Across the world, there are people of all backgrounds and stories who are struggling in one way or another. There are refugees fleeing from the Middle East, finding safe havens in Europe and neighboring countries. There are young, orphaned children fighting to survive in Africa, yearning for an education and a home. There are impoverished people on the streets across America, looking for shelter and sustenance – even in our own backyard of Waco. There are struggles everywhere that we look. Those who are struggling are in constant need of hope.
On the contrary, within Baylor and within the BIC, most of us have found our niche. We have found that one thing, that one subject, that one hobby, that keeps us sane in the whirlwind that is Baylor’s BIC. Whether it is choir, crew, or any number of clubs, there is a place for our passions here at Baylor.
Jon Burns, CEO and founder of Lionsraw, has managed to put his passion into practice with his foundation. Lionsraw utilizes his passion for soccer and tenacity of its fans for the betterment of communities in impoverished countries. Lionsraw uses soccer to teach life skills, raise awareness for social issues, and form broad alliances to enable social change. Burns has not only joined his love for soccer with his desire to change the world, but he has also made a global impact on society.
Burns’ platform for passion and global change is inspiring, the vision of which he shared during chapel at Waco Hall on Monday, September 21. Burns said, “I love coming to Waco, because of all the potential I see in the students I speak to. I did not get an education like you or even have the potential you possess; I am just an ordinary guy, and look at what God did with me. Imagine what God can do with you.”
Burns’ humble words sparked a reality in me – there is potential within all of us. I wrote about our potential as college students to make a difference in spreading awareness of the Syrian refugee crisis, and that potential doesn’t have to end there.
Burns shared stories with the students about horrific events that he has experienced as well as the tragic events which often befall those who he helps. He spoke about the refugees that are throwing their babies across electric fences – just to give them an inch of hope. He spoke about a teenage orphan who attended one of his schools in Africa, she who was attacked and left for dead on the side of the road. He shed light on the realities, not just the news stories.
We all have a passion. Name it and I’m sure Baylor has a club or intramural for it. Our passions can be used to change the world, we just have to activate the change. As stated earlier, our passions keep us sane, but imagine our passions changing the lives of someone across the world? We are constantly waiting for Canvas to update itself and post new grades. Meanwhile there are children currently being separated from their families or young orphans experiencing the horrors of war.
Now pause for a second – we drown ourselves in the hectic lifestyle that every college student attains, and we sit here concerning ourselves with exams and GPAs when there are men, women, and children on the other side of the world waiting for us to ignite our passions for a change. Every passion matters, and every passion can become a platform for social change. Our potential is present, we just have to put it into practice.
For more information, check out Lionsraw.org.
Kassie Hsu is a freshman BIC student majoring in neuroscience.
Change is a constant in the life of a college student, but for first years at Baylor, one thing remains, dining hall food.
*collective groan*
But wait. Dining hall food isn’t all bad. In fact, it is mostly quite good.
It can be hard to see when your life consists of meals two or three times a day from the same dining locations, but the benefits of ready-made food far outweigh the costs.
For starters, some of it is pretty delicious.
I was dismayed to hear some freshman students refer to The Penland Crossroads as P-Nasty. Three years ago, before the renovations and expansions, back when The Penland Crossroads was just Penland Dining Hall, that was nasty. The Penland incoming freshman know? That’s more ‘P-not quite my mother’s cooking’.
Whole dining halls have upped their game (hello, 1845 at Memorial), and old favorites, like Ms. Mei’s cookies, flying saucers, and the southwest chicken salad, remain.
It’s clear. The food is pretty delicious. Yet some of you continue to complain.
Here’s my follow up question: Could you do any better?
Oh, wait. Let me clarify. With your current schedule– classes, extracurricular activities, and social gatherings–in those small free spaces you have, could you cook something more sumptuous than what is being offered to you?
For most of us, the answer to that question is a resounding no.
I found that out the hard way. It is not until you are left to your own devices that you figure out if you are a good cook. Turns out, I’m not.
In the year I have been cooking for myself, I have burned bread, cracked eggs while attempting to boil them, and destroyed chicken (Avoid my mistake. Cut the fat out of chicken before cooking it.)
To be fair, all of these things occurred in an old apartment where the knob to set the oven’s temperature often fell off, leaving my roommate and I to guess what temperature the oven was.
Long story short, dining hall meals are much easier. If you still have the urge to cook or bake, then utilize those dorm kitchens.
Beyond ease and deliciousness, there are few things that can create community like eating in a dining hall. To eat with a large group of friends at a dining hall, send a quick text message, or bump into them on the way. To do the same in an apartment? That will take many more texts and some preparatory grocery shopping.
I get it. The negative thoughts about the dining hall experience is one of those things that draws on-campus students together. Who am I to stop this age-old tradition of college students being dissatisfied with their dining halls?
Hear these thoughts and store them in a safe place. Before the year is up, take some time to appreciate the good in on-campus dining. There’s nothing like an inviting place filled with hot food, smiling people, and dishes you don’t have to do.
For more information about on-campus dining locations, visit http://baylor.campusdish.com/.
Kara Blomquist is a senior BIC student majoring in linguistics.
There, where I have passed, the grass will never grow again.
-Attila the Hun
“Why does Gary have so many sons, mommy?” Flavia asked.
The troops marched from the road to the guardhouse at a brisk pace, their armor gleaming in the pale tentacles of sunshine that lazily flopped and unfurled between the grey clouds and suicidal snowflakes – plummeting to the ground with a sickening yet childish glee. One splattered atop Flavia’s nose. She giggled. She sneezed. She forgot her question and began swatting at the snowflakes like they were bumblebees – like spring had come back once more.
“Stay away from my nose!” Flavia squealed as she swatted.
Attica smiled – momentarily forgetting the harsh reality of winter, of her husband’s elongated absence, of the sick child lying in his bed inside her home, spitting up blood. Her smile faded as her hand fell to the hilt of her dagger without the influence of her mind.
The chilling winds careened through the interwoven branches of trees and patched stone roofs with the awkward tenacity of a clumsy goose. Attica slowly removed her hand from the smooth hilt of her dagger. Every sound constituted a threat. Every whisper of wind, every subtle scrape of a boot, every child’s giggle somehow suggested violence – for some reason every noise wanted her family dead. Perhaps the snow itself was the culprit – winter the mastermind – behind her unwinding psyche. An enemy could obscure himself easily enough under the frosty embrace of winter’s discharge, becoming a part of the very landscape until he chose to strike –
Something struck her foot – prompting Attica to yank her dagger violently from its sheath – her fingers seething for blood – just to find the innocent culprit – Flavia had taken to scraping a snow angel into the delicate blanket of frost that winter had lain upon the land. Her eyes were closed – she giggled. She did not notice her mother’s outstretched arm.
Attica placed her dagger back in its home and returned her attention to the city. Barbarians patrolled the walls lazily, more interested in looking at their own feet than out at the landscape beyond the suggested safety of the stacked stone. Their chieftain had equipped them with sturdy pikes and flimsy buckler shields. They must have known deep down that they were not prepared for any enemy with such outdated weapons.
“Salona is not their home,” Attica whispered to herself. “They are no better than cheap mercenaries – they have nothing to fight for.”
Attica knew all too well that the wall was fragile and would not deliver on its promise of protection from the unwashed hordes. Snow had filled the empty spaces where chipped stone ought to have sat. The guard towers stationed every half mile along the wall were dilapidated at best, rusted and rotten – offering more danger to the city than protection – they threatened to collapse at any moment. The giant wooden gate, reinforced with hardened steel, offered the most ease to the conscience as the horde had never been able to even dent it – but it would amount to nothing if the walls surrounding it were to crumble.
The city inside the walls offered similarly gaunt comfort. Many homes had collapsed or were in denial concerning their inevitable collapse – victims of incendiary onager volleys. Those who were not busy burying their dead seemed as vibrant as their broken homes – they wore their protruding ribs like jewelry, adorning the tattered rags which they referred to as clothing. Despite the snow, most did not wear sandals, causing their tender soles to flush with a royal purple hue. They had given up – and those who held some semblance of maddening hope found themselves constantly preoccupied with thoughts of the enemy – untrained hands waiting with bated breath for a chance to fling themselves at the horde – hoping to smother the death mongers as their souls fled their bodies.
“They have attacked before and we have repelled them,” Gnaeus had told her. “Do not worry my love, the horde shall never make its way past these walls.”
Attica and her husband, Gnaeus, had grown up together. They lived on opposite sides of a cobblestone street within Salona, back when the city had some semblance of Roman civility, where they would exchange flirtatious glances before the thought of romance had yet begun to plague their innocent minds. During her tenth year, Gnaeus tackled an agitated dog who had cornered Attica in an alleyway. During her twelfth year, Gnaeus taught her how to spar – unbeknownst to her parents. During her fifteenth year she punched Gauis Laetorius in the nose, two years their senior, when he called Gnaeus’ mother a fata cana. At eighteen they were married before Christ – at nineteen she was with child – and now at twenty-nine –
A horrible throng of coughs interrupted her thoughts. Many children coughed, Attica noted, like her son. This sickness was truly peculiar – it arrived with the horde. It was the most severe in Constantinople but had made its way to her doorstep. It started with headaches, coughing, and fever – but eventually led to the formation of boils, vomiting, and in its final stages – before death – caused the fingers and toes shrivel and turn a unholy shade of ebony black. As the sun dipped below the horizon in the distance, the increasingly dark sky reminded her of the many discarded toes she had seen strewn about alleyways and doctors’ medicine bags alike. Luckily, her son only had the cough. Justinian’s Plague, they had come to call it.
The pained sounds of a skirmish suddenly drew her mind away from the plague. Two dirty, mucky children sparred with sweating icicles on the periphery of Attica’s vision. The first, Varro son of Scipio, fought sloppily. He swung his blade like a midwife slings afterbirth from the back porch – his jabs and swipes meant nothing – no passion accompanied his childish yelps and screams as Claudius son of Brutus utilized every careless thrust. Claudius racked his opponent’s ribs with his blade as if they were the strings of a harp – accompanied each time by the sweet music of Varro’s deserved yelps. Claudius grew tired of the scuffle – however – bringing his blade suddenly and decisively down upon his opponent’s head, sending him sprawling on the ground, defeated.
“Claudius!” his father screamed, removing himself from the butcher’s hut a few yards away.
He grabbed his son by the collar and dragged him out of sight. Claudius’ father was the town’s potter. Claudius was to follow in this tradition. Varro, who continued to lay face-down in the snow, was the son of a soldier – he was meant to follow in this tradition.
“This is why Rome shall fall.” Attica whispered to herself.
“Did you say something, mommy?” Flavia asked.
Attica turned her attention to the angel clasped tightly to her right leg like a leech. Her auburn hair wrapped around her structured, strong snowflake face like the mighty limbs of an elder oak. Her cheeks jutted from her face like her father’s cavalry shield – steel had found its way into the child’s bones. The voice that flowed past her chapped cherry lips could have been the Aegean Sea surging against the ancient shores of Greece – violent yet somehow innocent – harsh yet somehow lulling. And despite the apparent shortage of food, the girl maintained her noble stature – her shoulders did not bow – her back remained erect – her noble face did not lose its authoritative fullness. Her deep blue eyes – lapis lazuli – carved deeply into the faded, crusted-mud eyes of her mother.
“Mommy was just talking to herself.” Attica replied.
Flavia frowned, not content with her mother’s answer. She abandoned her battle with the snowflakes – they fell upon her in an unwashed horde.
“When will daddy be back?” she asked.
“Soon.” Attica answered. “He is off with Varro’s father and all the other soldiers in the legion, they are making sure we are safe.”
“Why didn’t Gary’s sons go with them?” Flavia said after a brief pause, gesturing to the bustling soldiers, remembering her question.
“Garrison, not Gary’s son,” Attica replied. “Bad men are coming from the North, remember? The emperor sent these soldiers to form a garrison force here – to protect us from the bad men here while good men like daddy and the other soldiers in the legion go to fight the bad men elsewhere.”
Flavia watched the soldiers as they trekked through the snow towards the guard tower and nodded.
“But why did they send all of Gary’s sons? Won’t he miss them?” she asked.
“There is no Gary,” Attica replied. “These are foederati – they’re – barbarians. They aren’t Roman. But times are hard, you know that. A lot of Roman soldiers have – been lost. We need all the help we can get.”
Flavia caught a snowflake on her palm.
“They died.” Flavia stated decisively.
“They did.” Attica replied.
“The Horde killed them.”
“Yes.” Attica answered.
Attica stared into her daughter’s deep, well-like eyes. Only in her tenth year, yet her innocence had fled with the summer. A child born in another time – in another land – would have no knowledge of death – of its cold certainty. Flavia simply shrugged at the thought – death being as simple and necessary as the melting of the snowflake atop her palm.
“They could kill daddy too, you know,” she continued. “And then us. And then the emperor. And then Roma.”
Attica ran her hands through Flavia’s wavy locks, thick like olive branches.
“They won’t,” Attica replied. “Christ will protect us.”
“He hasn’t protected any of us so far.”
“The Huns have taken a great deal from us,” Attica said, gripping Flavia’s shoulders tightly. “But do not let them take your faith as well. Christ will deliver – I have as much faith in Him as I have love for you.”
Flavia smirked and playfully poked her mother’s nose, made pink by the cold.
A scream suddenly rang out in the distance, however, followed by the majestic bellow of a trumpet – bringing Attica to her feet. A brief moment of silence ensued – followed immediately by overwhelming panic and a stampede of footsteps.
“Daddy’s back!” Flavia announced.
“What did they say?” Attica exclaimed, removing herself from the line to the butcher’s hut. “What’s happening?”
No one responded but everyone rushed past her – screaming and shoving as they pushed towards their homes. The trumpet did not move Varro, however, he continued to lay face-down in the snow, deathly still. Attica grasped Flavia’s tiny palm with one hand while securing the other on the hilt of her dagger and began carving through the throng of people pushing past her desperately. In the distance she watched as the giant wooden gate cracked open just slightly – large enough for a single man to pass through.
“They only let in one man?” Attica said to herself. “That can’t be – there were thousands of men in that legion . . .”
Attica plucked Flavia from the ground and held the child in her arms, using her to shove her way through the horde of fleeing Romans. Flavia yelped as her skinny legs knocked aside rampaging peasants and noblemen alike – she held onto her mother for dear life.
“Everything is fine,” she assured herself. “Don’t panic.”
Once she had finally surfaced above the disorderly mob, Attica found herself on the main cobblestone road that lead to the main gate, only half a mile to the North. Not knowing what to expect, Attica placed her daughter in a small alleyway between two crumbling houses.
“Stay here.” Attica whimpered.
Flavia nodded.
Attica turned from her daughter and began walking slowly down the cobblestone, marred by dirty, mud-colored snow and black toes – she heard screaming down the road, at the gate – she began to run, sliding along the slush and stone, stumbling desperately towards the gate – more screaming – her legs burned against the bitter cold of the air as she raced down the road – still more screaming – something didn’t sit right in her gut – with every step she felt ever more mortified – Apollo please, save us – she chastised herself for her shameful closeted paganism.
Christ took His revenge – she was moving too fast – the sludge took control of her sandals – she fell to the cobblestone, wracking her elbows against the sharp stone, tearing deep wells in her skin as she bounced her skull off of the road – blurring her vision and unleashing a ringing bell inside her ears. She was sure it wasn’t real, as the cathedral had collapsed during the last attack. She groaned. She felt blood in her hair before she raised her fingers to confirm its presence.
When the smoke had finally cleared from her eyes, she turned towards the gate.
The first thing she saw was her husband’s horse, Hannibal, nudging a body lying motionless on the cobblestone. Several foederati surrounded the body, nudging it gingerly. Attica froze. The blood stopped gushing from her head and elbows. For a moment, even her heart ceased to beat. The snow stopped falling. Her wounds sank into the background. She rose to her feet. She began to cry.
“Gnaeus?” she called as she ran.
One of the barbarians caught sight of her and stood, extending his palm towards her.
“Stop!” he shouted in his foreign tongue.
Attica barreled through him, however, throwing her shoulder into his chest, denting his flimsy armor and sending him into the pavement. She tripped as she passed him, however, reducing her to her knees beside the motionless body.
“At – Attica?” the body murmured.
“Gnaeus – is that – you?” Attica whispered.
“The Huns – they’re coming.” Gnaeus replied.
The horde had kept most of Attica’s husband for themselves. His right leg was missing below the knee, as was his left arm below the elbow. Gnaeus’ regal and structured face, that which he had passed down to their goddess of a daughter, had been mauled beyond recognition – the skin now a mixture of charcoal black and scarlet wine as if he had spontaneously contracted the plague. The grimy beard which Attica had so often demanded be shaved was charred and only half-present, revealing singed skin underneath. His elite heavy armor had been torn to shreds – skewered by flaming arrows, some of which still burned inside him. A pool of blood steadily formed beneath him.
“I look like a broken wine bowl!” he coughed.
Attica and Gnaeus shared a pained laugh.
“They killed most of us, routed a contingent of foederati cavalry – but – I don’t know where they went – might as well be dead. I held out for as long as I could – but – there are so many. They’re coming here next.”
“Close the gate!” a guard suddenly shouted from the wall. “We’ve got movement!”
“It’s the Huns!” Attica shouted between tears. “They murdered the whole legion!”
The guards ran for the gate mechanism and began yanking levers desperately.
“Gnaeus – please don’t go.” Attica said, stroking the marred face of her fading husband.
“Take Hannibal – and go,” Gnaeus replied. “There is nothing for you or the children here. Head for Rome. You will be safe there.”
Gnaeus began coughing like his son, spitting blood from between his teeth.
“I . . . I . . .” he began to say. “There – there’s no light.”
His neck suddenly became slack and his eyes emptied with the rest of his body – he was gone.
Attica buried her head in her husband’s chest and began sobbing. She could feel Hannibal’s hot breath on the back of her neck. He grew anxious – he could sense the approach of the Hunnic horses.
“The gate won’t close!” a guard suddenly shouted. “The mechanism is stuck! How many do you see?”
“A few thousand – at least,” the guard atop the wall stuttered. “Fall back. Fall back to the city center! That’s where we’ll make our stand!”
The foederati needed no further encouragement. They quickly abandoned their posts and fled the wall. Some even threw their weapons as they departed. They had no intention of dying for the helpless Romans. A guard grabbed Attica by the shoulder and tried to pry her away from the body as he passed – but to no avail.
“If you don’t stop mourning him, soon your children will be mourning you both!” the guard shouted before retreating with his companions.
Attica lifted her head from the corpse as the thundering sound of a thousand charging horses filled the emptiness that surrounded her. It sounded as if the gods of Olympus had resurfaced and were marching in an Earth-shaking parade. Hannibal whinnied behind her and nudged her head with his snout.
The thunder of the horses grew ever louder.
Attica looked into the blank eyes of her husband one last time before relieving him of his sword and rising to her feet.
“I love you, Gnaeus,” she sobbed. “We will survive for you.”
Attica wiped her eyes and turned her attention to Hannibal, the horse of metal, covered from snout to hoof in the most finely-forged steel chainmail to be found in the rapidly-aging Roman Empire. Together, Gnaeus and Hannibal were Cataphractarii, elite heavy shock cavalry that posed a threat to the bitterest enemy of the empire – excluding the Huns, perhaps.
The widow pulled herself atop Hannibal and situated herself in the saddle with the grace of an Amazonian war chief. She yanked on the reigns and urged Hannibal forward, away from her husband’s corpse, growing sour behind her. Only a few paces down the road, Attica lurched forward as the city wall exploded behind her, sending chunks of stone and scalding ash flying all around. Hannibal reared onto his hind legs as the city began to crumble around him, whinnying at the chaos.
Attica guided the traumatized horse back to the ground and urged him forward yet again, away from her husband’s corpse and the blood-curdling war cries of the ever-approaching Huns and towards the spot where she hoped that she would find her daughter.
Image courtesy of the People’s Encyclopedia of Universal Knowledge
Another year of BIC means another year of Plato. From Gorgias to the Republic, Plato follows the BIC like Dr. Tatum follows ISIS. Plato makes a wide variety of thought-provoking yet equally upsetting arguments through the literary manifestation of his mentor, Socrates, but while constructing his ideal society in The Republic, in my opinion, he touches on an issue that persists in modern society today (in a really messed up way).
While explaining his vision of the perfect city to his student, Glaucon, and a variety of interested Athenians, Socrates states, “This is the sort of medicine, and this is the sort of law, which you sanction in your State. They will minister to better natures, giving health both of soul and of body; but those who are diseased in their bodies they will leave to die, and the corrupt and incurable souls they will put an end to themselves” (Book III: 409e-410a).
Through Socrates, Plato explains that people in this ideal society will only suffer from one curable sickness. Those who are chronically ill will not receive medical treatment and will thus be allowed to die, while those who suffer from mental illness (“corrupt and incurable souls”) will similarly be denied treatment and, in Socrates’ opinion, will kill themselves or simply die off.
[Note: Suicidal thoughts and actions are a serious issue. If you or anyone you know have suicidal thoughts, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1(800)273-8255.]
Plato believes that those who suffer from chronic diseases should be allowed to die off, as he states that those who suffer from chronic illness are not able to provide for the city as much as their healthy counterparts. Similarly, based on the ancient Hellenistic understanding of mental illness, Plato believes that those who suffer from a mental illness are being affected by some sort of supernatural spirit or a somehow corrupted soul. Therefore, these people are equally hindered in their ability to provide for the ideal city.
For Plato’s ideal society to be perfect, everyone must be running at 100% efficiency. Everyone has one job (which the state assigns them), must believe the lies that the state tells them, and they cannot be too strong nor too artsy and intellectual.
(I don’t think Plato noticed that his fascism was showing during this speech! How embarrassing!)
This society is an untenable absolutist nightmare. It is offensive, smothers individuality and free will, and calls for the death of entire groups of people. I am not a fan. I would like to note, however, that while modern understanding of mental illness is just slightly more advanced than that of Socrates, even today there are a shortage of psychiatrists and hundreds of thousands of suffering people who are going untreated. While Plato thought the best solution was to simply kill them all or encourage them to kill themselves, modern America is a bit more civil.
There are currently areas of the United States that have one psychiatrist to every 30,000 people suffering from mental illness. This issue is not limited to the civil sector, however, but also affects the military. Many military organizations are severely lacking psychiatrists to aid military personnel returning from overseas. In order to increase the number of psychiatrists present in both the civil and military sectors, congressmen such as Pennsylvania’s Tim Murphy have sponsored a bill which will pay for psychiatrists’ student loans if they agree to open practices within the military or psychiatrically-barren areas in the United States.
There are still hundreds of thousands of people, however, who will continue to suffer from mental illness untreated in the United States alone.
If you or anyone you know suffers from a mental illness, don’t listen to Plato. While there are a limited number of psychiatrists in the US, don’t hesitate to begin the search at https://www.zocdoc.com/psychiatrists.
Moreover, for more information on mental illnesses and how they can be treated, visit https://twloha.com/
Questions? Comments? Suggestions? All are welcome! Email me at Lee_Shaw@baylor.edu
Lee Shaw is a sophomore BIC student majoring in professional writing and the current editor of the QuickBIC.
Baylor University – an academic institution to most and a second home to many; it is a community filled with encouragement of education and the pursuit of ambition. The BIC is a community within the Baylor family that provides integrative curriculum and opportunities to its students.
Among the 13,000 students on campus, there is a common pursuit: the future. As college students, from athletes to honors students, the future is always in view. Students want to win every football game, study hard for classes, ace exams, and build a résumé that will outshine competitors for future opportunities.
Although Baylor and the BIC have provided students with a safe haven to learn, explore, and grow, there is a world outside of this bubble that does not share the same parallel.
Today will mark four years since the onset of the civil war in Syria. Statistics provided by human rights organizations reveal that 2014 was the worst year by far, bringing the death toll to nearly 220,000. At least 7.6 million people, including 3.5 million children, have been displaced and are being forced into settlements with minimal access to services that support their basic needs.
Syria’s crisis has been especially hard on children. Helpless and wandering, there are over 5.6 million children in need of assistance and close to 2 million who have sought refuge in neighboring countries. Yet these nations are struggling to support the influx of people. Tortured and hungry, children are resorting to dangerous labor or are even married off early in order to support their families during this crisis. The numbers are real, and they aren’t going anywhere.
We often regard these statistics as current event issues that should be discussed in class or in daily news updates, but these statistics are more than just numbers – they represent real, suffering Syrian people.
Our constant pursuit of success is the norm for college students, but as college students we can also be a platform for change. As the young adults of our generation, we have the power to raise awareness in our communities for the social injustices in the world. With that being said, we must be the primary conduit of such awareness.
I recently attended the Honors Residential College Retreat, and Dr. Jonathan Tran, the faculty master, gave an address on this very concept. He said, “We are constantly pressing our time; we keep our focus on the next test and mastering the concepts we learn during lectures, that we forget there are lives outside of ours that don’t have the same opportunities.”
Although it seems like there aren’t enough hours in the day to study chapter after chapter of content, or to juggle extracurricular activities and a social life as well as our GPAs, at the same time there are not enough places for the children of Syria to seek refuge. There are not enough resources to support the needs of children, and there are not enough outlets to escape the horror that is the Syrian civil war.
The “Save the Children” foundation is a campaign that raises awareness and helps provide relief for the war on children, and more specifically the child refugee crisis. The war on child refugees in Syria is not coming to an end soon, but the way we choose to live our lives in recognition of this crisis can begin today. We can make the difference.
Kassie Hsu is a freshman BIC student majoring in neuroscience.
Image courtesy of Robert Rodgers/Marketing Communications
Will you be my friend?
Enjoy it, young BICers. You are in the glorious period where anyone and everyone is one question away from becoming your newest dining hall buddy.
Ok, maybe more than one question. However, there’s no denying that the beginning of the first year of college is a unique time when finding a new acquaintance is as easy as stepping outside your dorm room or speaking to the human who lives five feet from your bed.
It will take a little longer to find out if the random passerby will become your permanent partner-in-crime, but there is most certainly beauty in this era of endless encounters.
I met some of my best friends (including my current roommate) by following this simple formula:
1) Say hello.
2) Exchange life stories. (Thanks, band camp, for throwing me into Welcome Week on the Life Story Night.)
That’s the magic of freshman year. It won’t always be like this.
Flash forward three years, and you have your close group of friends (#squad). You know the layout of all of the buildings, where the best study spots are, and the Fifth Street fountain is finally finished (woohoo!). Life is good. Every once in a while, it gets even better. You meet a new friend, and it’s a cause for celebration.
Over Labor Day, like many of you, I shared a meal with my friends. At the meal, we went around the table and shared stories about any new friends we had made this year. We were excited. As seniors, running into people interested in investing the time required to make a new friend is not quite as common as it is in year one.
My freshman year, I could start a conversation by smiling at a stranger across the classroom. I tried that my junior year in a class of seven, and there was silence. So instead of chat, we just stared at each other…for an entire class period. The awkwardness was becoming too much for me. On the second day of class, I resorted to starting a conversation with the graceful interjection “So, we’ve made a lot of eye contact…My name is Kara.”
Oh, how things have changed!
Yet one thing hasn’t changed, the beauty of the BIC bond. Name drop that cool community, and you’ve just found friends in unlikely places. Our common experience can bring together seniors and freshman, science and humanities majors, experienced professors and newly-independent eighteen-year olds. No matter how awkward the real world gets, remember, you have a home in the BIC.
So, what’s your answer? Will you be my friend?
Kara Blomquist is senior BIC student majoring in linguistics.
For the first time ever, the QuickBIC introduces creative literary content! Under the leadership of the infamous Attila, the migrant hordes of the Hunnic Empire broke their long-held treaty with the Eastern Roman Empire in 430 CE and began razing and sacking every Roman settlement in their path. This epic and gritty thriller follows the exploits of a Roman citizen named Attica as she and her two young children flee from the devastation of the Hunnic Horde and the inevitable collapse of the Roman Empire. How do you raise children while running for your life? Does civility matter when civilization collapses? If Rome falls, who will rule the world? Read “Razing Your Children” to find out!
Forget Attila. With every passing Saturday this fall, you will learn to fear Attica.
Welcome BICers! My name is Lee Shaw and I am a sophomore professional writing major here in the BIC. As most of you know, it can be extremely difficult to relate to the writings of people like Homer, Thucydides, Confucius, and especially Plato, as they wrote so long ago and in such vastly different ages. Through the BICger Picture, I hope to show you that our world is not so different from that of the ancients. Join me every Thursday this fall and watch as history repeats itself!
Hey guys! My name is Kassie Hsu and I am a freshman neuroscience pre-med major. My new column is called “BIC Meets World.” I will be writing about social issues that surround our world outside of Baylor University and the BIC. My vision for this column is to compare the focus of college students’ constant pursuit of the future and the endurance of people pursuing a life of freedom from social injustice. Experience everything the world has to offer with me every Tuesday this fall!
Hello BICers! My name is Zephyr Straus and I am a freshman social work major here at Baylor. I’ve lived in a lot of different places including Boston, Austin, and the San Francisco Bay area. As a social work major, I truly enjoy helping people! This has led me to introduce my new column, “BICvice.” This will be an advice column where you can anonymously submit any question you have to me at quickbicadvicecolumn@gmail.com. I will publish a few of the emails I get per week and will change names, places, etc. as needed. I am excited to assist you as we all progress through the BIC together! Share your story with me every Wednesday this fall!
