Shuffle the Dec fond farewells from the departing staff photo by Jill Nussbaum Kate Zimmerman Pros: no more last-second panic. No more Tuesday until dawn. No more painful editorials. The cons, if you're wondering, are just about everything else. The other parting shots in the spread do not, could not, exaggerate the difficulty of writing one. In a few paragraphs I'm supposed to sum up the college experience that defined me as surely as my hometown or major. Then I'm supposed to watch it all unravel in the semester to come. I've made some unforgivable mistakes here. I've written awful editorials, used poor judgment, been generally disorganized. Everyone forgave me. When I needed it most, though, the Dec gave me a shot in the arm, pushing me to do better without pointing out how badly I fucked up. I'm not quite sure how. At this point in the piece I offer my thanks to those who worked with me and my congratulations to those who have come after. Old readers are familiar with the usual suspects; I couldn't begin to do them justice. I have never done them justice. But I will say, however, that there is no sense of post-partum depression, no cries of "my baby", as Seelinger put it. My one concern for the new staff, really, is that I might just be eclipsed. Still, I have no idea how to say my goodbyes. Should I just turn and leave, tuck all my issues under one arm and wave from a distance? I don't think that's possible; I'm bound to make it slow and painful. I'll be back production after production, standing in the corner and telling my weren't-we-funny-then stories. Then I'll pull myself together, gather my things, and leave just before they lock up. Kate Zimmerman rules with a heavy hand and a soft fist. Elizabeth Beauvais I can't put this off another second. I'm not exactly sure what I was looking for when I unobtrusively shuffled into Dec production in September of my first year. I wanted to belong to something. I wanted to believe in something. I walked in there because I wanted to be able to discuss, read, and learn about a kind of discourse that had scared off most of my high school chums. The kind, I would later learn, that scares off many people at U.Va. And the frightening thing about all these idealistic, hyper-passionate holy grails of mine is that I had no idea what seeking them would demand of me. I've never second-guessed myself as I have on the Dec, and simultaneously, I've never really been able to disentangle my Self from the Dec; Lord knows I've wanted to at times. It's the reason I have an identity at U.Va. It's also the reason I'm on daily prescription migraine drugs. And so I think maybe I've been a little afraid that the Dec would grant me all those hopes -- that I would belong, that I would love something -- and that I would consequently be wrapped up in the suffocating self-doubt and frustration that sweeps itself into the roller-coaster guise of this "passion." Ahem. And yet, dammit, I've never been as proud of myself and the staff as I have been as Literary Editor of the Dec. I've discovered this secret education on the Labor party, burgeoning environmental action, gender consumerism, and dumpster diving. I have worked with talented writers and brilliant thinkers, the likes of whom we will surely hear of far beyond these serpentine walls. I have also awkwardly learned the artful diplomacy of an editor. I have faced hostility, and I have felt quieter rewards. And through it all, I am told, I bit my bottom lip a lot. For as much as we have joked about putting out a Poodah-calendar flyer on Thursdays in lieu of the whole paper, a great deal of the dynamics and potential of the Dec rests on the intent of the 14 pages in between. Several marginalized peoples find a voice on those pages as they cannot consistently secure anywhere else in this community of averting eyes and fidgeting hands. The Dec must continue to decry the anachronistic tenure practice, the widening distance between the students and the BOV, the silence of acquaintance rape, and the lack of student activism. As well as penning new lines on race relations, athletic controversies, and faculty concerns, in between calendar and Poodah. And speaking of the High Omnipotence, I urge Poodah to spend less ink on penis jokes and ISIS spoofs and become more socially critical of several flaccid institutions in ghastly need of jabbing at the university. I lament our administration's nearsighted preoccupation with Poodah's phallocentricism that causes them to grossly overlook an eclectic orchestration of articulate -- and often silenced -- university voices. How much more in tune with students would these administrators and faculty members be if they followed -- hell, even glanced at -- the publication that gives individuals elbow room to challenge and ponder? And yet, perhaps this onus for growth in presence, this swift kick-in-the-pants mandate, falls on the next Dec staff. So, here, Jim, take this top-heavy legacy that took me a whole semester to trim down, gather up, and tailor around myself. Take these rocks and sticks and things, these bolts of ideas and rumpled sheets of college-rule paper, take it all and pick out the shiny stuff. Fashion the rest for yourself and make that Momma in Tulsa proud of her Chickadee. I myself am so damn proud to have been a part of this year's staff. We burst out of our twelve-page confines and never used the same flat box twice (go Jo!). So my sentiments flow sticky and carbonated like so many ill-fated Big K pops and Schlitz TallBoys. Thanks to all of the ALs who unceasingly gave their time and thought and gifts to every single issue. The Svelte Celt, Ms. Devers, and Fräulein Kelly -- careful, questioning, and conscious keepers of content and quality. Chickadee, right hand man, whose furrowed brow saved many a mistake from production. Todd, watchdog of bad jokes, who unlike some people never got tired of hearing about the wonders and splendor of North Louisiana. Al-Cameroon -- pirate buddy, swashbuckling sanity life preserver, and eleventh-hour Boy Wonder. Allyson, Kate, and Brett, the anti-soap-opera managing board, thank Buddha. We broke the boundaries of our predecessors, hit the showers, then a glass of cognac and lights out. ...'Cause we're a team. (shout-out to Mr. Cardman). And I've never felt like more of a team than battling this year with you folks ... 'cept during a fifth grade kickball tournament, which had its own magic. To Zoe's mom, I wholly admire the thankless and hard-working hours of wrestling and cajoling impertinent computers. And Mme. K: lounge singer, fourth (a.m.) hour Girl Wonder, and myth. Swimmingly strong and ha-ha funny, you are. Blast it all, I still don't know why I hovered around those editing tables in September 1994, I don't know why I kept coming back, why Lord Lloyd and his Limey ilk couldn't keep me away, why the hell it's taken me until a mere hour before production to bite my bottom lip and write this infernal thing. But I secretly suspect it's all connected. See, I'm not bitter, just a little worn around the edges. Elizabeth Beauvais knows a thousand ways to skin a nutria. Allyson Cohen On the day before this article was due, I sat in my room and tried to write about what it's like to be a part of something like The Declaration. When I reopened the file this morning, it was dated December 22, 1947. Perhaps this was just due to some strange glitch in my computer; I'm not entirely sure. I think it was a sign from the Lord above that I'm getting old. My tenth-grade European History teacher Mr. Romano once said that the worst part of his job was watching everyone grow up and graduate while he remained in high school forever, year after year, like one of those guys with just a wee bit too much of a beer gut to be anything but a perennial left-back loser. But not us; the departing staff has been booted from the paper that made our time at U.Va. different from anyone else's, and it's hard to leave. The staff has changed from one assembly of people more mature than I could possibly comprehend to one that makes me feel like I've been at this school for thirteen years. I must really be getting old. But the Dec remains a fresh publication because each year it molts, revealing a new staff that will undoubtedly change something drastically. Soon enough, the changes our staff made will be dated, and the lore of The Sorority Scandal and The Dec-Hatin' Deans will endure only as rumors that this magazine was once run by pretentious nerds who, like I believe all Dec staffs will, had the nerve to make fun of this school's holiest institutions. I know that Joanna, Scott, Jim, and Sean will help continue the Dec tradition better than anyone else we could have asked for -- a tradition that challenges this school again and again by being right-on-the-mark funny at times, staunchly informative and investigative at others. That isn't even the whole story, though -- a new tradition has been laid for the design of this paper which has lifted us above even those silly things people pay $3 for at Kroger. The Dec's photos and graphics are magazine-quality, as they should be, and the new layout more aptly complements the style of the contents. I'll be excited to witness the new staff take the quality of this paper to the next level. Jo and Chickadee, you've been the cock, balls, brains, and brawn of the Dec and I wish you both luck in attracting more attention to us around Grounds. Scott, you have the talent and confidence to make this paper beautiful, and I hope you stretch the boundaries that have confined this layout in the past as much as possible. Jill, your photos have been terrific, keep it up! Now all the Dec needs are some nudie pics. You can do it! For the old staff, I'd like to give immense praise to Elizabeth for making the Dec all it's been this past year: top-notch writing, articles that are not only good but are good for you, and all topped off with melodious Louisiana hick humor. Thanks to Josh for understanding the stress of the Quark life, not to mention the unbearably rare tit joke. And finally, to the irreplacable Kate, you should be proud of all you did this year, and I really mean that. Your committment to the Dec is one that every staff member should strive for, and we all love you. Buh-bye! Allyson Cohen is presently cultivating genetically superior seven-assed pig-monkeys. Brett Widness When U.Va. first opened its doors, the entire student body and faculty lived on the Lawn, and the students were all wealthy Virginian men. Sometimes the way various administrators act might lead you to believe that that is still the case. As the graduating fourth years prepare to leave, Faculty Senate President Ramazani's manifesto looms large on the horizon. Intellectual stimulation is described as the ends rather than the means. Meanwhile, faculty salaries, academic advising, career services, alumni relations, and pretty much every other function that institutions of higher learning normally provide are a joke, with some obvious exceptions that prove the rule. I was driving a Commerce school friend of mine home for Christmas, and he was telling me about how coddled he is by the career services staff. The Comm School has separate career services people, so the student-staff ratio is much smaller. They call students if their files are incomplete and are overly friendly and helpful. When I turned in my Interim Degree Audit form to the College Registrar on the day of the deadline, she snarled at me, "Two hours early. Impressive." I apologized for expecting her to do her job. The resumé of a College friend of mine consists of a piece of paper with his address, phone number, and "Lifeguard -- One Summer." How is building an entirely new building on JPA going to help students get jobs and internships? While a small number of us may be looking at teaching as a career path, the rest of us need be learning skills that will help us be more employable. The fact that the only computer orientation first years receive is an hour during orientation to get their email accounts is inexplicable. Professor Jane Prey teaches CS 110, a class centered around teaching students how to use Microsoft Word, Excel, and create websites. "They don't have to be able to create technology. But to get by in the workplace, they need to at least be users of the technology," Prey said. "Students come into my class having never even used a word processor." Computer education should be included in distribution requirements or in the UVA 101 curriculum. Perhaps the red-headed stepchild of the university is the University Internship Program (UIP). Several hundred fourth-year students get credit for internships where they work about ten hours a week. The Virginia Film Festival and other non-profits in Charlottesville receive desperately needed manpower, the university is perceived to be performing a public service, and the students get a couple lines for their resumé. When I tried to get credit for a newspaper internship two summers ago, I was told I would have to register for summer school and pay thousands of dollars. How many students can afford to pay money so they can have a job where they work for free? Worst of all, the UIP denies some applicants for lack of positions. It makes much more sense to give the dollars to expand this program then to build a new building so students and faculty can enjoy a scone together. Look at this recent situation where the city is cracking down on parking violations, specifically near the university. Perhaps Charlottesville residents would view students in a more positive light if we played a more prominent role in the community, as some of us already do through Madison House. The fact that they are milking us for parking tickets tells us exactly how they see students. When classes begin in the fall, a cash register ring is heard throughout the town. The fact that pre-meds are lined up around the block to get those hospital internships is just ridiculous. Between all the hospitals within driving distance, and all the private practices, there should be more than enough opportunities for all. It might even help the situation at the General Assembly if more students were interning for people like Emily Couric and the other local politicos. If the tuition situation is not remedied, Professor Ramazani will be teaching on a ditch-digger's salary, if he doesn't leave for another school entirely. From living in the first year dorms for three years, I know that students are having the kinds of conversations about race and politics and other issues that Professor Ramazani seems worried about. They always have and they always will. But how many of these students are going to have that knockout resumé and training that the thousands of dollars we pay to attend U.Va. are supposed to pay for? Brett Widness can down a Schlitz and kick your whiny ass in a N.Y. minute. Sean Cameron I sat down with the Captain on a blustery winter evening, as I had done so many times before during my tenure at The Declaration. His worn-down shanty was sparsely lit but inviting; his treasures adorned the mismatched shelves. One was a white hat with gold stitching and a short, black rim, and another was a stout silver cup. "Arrgh, where's me cup o' sack?" he wondered aloud in his gruff, whiskey-oaked bark. He poured himself a stiff helping, and lit up an ample pipe after falling back into a sunken chair. "'Twas a fine seafarin' vessel, the Dec. And well equiped with a swarthy band, ready to out-bite and -kick and sweat and stink the whole lot of scurvy dogs which would float about yon waters, a-writin' with vicious lies and horrendous taste. "'Twas two years past she docked into my port. Aye, that's when the giant Smethurst boy, a-standin' tall as the tentacle of the mighty Kraken, come and take me by the hand, sayin', 'Ahoy there matey, we could use a swabbie with a stout back like yers! Aye, come 'n meet handsome Seelinger, she plays fer nickels!' "Aye, and the work was good fer a land lubber like meself, though the fortitude of me back hoodwinked the giant lad. Often when called to hoist the mizzenmast at the wee hours of night I cursed their names from me bunk. But soon, I learned to thrive on the putrid smell of the late-night crew and was made a member meself. Each voyage paid two pieces of eight, and a noggin of onion dip, which meself and me mate Jo would devour like remorseless beasts of the deep. 'Twere long and arduous journeys, frought with thrush and dancin' on tables. One crew member even walked the plank of his own doin'. But we kept a-sailin' each week, pillagin' at will. "And the next year, the good ship assembled an even fiercer crew, and with a larger vessel, stood as the most offensive crew the seas had yet to set the gaze of one over-sized eye upon. Aye, meself had new and uncharted realms to plunder, seizing the elusive booty of exotic sounds, whirling pictures, and performance to the starving public, whose mouths resembled the gaping maw of the half-man, half-shark Choky. "'Twere fabulous missions the crew entrusted me with, and I shall miss the whole lot of 'em like me first gold tooth. Aye, the days of Kate and Allyson, a fearsome cabal if ever one be seen. The Beauvais harpy, who could lure a staunch man in with a song and cut out his gullet. The mysterious Golden-Boy and Card-Man, who sent this belly a-waggin' like a barrel o' chum. The fearsome Widness, with facial hair like me tongue in the morning after a night of cleaning the pipes. The Kelly lass, with a pen which dripped the blood of the most evil of squids, Squiddy. The ever-noble Pontius and Meyerle, who haunt me thoughts like the blackest of hurricanes. Jo, who could crush ten men like so much driftwood. And the Devers lass, who has lands of her own to conquer, and the good Mr. Gerstein, who will surely rake in a chest of legendary size. "Aye, the days of this old salty body may be over, but the crew of The Declaration shall sail on, masters of the seas, slaying and looting till they be satisfied ... and judging from their bottomless appetites, they may never yet be full!" With that, the Captain promptly passed out, no doubt with thoughts of glorious battle, fortune, and glory. He will be back, I thought, surly as ever, to stand on those proud decks once more. And The Declaration will fly its Jolly Roger high and proud, to long battle threats from the deep. And the Captain will smile. Sean Cameron boasts a fabulous wardrobe replete with little red velvet "thingie."

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