To the parents of Vice Chancellor Michael Gargano
by Matt Brochu
October 01, 2004
I am writing to express my concern about your son. Don't get me wrong, I like the little guy, and I understand that he's still the new kid in school. It's just that, like most new kids, he's trying way too hard to fit in. You know the type (overeager, does anything to impress cute girls, laughs obnoxiously at everyone's jokes in the cafeteria, etc. ...). But with all due respect, he's not too bright. Allow me to explain.
Earlier this summer, your son sent a letter to my house. This wouldn't have been surprising, as it has happened a few times before, except for one thing - it was addressed to "The Parents of Matthew Brochu." Well I was curious, so I opened it anyway because they weren't home from work yet (I hope you won't tell anyone, because I'm pretty sure that's a felony), and found a pamphlet urging the parents of Matthew Brochu (Jan and Dan) to educate their child (me) about the dangers of alcohol. This too, wouldn't have been surprising, except for one thing: I'm not a freshman who gets hammered and runs around the Kennedy hallways like a kid without his Ritalin, stealing dry-erase markers and tearing down my RA's bulletin boards.
Come to think of it, I'm a 22 year-old graduate student, an employee at UMass Medical Center and a very experienced drinker. As a matter of fact, alcohol and I are celebrating our Wooden Anniversary in December (that's 5 years), and unlike the people who should be receiving these letters, I don't need my friend's older brother's roommate's dental hygienist's expired New Jersey ID with the bent corners to get into a bar uptown.
Anyway, the address on the envelope prompted the following exchange between my parents and I:
Dad: You skipped study hall again, didn't you? Don't make me go up to Amherst for another parent-teacher conference.
Me: No, it was gym class. We were doing swimming and I forgot to get a fake note from my doctor saying I was on my period.
Mom: I still think they're asking for money somewhere in there.
But don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Gargano. I'm here to help. I could go on and on about how "To the Parents Of" letters should officially stop when I can legally date the woman who receives it. I could talk about the fact that "To the Parents of" letters should include phrases like "annual lice check," "win a pizza party," or "non-perishable canned food drive," and that, although beer may be canned, it clearly isn't a nonperishable good. I could suggest that he might as well take this a step further and make D.A.R.E. a General Education Requirement. That way, no one could actually take classes within their respective majors until senior year.
The problem is, your son is fighting the wrong battle here. Alcohol is our friend, while couches (and surfaces with cushions of any kind) are clearly the enemy. The following demonstrates how couches account for the three major problems on campus:
1) Low GPA - Students flopping down on couches after class drains motivation like Evanescence's "My Immortal" drains my will to live. A mysterious old man could run into me on campus and hand me a pill that would cure Cancer, destroy Stephen A. Smith's vocal cords and guarantee Keira Knightley's hand in marriage upon ingestion. But if I felt like laying down on my futon "for a little bit" when I got home, I probably wouldn't get around to taking that pill until at least 9 or 10:30.
2) Rioting - Other than toilet paper and Yankees fans, what's the most common thing set on fire during riots? Lounge furniture. I don't mean to infer that couches start riots. That's stupid. Couches can't shoot pepper balls, use excessive amounts of force or yell obscenities at students. That's what cops are for.
3) Unprotected Sex - Sure, bathrooms, handicapped elevators and Cluster Office counter tops see their fair share of action, but couches and beds get most of it. When students are that comfortable, how could you possibly expect them to stand up and get a prophylactic? By putting beds in each room, your son actually encourages unprotected sex.
So tell your son to leave my buddy alcohol alone and to quit it with the unnecessary letters. Instead, maybe you could suggest that he give the excess paper to the library so we can print out our class notes in the computer labs without getting bitched at by the work-study kids anymore. Ever since my roommate's printer broke last week, I've been filling up my ink cartridge more often than my gas tank.
Anyway, I hope to see you two at the Open House next month. Little Michael's drawing of a pink penguin riding a tractor is proudly tacked to the bulletin board at the back of the room. And if you'd like to respond, I only ask that you send it to me and not to my parents. If they find out I quoted them without their permission, they might take away my phone privileges for the week.
Sincerely,
The Son of the Parents of Matthew Brochu
Matt Brochu is a UMass graduate student.
October 01, 2004
I am writing to express my concern about your son. Don't get me wrong, I like the little guy, and I understand that he's still the new kid in school. It's just that, like most new kids, he's trying way too hard to fit in. You know the type (overeager, does anything to impress cute girls, laughs obnoxiously at everyone's jokes in the cafeteria, etc. ...). But with all due respect, he's not too bright. Allow me to explain.
Earlier this summer, your son sent a letter to my house. This wouldn't have been surprising, as it has happened a few times before, except for one thing - it was addressed to "The Parents of Matthew Brochu." Well I was curious, so I opened it anyway because they weren't home from work yet (I hope you won't tell anyone, because I'm pretty sure that's a felony), and found a pamphlet urging the parents of Matthew Brochu (Jan and Dan) to educate their child (me) about the dangers of alcohol. This too, wouldn't have been surprising, except for one thing: I'm not a freshman who gets hammered and runs around the Kennedy hallways like a kid without his Ritalin, stealing dry-erase markers and tearing down my RA's bulletin boards.
Come to think of it, I'm a 22 year-old graduate student, an employee at UMass Medical Center and a very experienced drinker. As a matter of fact, alcohol and I are celebrating our Wooden Anniversary in December (that's 5 years), and unlike the people who should be receiving these letters, I don't need my friend's older brother's roommate's dental hygienist's expired New Jersey ID with the bent corners to get into a bar uptown.
Anyway, the address on the envelope prompted the following exchange between my parents and I:
Dad: You skipped study hall again, didn't you? Don't make me go up to Amherst for another parent-teacher conference.
Me: No, it was gym class. We were doing swimming and I forgot to get a fake note from my doctor saying I was on my period.
Mom: I still think they're asking for money somewhere in there.
But don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Gargano. I'm here to help. I could go on and on about how "To the Parents Of" letters should officially stop when I can legally date the woman who receives it. I could talk about the fact that "To the Parents of" letters should include phrases like "annual lice check," "win a pizza party," or "non-perishable canned food drive," and that, although beer may be canned, it clearly isn't a nonperishable good. I could suggest that he might as well take this a step further and make D.A.R.E. a General Education Requirement. That way, no one could actually take classes within their respective majors until senior year.
The problem is, your son is fighting the wrong battle here. Alcohol is our friend, while couches (and surfaces with cushions of any kind) are clearly the enemy. The following demonstrates how couches account for the three major problems on campus:
1) Low GPA - Students flopping down on couches after class drains motivation like Evanescence's "My Immortal" drains my will to live. A mysterious old man could run into me on campus and hand me a pill that would cure Cancer, destroy Stephen A. Smith's vocal cords and guarantee Keira Knightley's hand in marriage upon ingestion. But if I felt like laying down on my futon "for a little bit" when I got home, I probably wouldn't get around to taking that pill until at least 9 or 10:30.
2) Rioting - Other than toilet paper and Yankees fans, what's the most common thing set on fire during riots? Lounge furniture. I don't mean to infer that couches start riots. That's stupid. Couches can't shoot pepper balls, use excessive amounts of force or yell obscenities at students. That's what cops are for.
3) Unprotected Sex - Sure, bathrooms, handicapped elevators and Cluster Office counter tops see their fair share of action, but couches and beds get most of it. When students are that comfortable, how could you possibly expect them to stand up and get a prophylactic? By putting beds in each room, your son actually encourages unprotected sex.
So tell your son to leave my buddy alcohol alone and to quit it with the unnecessary letters. Instead, maybe you could suggest that he give the excess paper to the library so we can print out our class notes in the computer labs without getting bitched at by the work-study kids anymore. Ever since my roommate's printer broke last week, I've been filling up my ink cartridge more often than my gas tank.
Anyway, I hope to see you two at the Open House next month. Little Michael's drawing of a pink penguin riding a tractor is proudly tacked to the bulletin board at the back of the room. And if you'd like to respond, I only ask that you send it to me and not to my parents. If they find out I quoted them without their permission, they might take away my phone privileges for the week.
Sincerely,
The Son of the Parents of Matthew Brochu
Matt Brochu is a UMass graduate student.