Paris Hilton.

Wow.

I am sitting down to write my last column for The Collegian. Ever.?It felt like this day would never come.

To tie up my dynasty here at SDSU, I have decided to do two columns based on my experiences here. One to reflect on the lessons I have learned as a student and a columnist, and another to specifically pass that wisdom on to anyone who cares to read it. Here is part one.

Five years ago, I found an ad in The Collegian asking for writers. My stupid freshman self – straight off the newspaper staff in high school – eagerly applied. A hippie-looking fellow named John Hult laughed at my smart ass answers on my application and hired me. The rest is history.

I have been writing a column for this paper since 2003. I have survived male editors, female editors, good editors, bad editors and I even spent a year dating the editor.

I have been called numerous bad names, been accused of being a racist and have given drunken men the perfect pick up line: “Hey, you’re that girl that writes that column, right?”

I have seen your faces change to a look of recognition when you see me on campus. Some of you carry an air of distaste, while others a simple apathy. Some of you have even gone so far as to compliment me on my writing. I have always appreciated that.

I am a seasoned Collegian columnist.

But I am not here to toot my own horn, so to speak. I have actually learned a few valuable lessons while working for the paper. Lessons I could not have learned if I had not put my face on the pages of the paper week after week. Especially without my own stupidity.

One of the hardest and fastest lessons I learned was how unforgiving people can be. When I was accused of being a racist two years ago, I was called out by the administration, I received massive amounts of hate mail and I was sent up a certain creek without a paddle by my editors. I got glared at on campus and had some of the most painfully scathing letters to the editor written to bash me.

The misfortune of this situation was that it was all over something I did not intend to do – hurt anyone. No matter how many times I attempted to tell people that no, I do not hate black people, the damage had been done; and quite frankly they did not care what I said.

It was painful to be forsaken by people who did not even know me but judged me by one mistaken sentence in a column.

Of course, this came with a silver lining as well – and another lesson. People can be incredibly kind. For the first time in my career, people wrote in to defend me. People that did not even know me were willing to put their name on the pages of the paper in my defense. That was a nice feeling, after being drug through the mud the two weeks prior to that.

This lesson was reflected last year when support for my friend came pouring in after I wrote a column about her rape. People sent money, cards, etc., all to help out a girl they read about in the newspaper. This never ceases to amaze me. While there are people out there that are willing to shoot you down, there are just as many that are willing to help you back up.

The readers of this paper have watched me grow up. Parts of my personality have been displayed on these pages during one of the most transitional and important parts of my life. My views have changed, my perspective has changed and I have changed. And many of you were brought along for the ride.

I want to thank you for that. I also want to thank those of you too who got pissed off enough to write me angry letters. Love me or hate me, you read my column, and that was the point.

So thank you, readers. Thank you for the compliments, thank you for the anger, and even thank you for the apathy. Thank you for bothering to flip open the paper to read my opinion.

And if I made The Collegian that much more tempting to read, then I will consider my work here finished. Even if it took me five long years.

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Boobs.

Now that got your attention, didn’t it? It is amazing how much money can be made from the exploitation of such a simple body part. I’m convinced that women could rule the world if they simply walked around in their bras all day long. Men wouldn’t even know what hit them.

Apparently, I am not the only person that has figured that out ? as proven by the fact that the pornography industry makes more money every year than the NFL and the NBA combined. And don’t get me wrong-if that’s your bag, then go for it. I actually have a lot of respect for people like Jenna Jameson. It’s just sort of another job for them.

However, I am annoyed with one particular brand of pornography-Girls Gone Wild.

I know, you’re going to assume that I’m going to go off on some feminist rant about how demeaning that is to women, and how awful the exploitation is, etc. Which, might I remind you, is perfectly within my scope of logic, since I am, well, a female. But no-I don’t despise the porn industry for its exploitation of women. At least they are getting some compensation for doing it.

Girls Gone Wild, on the other hand, is simply going out and finding the women at their worst-Spring Break, bars, drunk out of their minds-and getting them to do things they’re going to regret later ? for a t-shirt.

I have seen a couple of these videos, as well as the commercials, and even a documentary about how they make them. It’s always the same thing-a couple dudes walking around with a camera on their shoulder, with one guy singling out women to proposition. The girls see the Girls Gone Wild brand and get excited for their 10 seconds of nipple-exposing fame.

Seriously?

I guess what’s particularly annoying to me is that these guys are kind of jerks. One particular documentary showed a bar where they had pulled half-dozen girls off into a side room to ? well, you know. Joe Francis, the brains behind the operation, walks in and starts chewing out his cameramen for bringing in ugly girls.

Oh, lord.

These girls aren’t getting paid. They’re getting t-shirts. And some of them go far beyond the breast flashing on these videos.

Do these girls deserve it? Sure, you could argue that they are putting themselves at risk for getting drunk in the first place. But these guys are seeking it out. That’s like saying a woman deserves to be raped because she wears a skirt. I do not care how easy or convenient it might be-it is not right. Period.

What’s worse is these guys generally shower these girls in compliments until they start taking their clothes off. They are basically playing on every last insecurity the girls have and then profiting off of them.

And who says men don’t understand women? These guys have certainly figured out how to manipulate these women. If anything, I should give them kudos for their savvy business skills.

I want girls to feel comfortable with their bodies. And I want them to go out and have fun. But I want to see these jerk faces arrested for the blatant victimization they reign down upon women when the cameras are rolling.

Boobs are great. Disrespecting women is not.

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When I was younger, people always told me that I would grow up to be like my mother. It happens to all girls, you know. It’s like getting fat and grey haired-it’s just fate.

I would always scoff at them and insist that I would grow up cooler than my mom. There would be no waist-high old woman jeans or getting drunk on wine and doing that sway-step dance in the middle of the living room while singing Boston slightly off-key. I wouldn’t even OWN a sweater with any sort of appliqué on it. Oh no, I would be a hip mom.

But as I’m getting older, I’m finding that fate is twisting its sly fingers around my mannerisms, and wouldn’t you know, I am acting more like my mother.

I started watching several Damn Yankees music videos on YouTube recently. As in, the super group, NOT the musical. I suddenly and inexplicably got the insatiable urge to listen to them. Well, after a few weeks of this, I went back to Mitchell to visit the family, and one night after going out with my friends, I came home to find my mother watching Damn Yankees videos on YouTube. We had not spoken about this beforehand.

I walk into the computer room to find her singing along (slightly off-key) to one of my favorite Damn Yankees songs. As the music drifted out of the speakers and my mom’s falsetto tone, I wondered to myself if I had stepped into some twilight zone where moms and 20-something daughters did the same dorky things in their spare time.

Oh no. Already at the age of 22 I’m sharing musical taste with my mother. Does that mean when I’m 30 I’ll start wearing camel-toe pants and poorly-applied green eyeshadow?! What about 35?? Will I start reading romance novels?!!?

Crap.

I’ve already developed a taste for Boone’s Farm (Sangria is her favorite, Fuzzy Navel is mine), and I enjoy the occasional bath while drinking BF and listening to music. My mother has gotten to the point of simply referring to it as a “bath with Harry” (Connick Jr., that is. They’re apparently on a first-name basis); but I usually don’t light candles.

My mother and I already share the same perverted sense of humor, and half the time, she can make ME blush. Some of my friends would never even dream of discussing things like birth control with their mothers ? while mine practically ambushes me with it. Most of the people that know me are probably not at all surprised by that statement.

Of course, this all makes sense. One of our largest elements of socialization is our parents. What we don’t pick up from our peers, the media, etc., we tend to absorb from good ol’ mom and pop. This has teenagers everywhere running in fear.

But, I would like to think that the traits I’m picking up from my mom are what make her awesome. Because let’s face it-Boone’s Farm and Damn Yankees?-my mom is awesome.

And maybe some day I will have jeans that go up to my boobs, and I will think sweaters in various shades of purple are pretty stylish. Hopefully then I will have teenage daughters to make sure my bright purple eye shadow is properly blended.

Until then, I’m gonna listen to my Damn Yankees. And realize that maybe being like Mom isn’t so bad after all.

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The South Dakota State Legislature has been busy regulating our sex lives again.

The mostly-male legislature passed/failed two measures this session-one that requires a doctor to offer a woman a view of her ultrasound before her abortion (SB-88) and one that would have removed legal protection to pharmacists that deny medication, including birth control, if they feel it could be used for suicide, or it goes against their conscience (SB-164).

I will give you three guesses which one they passed and which one they failed.

This scares me a little bit, for two reasons.

First, that the S.D. legislature has nothing better to do with their time than make sure that a woman signs a paper that says she was offered an ultrasound (which is already regular practice). This is their idea of preventing abortions. If the woman sees her baby and feels so awful about it, she will carry it to term. We are giving her the ‘opportunity’ to think it over. Voile, pro-life via guilt-trip.

Secondly, these two actions are completely counterproductive to each other. I know that it may not have passed through the morally blinded minds of some of these legislators, but preventing women from getting birth control is not going to cut down on unwanted pregnancies. They’re not going to be like, ‘Well, shucks. This pharmacist is morally opposed to my birth control pills (which, might I add, he/she has no real idea why the person is taking them); so I might as well be celibate!’

This is reality calling, please wake up.

Now, I am not advocating abortion. And I am not advocating promiscuity. What I am advocating is allowing people to take responsibility for their own lives. The ones that are attempting to get these birth control pills are the ones that are trying to prevent conceiving the babies that may then be aborted. I have been saying this from the start-if you want to reduce abortion, do not make it illegal, make it easier to prevent.

I am okay with people having moral values. In fact, I encourage it. But please do not start legislating them on everyone else, in hopes that by ignoring the problem, we will make it go away.

Humans are naturally sexual creatures. This has been the case for hundreds of years. Suddenly denying it for the sake of morality is not going to create some wide-sweeping change in our societal norms. In fact, if anything, you are only going to make things worse. We are a society that does not like being told what to do, especially in the bedroom.

I really wish the S.D. legislature would take a step back and work to change the problem from the inside, instead of trying to control it from the outside. South Dakotans have plenty of other problems to address, other than our concerns about who gets an abortion or who is on the pill.

Let people make their own decisions in life. Let them clean up their own messes. Stop treating women as if we cannot make our own decisions and need the moral conscience of someone else to lead the way.

And ask yourself, would this be the case if men could get pregnant?

I didn’t think so.

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A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about how my Spanish classes were killing me.

Around the same time, the Sioux Falls school district announced they were going to start the first Spanish-immersion program at Rosa Parks Elementary School. Cool, I thought. Start those poor little suckers out early so they’re not suffering through their college level classes as I am.

Unfortunately, there has been an outpouring of (much expected) toxic, malicious responses from many of the citizens of South Dakota; blaming us for catering to immigrants and robbing our children of their rightful ‘more useful’ education, etc. Everything you would expect from someone who does not realize that the world is changing around them, whether they like it or not. And really, I have one thing to say to them:

No me digas.

You see, I am a little touchy about this. As you may have read before, I have spent the last five years catching up on the lack of language education I received growing up. Was there even the option for Spanish when I was in elementary school? No! Do you know how awesome it would have been if I could have learned a language when my mind was young and impressionable, instead of passing into that hardening adulthood frame of mind?

Instead, I went to a high school where they suggested two years of language ‘if you planned on going to college out of state’. Never mind the other educational benefits.

What these misguided people are failing to realize is that learning a language IS educationally beneficial, even if they never need it for their job. Studying languages improves your linguistic and writing abilities and your cultural understanding, and?holy crap, makes you more aware of the idiosyncrasies of your own native language! What? Something foreign might positively affect your own cultural identity.

Don’t believe me? Study another language. Or at least let your children try it.

We are not catering to immigrants, or losing our ‘American’ roots by branching out into other languages. While I agree that it is important to have a standard language in a country, it is also important to realize that this country is MADE of immigrants. It is our rich diversity that makes us who we are, not because we are a bunch of cookie-cutter white middle-class yuppies.

Oh, and never mind that the rest of the developed nations in the world are currently lapping us in language education in their schools. Are you bilingual? No? Then you must be American.

I don’t like the stereotypes either, which is why it angers me when people start lashing out at change. Take it from me, a 22-year-old currently struggling through Spanish: teach your kids another language. Allow them to be exposed to it at a young age, so they can start building their knowledge of it. It is scientifically proven that our brains do not learn as quickly the older we get. Do not make them suffer through what I am suffering through now.

Just because you feel that abstaining from language classes will make the problem go away does not mean you are not robbing your children of precious time they could be expanding their horizons. While it is our place to lead children among the right paths to adulthood, narrowing their path for the sake of your own patriotic ideologies is not the answer.

I wish Spanish classes had been available to me when I was young. This column would be obsolete, and I could have spent more time expanding my knowledge in other areas, instead of embarking on the daunting task of studying another language the older I got.

Teach the kids. An enlightened mind is never regretted.

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What is adulthood?

When I was younger, the thing I looked forward to the most about adulthood was being able to order my own pizza. Not having to beg Mom and Dad to do it or picking off all the mushrooms and other vegetables they ordered on it. I fantasized about the day when I could pick up the telephone, take out my checkbook and buy my own damn pizza.

Now I am 22, and I can have all the pizza I want. Unfortunately, it makes me fat. Welcome to growing older.

I’ve been having a bit of a young-life crisis lately. I am approaching graduation, moving away, being a big girl?and I am starting to ask myself-what exactly makes someone an adult?

Is it age? Maturity? Bills to pay? Marriage? Children?

What is it?

I thought when I approached this age, I would figure it out on my own. I would just ‘know’ when I was an adult. Oh, how silly I was.

And still am.

I mean, I hang out with a bunch of non-traditional students, some of which are approaching the age of 30. My boyfriend has a daughter, and my friends are dropping like flies to marriage (and divorce).

Sometimes, I feel like a baby.

I posed the question to my friends last week about what they thought made an adult. I got a wide variety of insightful answers.

Some said it was a matter of responsibility; others said it was coming of age. A few equated it to having a beer after mowing the lawn and driving their kids to school in a van.

It was this wide range of answers that made me realize that there is really no way to define adulthood.

There are a few contributing factors-like taking responsibility for yourself and how you treat others. But there really isn’t a point when you sit back and say, “Well, I’m an adult now!”

I won’t put on my graduation gown and pass into adulthood. Flipping the tassel to the other side of my cap will not mean I can handle myself in the real world. Nor will getting married, nor will having babies.

Some of us grow up in a trial by fire. Some of us absorb maturity from the good teachings of our parents. And some of us will successfully avoid it for our entire lives.

I remember faint feelings like this as I graduated high school and moved away from home. Now I look at my sisters, ages 17 and 18, and I realize that they still have awhile to go. Then again, so do I.

But more than anything, I think part of becoming an adult is realizing when you are not. It is realizing that you don’t know how to handle everything the world throws at you. That sometimes, reality just plain sucks. You no longer think your parents are stupid (like in your teen years), but you realize that they’re human. And you start to understand them.

Finally, the important thing isn’t reaching a certain age or milestone, but knowing that you always have room to grow. Even at the age of 22. Or 32. Or even 72.

And even when you can order your own damn pizza.

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Estoy estupida.

I’m a triple major. I’m an over-achiever with the inability to quit. I’ve been around this joint for five years now, and I’m starting to feel the burn.

I’m currently in my final semester, finishing off my third and final degree-Spanish. Why is this significant, you ask? Because it is the hardest academic thing I’ve ever had to do. Which is saying a lot, since I’m going to graduate with 168 credits. You know, like 20 more credits than I had to. Or, to put it in more painful terms-like $3,000 and 1.5 more semesters than I had to. I’ve been around the academic block, so to speak.

Now are you seeing why I’m stupid?

This semester I’m finding myself in a little over my head. I don’t have a single textbook in English. All of my classes are taught in a different language. I’m getting really good at a blank stare, and muttering the phrase “Lo siento, no comprendo.”

I shuffle home at night after class, and I sit down to partake in four more hours of Spanish homework-at least. Does it have to be four hours? Maybe if I wasn’t completely language-retarded-but I am. So I slave away at my Spanish literature, my culture and civilization, and my Latin American perceptions of the U.S. I look up words frequently, and I pray to god that maybe the next time I stumble upon them, my dictionary will not be necessary.

Why do I put myself through this? You know, I ask myself the same question about five times a night-and throughout the day and sometimes even in my nightmares.

There are the obvious reasons-learning Spanish will help me get a better job, bigger paycheck, blah blah blah. Then there’s the part about expanding my cultural horizons beyond my Americanism. But do any of those really matter when your friends are out drinking on a Saturday night and you’re writing a three page paper in another language? No, not really. It sucks.

But more important than the ‘suck’ of my lack of a social life, is my deep inner urge to communicate. My middle school math teacher once told my mother, “I can’t sit Roxy anywhere. She’ll talk to anybody.” It’s true, I’m a chatterbox.

So, imagine my discontent when I discover I’m living in a country where a growing amount of the population is speaking a language that I can’t understand.

No bueno.

Then I got a job at the Modern Language department my sophomore year, and started putting the nails in my academic coffin. Hearing all the instructors babble back and forth in Spanish all day long gave me the inspiration to survive a couple crappy Spanish courses, and force myself to memorize vocabulary words and verb endings. Now don’t get me wrong-I encourage everyone to learn another language. It is an amazing asset in the world, and to yourself. But it’s no place for sissies-that’s for sure.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Yet, here I am, nine semesters and one month in Mexico later, and I’m still really terrible at speaking the language. But I’m sticking with it. I’m sticking with it until I feel comfortable holding a conversation with a native speaker of Spanish. I’m sticking with it until I feel culturally fulfilled. I’m sticking with it until-ah crap. One of my professors just e-mailed me back. Now I have to redo part of a paper.

Yep. Estoy estupida or estoy loca. I can’t decide which.

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I have a fever. And the only cure is more Guitar Hero.

Yes, I have been bitten by the rock star bug. I was first introduced to the highly addictive game last year, but this year has allowed my addiction to flourish. Instead of going out, my friends and I sometimes drink and challenge each other to rendition after rendition of “Psychobilly Freak-out,” and other classics that kick your coordination’s butt.

Am I good? Uh, no. I can get by in the low nineties on the Medium setting, but that’s only when I’m playing my A-Game. Otherwise, I look like a gaping-mouthed product-of-two-cousins wailing away on those damn little colored keys, about two seconds after the note was supposed to be played.

But, in my defense, I did play clarinet for like five years, so I’m not completely musically retarded. However, sometimes that does not matter when you have to switch from blue to red to yellow to green within one count.

We convinced my mom and dad to buy Guitar Hero 3 for Christmas this year. Needless to say, my two younger sisters and I sat around in our pajamas all day and made our fingers ache with enjoyment. We even convinced my parents to pick up the guitars once, just so we could giggle as they failed the song within the first 30 seconds.

They both retired from the game early on, realizing that their age prohibited them from being cool enough to play. I think the South Park episode had it right.

After spending hours battling my sisters and friends at the game, I’ve found that I have ruined several songs for myself. Well, maybe not ruined. Maybe just-enhanced.

You see, I’ll be driving along in my car, and “Slow Ride” by Foghat will come on, and instead of enjoying a great classic tune, my left fingers will start to twitch, my right hand with start to strum, and visions of Guitar Hero will dance in my head.

There are about two dozen songs that do this to me-a combination of Guitar Hero 2 and 3, and my obsession with both.

I know I’m not alone in this phenomenon-I have discussed it with my regular playing buddies. I have also witnessed their eyes glaze over, the drool form in the corners of their mouth, and the slight twitch they get as they dream about activating star power.

Just the other day I was riding along with a friend when “Barracuda” by Heart came on, and we both exclaimed in unison “This part is so hard!” Wow. I’ve officially passed into the realm of super dork.

It’s like a disease. A disease that makes you look inherently cooler with a plastic guitar strapped around your body. I’m pretty anti-video game, but this one has me hooked. If I owned a PlayStation 2 or a plastic guitar, I’d probably fail all of my classes. But thank god, I am too poor for that.

Now if you’ll excuse me, “Free Bird” just came on. I’ve got some fantasies to live.

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