me as a person and all that I had to offer and was willing to give me a chance of attending this prestigious institution. I owe the university my hard work and dedication, they took a chance on me and I am not one to disappoint. I have at times failed in my life, but look where failure has gotten me thus far. It is hard to see past the present and focus on the future, the here and now takes precedents above all else; I was able to persist past failure and work hard to get where I sit today. I accept failure, not light-heartedly, but I can accept it and move forward, however, what I cannot accept is giving up. I really thought that college was not an option for me when I first arrived at Virginia Tech; I was failing tests, my family and most of all myself. The easy option – to run and never look back, but as quitting slowly started to consume me, I understood that hard work, persistence, perseverance and above all else the will power to continue was truly what defined me.

A Survivor, A Breath of Air

As she sat on her bathroom floor sobbing she couldn't help but ask herself, “why me?” A rush of uncontrollable emotions was triggered by the thought of the word - “cancer.”

Women's health guidelines recommend yearly mammograms for all women beginning at age 40; she was only 33.

It all started one morning in the shower when Claudia Serpico felt a lump while washing her body. Her fingers detected something she knew was foreign, something she knew didn’t belong.

“It scared the hell out of me,” she said.

She immediately jumped out of the shower and called her husband at work. He convinced her not to panic and that it was probably nothing to worry about. They would visit the doctor ASAP.

“I had no idea where to begin. How do you explain to a 9-and 4-year-old that you have cancer? It's amazing how your world can be turned upside down. Everything that you once thought was fair and just in your world 24 hours ago no longer is. To say the least, my life as I had known it changed in an instant,” said Serpico.

Serpico is a 20-year survivor of breast cancer and one whose life has changed dramatically from that very first moment she discovered the small lump.

Serpico's mother, Marie Basel, had been diagnosed with cancer just three years prior to Serpico discovering the lump in her own breast. Having witnessed her mother's recent struggle with cancer helped heighten Serpico's awareness of the many implications associated with the disease and reminded her of the daunting statistics. Her mother having had cancer meant that the chances she now had cancer were dramatically increased.

“As much as I understood my increased risk for cancer, still I never thought I would be a mother with two young children, with a husband and with cancer,” she said.

Because of her young age the doctors initially assured Serpico that the lump was probably nothing more than a cyst and nothing to be overly concerned about. However the test results told a much different story. The lump was not a cyst, it was a tumor and the tumor was not benign, it was malignant. She had cancer.

“At the time I was diagnosed my father-in-law worked at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York,” she said. “Twenty years ago health insurance wasn't like it is today,” she continued, “things were quite different. At any rate, he told me to come to the hospital and they wouldn't charge me. I got to see one of the best breast surgeons in the U.S. at the time.”

Serpico, holding back tears, said, “I remember my oldest daughter, Andrea, having friends over and I would run my fingers through my hair and huge clumps of it would fall out. Andrea would tell her friends that I was shedding like a dog. She had no idea what was going on.”

“I don't remember much, I was only 9 years old at the time,” said Andrea Gregory, Serpico’s oldest daughter. “My mom and dad sat us down in the “white room,” the one no one is ever allowed in, and my father did the talking. I do remember thinking my mom was going to die,” she said. “I remember when she lost her hair, and I 
remember not understanding why. A lot of friends brought food, I had a lot of sleepovers at friends homes, and a lot of babysitters.”

After Serpico received a lumpectomy she received both chemotherapy and radiation treatments, treatments she states seemed agonizing and unbearable at times, but they saved her life. Serpico’s struggle continued as she tried to balance being a mother, a wife and a cancer patient. There were times when she felt lost, as if there was nothing that anyone could do or say to her.

“I remember one morning going upstairs and taking my blow dryer, curling iron, and brush and throwing them across my bathroom because I knew that there was nothing that they could do for me anymore,” she said. “I lost all my hair, my eyebrows and my eyelashes. No matter what I did I was no longer the same.”

Serpico remembers the day her aunt, Dolores Puydak, came to watch her two daughters, “she brought a crock pot of food and she looked at me and said, even if you feel like sobbing and giving up, you need to wake up every morning, put on a little make-up, get dressed and go downstairs.”

“My daughter Noreen and her were great friends and they loved the beach,” said Puydak. “The one thing I will always remember about Claudia is that she was a looker. Even when she had cancer she was beautiful.”

Serpico’s Aunt Dolores and her family helped her to win the biggest battle she ever had to face.

“Without them I don’t know what would have happened to me,” she said “they helped me every step of the way.”

Serpico found both inspiration and solace in those around her. She found great source of motivation in her daughters who ultimately became the driving force in her recovery.

“Their smiles and their laughs alone were enough to fight for,” Serpico said.

“When Andrea graduated eighth grade I just sat there sobbing because I didn’t think I would live to see her graduate middle school,” she said. “I sat there with my husband, my youngest daughter Kathryn, and my in-laws and just bawled the entire time.”

“I never thought I would live to see my eldest daughter graduate high school, let alone see both my girls graduate from college, get married, and become a grandmother,” Serpico said.

Between 1984 and now Serpico has learned the importance of family, love, and most importantly life. She never surrendered to the disease, learned to live with the cancer and become a survivor.

“It took a long time,” Serpico said “but when I heard the words “cancer free” I knew I had made it. All I needed was to hear those two words. It was as if I could breathe again.”

The Infamous

He is completely unorganized. He walks into the library with heavy feet. There is no need for me to turn around to know what is coming. His heavy feet slow to a stop adjacent to where I am sitting. I have no idea who he is, and I assume he has no idea who I am. With abrupt movements he unzips his backpack and throws his laptop on the table, the cord hits me in the arm and he says nothing. Despite appearing disorganized he seems very focused, staring intently at the blank computer screen; about an hour passes before he gets up and leaves, never once meeting my gaze. I continue to sit in the library, minding my own business and no longer than thirty minutes after the boy has left I hear the same heavy feet, the same walking pattern and the bright red shirt he wears comes into my peripheral vision. The only difference about our encounter this time is the fact that his old seat is now occupied. He looks confused as if the entire student body should be aware this seat at this particular table belongs to him. Without saying a word I hear him take that first step toward a new seat, same table just at the opposite end.

The Weight Room

They swipe my card and I walk through the security gate, then make a left and head down the first flight of stairs. When I reach the landing and then look to my right I see a rectangular portrait size hole is cut from the cement wall and get a quick preview of the infamous weight room. What's with this viewing hole? It feels like some sort of viewing station in a high security prison. Is the concrete barrier to keep us out or our iron pumping mates in? I don't feel like I’m in school anymore or even on campus for that matter. It's like I’ve crossed some threshold and entered some foreign and unfamiliar place. It’s intimidating, but I really want to lift.

First stop is the locker room where I deposit and secure my street clothes, backpack, money, jewelry and lifeline (hokie passport). As I move out of the locker room and then continue toward my long overdue work out I’ve now entered the gym and have come face to face with the weight room. Occupied almost exclusively by men I move quickly, trying to avoid eye contact but at the same time studying the group discreetly. Who is using steroids and who is not? Hormones, steroids and more hormones - very intimidating. The weight room is probably not the best place for me, your average 98-pound weakling, to be hanging around. These guys are serious about their bodies and their muscles and therefore their workouts. In here it's all about big plates, big arms, big chests, big plans, focus, dedication, commitment and big workouts. I decide that I’m going to start eating better and get in shape - but not today and not here, maybe tomorrow. I make a razor-sharp left turn and head back up the same stairway I just descended only moments before but this time I pass by the locker room and continue on up one more level.

As I reach the third floor I immediately feel more comfortable. The intimidation factor has disappeared and the air is lighter. I feel more "at home." The third floor is a world apart from the first floor and the weight room. There is something about the third floor, just something, and as I begin to run I gradually start to understand what that something is. I see more women and more familiar and friendly faces on the third floor, it has a subdued, calm, inviting atmosphere and something that just makes me feel good and less self-conscious. It is a place where I feel as if I am not being judged and where all my anxiousness and worries subside. This is a place where I can workout and focus. It’s a place where I can fit in.

After a tough but satisfying workout I head back down to the first floor. Instead of making a beeline for the locker room I decide to face the fear once more and, so with the Jaws theme song playing in my head, timidly walk into that dreaded place for the second time today. I have been avoiding this place ever since I have arrived here at Virginia Tech but I really want to lift and I really want to overcome my trepidation. Looks of confusion and then disgust are aimed my way as the group realizes that I might actually be thinking of invading their space. I feel uneasy and like I really don't belong here. By the looks on these guys' faces I can tell that they don't think I belong here either. I'm scared but I'm also angry so contrary to what my gut is telling me to do, which is to turn around and run, I stay and walk over toward the free weights. What I thought would happen and what actually happened were two completely different things. I thought that the guys would get over the initial shock of seeing a small girl in the weight room and then carry on with their everyday workout, but I was wrong. I continued to get stares from everyone that was standing in that room. These guys acted like I was the carrier of some deadly disease as they slowly walked away from the free weights and then each and every section of the room that I ventured into. I soon knew the feeling of complete isolation - I was an outsider.

Committed to getting into better shape and to furthermore face my fears, for the rest of the week I continued to return to and to workout in the weight room. The faces eventually begin to become familiar. I soon begin to notice that there are different groups not just within the gym, but also within the weight room itself. Every week night I would see the jocks working out together, then the body builders, then you had the guys who really tried really hard wanting to obtain some muscular substance (but it didn't look as if it had paid off thus far), and now on rare occasions a few girls working out together. I was secluded, all alone and now was beginning to understand why I never went into that room. It was plain and simple intimidation.

Now that football season has ended and basketball just begining the room is stock full of our best linebackers and our starting basketball players, just keeping in shape for next season. The "jocks", as they are better known as, all stick together laughing and joking as they squat over 150 pounds of weight. The way you can decipher the athletes from the mainstream, run of the mill student is that they are covered in Virginia Tech Orange Bowl gear from their sweatbands to their socks. The jocks work hard in that weight room, but they play hard too, joking, laughing and messing around (after all it is the off-season).

Bodybuilding by definition is the process of developing the musculature of the body through specific types of diet and physical exercise, such as weight lifting. The weight room is jam-packed with the body builders; they represent the largest subculture in that room by far. The sizes of their arm muscles are bigger than most girls' thighs, and appear as if they are rock hard. However, unlike the athletes or jocks they are strictly business; all work and no play. "We spend hours in the gym each afternoon, and if we can't be here for more than an hour at a time we come twice" Chad Rotermund states. Chad continues by saying "our goal is trying to sculpt the ideal body, as close to perfect as we can manage."

The last group I observed was the guys that I see, without fail, every time I am in Mccomas. They workout so very hard in pursuit of that "acceptable" body, but somehow always fall short (you look at them and feel sad for them with all their effort, but no visible reward). I talked to a guy by the name of Neal Sekhri, and asked him what his reasoning was coming to the gym everyday? His reply was trouble-free, effortless, and undemanding: "To be honest, I have realized that I will probably never acquire the type of body that those guys over there have (as he points to the jocks or body builders), but as least I can say I try." Neal continues with a smirk on his face and a quiet laugh and says, "Maybe it’s the lack of performance enhancing drugs. I chose an all natural approach a long time ago.” (Sekhri)

Toward the end of the week, I think the guys in the weight room started
to recognize my face and their shock subsided. I don't think I was accepted
into their club but I think I started to blend into the background and become somewhat unnoticed.

As Virginia Tech students, all 30,000 of us are members of subcultures; a
subculture made up of college students, a subculture of undergraduates, post graduates, athletes, a subculture made up of Blacksburg residents, a subculture of engineers, science majors, communication majors - and the list goes on. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of different subcultures within this one university.

I have learned things that have given me new perspective on diversity, people and the groups that form among us. For one week I was able to segregate and differentiate between the different people, groups, cultures and subcultures that existed in just one room, in one building, on one campus. It was a cool and eye opening realization to see a world that I had never considered before. The world is full of great diversity and a complexity that is infinite in nature. What I observed was little more than a minute fraction of this diversity. I am getting the feeling that what I observed is a more universal phenomenon that applies to many different areas of our lives and our world. I furthermore believe that the study and analysis of different cultures and subcultures may be a key to achieving peace and understanding in, what appears to be, an ever increasingly volatile world.