Dori Zinn

I’ve been avoiding it at all costs. Turning off the TV when it’s on, tuning out the radio when commentators break it down, skipping over blogs and articles where it’s mentioned. But there really is no getting around it, because football is haunting me, no matter how much I try to fight it.

And I put up a good fight, too. An entire summer of being completely angry at professional football because I was too upset to face the fact that my favorite player had left my favorite team. Maybe, three blog posts later, I was a little over-dramatic to some. Looking back now, it was a little over-dramatic to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was hurt. Hurt, angry, sad, disappointed and broken-hearted. Football changed me.

But it was today: Sunday, September 19, 2010, when I realized that change. I went to the gym to avoid the 1 p.m. game start for the Dolphins versus the Minnesota Vikings. However, people at the gym felt it necessary to watch football while they work out (Get an iPod, if you ask me). I saw the first Brandon Marshall catch. I saw the first touchdown. I saw the sacks and turnovers and I saw it all. What surprised me wasn’t that I was watching the game. What surprised me was that I was watching the game and cheering. It was at that moment: an hour into the elliptical on a Sunday afternoon, that I realized I was no longer angry. I was happy watching football.

Some would consider this the moment where I was “saved.” Funny how it just so happened to be on God’s day, right? Maybe I was saved. But I still compare it to a break-up: I just needed time to get over it. And I got over it. As much as I stress I have a brain like a dude, I still have emotions like a chick. All very unfortunate and I apologize. I can’t control it. I just deal with it.

And I did just that: I dealt with it. I didn’t care how irrational people thought I was. (As an aside, I still don’t care what people think, but since I’m all for honesty, this is where I could give some explanation). I didn’t care how stupid or silly or lame people thought my decision was. After talking with my newly-deemed life coach, Allison Nazarian, I realized that what people thought of my actions (and still think of my actions), do not matter because what matters is how I feel about football.

“Your love of the game is strong. Don’t fight it,” she told me. “What’s the alternative? The mall with other chicks?”

Seeing that response via text made me cringe. It also made me realize that no matter how much I want it to end, my love for football isn’t something I can swear off because I’m hurt. But that’s the way I dealt with my pain.

There may be some people like Lauren who told me it had something to do with the team going 2-0. In reality, it has nothing to do with winning. (We all remember 2007, don’t we?) It’s those last two minutes of a Dolphins game: where I hope my heart doesn’t jump right out of my chest; where my fingernails become nonexistent; where my stomach quickly moves its way to my throat. It’s where I pray to the football Gods that the next two minutes will end quickly. It’s where I love the game.

I got a lot of shit for making the decision I did. For those that understand and acknowledge my love of football, this shouldn’t come as a big surprise (Allison didn’t understand how I made it to week two). For those who have criticized it and will continue to criticize it, I’m sorry you have nothing else better to do with your time. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m looking up those Favre sacks on YouTube.

I was reading over my notes for my biology honors class. Our teacher had given us a study day for a test later that week. The boy across from me decided it would be better for him to read “Lord of the Rings.”

“It’s going to be made into a movie,” he said. “I can’t wait.”

Oblivious to something so uninteresting, I watched my teacher look at the clock and turn on the television. 9:05 a.m. – class had just started. She didn’t make an announcement. She didn’t tell us to watch as a tower was burning down because a plane crashed into it. She turned on the television and went back to her desk to watch it.

I stopped reading my notes. I stopped listening to my friend, Jessica, talk about her birthday plans for the evening. I stopped paying attention to the boy across from me discuss “The Lord of the Rings.” I was completely fixated on watching a plane crash into the south tower of the World Trade Center; just minutes after the north tower had been hit the same way.

There was nothing to blow out of proportion. There was nothing to blame on the media. There weren’t any sides being taken. I was a month into my sophomore year at Deerfield Beach High School when I watched the landmark New York City buildings burn. Nothing else seemed to exist at that moment except me and a television in a science room.

The rest of the day was a blur. Jessica went on with her birthday, the boy across from me kept reading his book, and I went to lunch questioning the next time I’ll be able to turn on a TV to watch. At 15, I had never witnessed something so traumatizing, but I also wondered why everyone had everything else to worry about except our country being attacked.

I can’t explain why I thought it was a big deal then. In the following days, weeks, months, and years, stories were exasperated, lies were encouraged, and as an audience, we were confused. An audience as a nation questioned how this could have happened. I felt ignorant. I felt like I knew nothing about this world that I thought I knew everything about. It was one of the most defining moments in my life where I realized I wanted to be a journalist – to share with the masses what is going on in the world. In my quest to educate myself, I wanted to educate others. It shouldn’t have taken an attack on the country for me to remember my passion for journalism, but it sure did help.

Since my “announcement” about boycotting football, I’ve gotten a few questions from friends, followers, and family members about the situation. Instead of being repetitive, I’ll bask in my laziness glory and answer the frequently asked questions here.

Dori, it’s ONE guy. Why give up your favorite sport for ONE guy?

It is one guy. Jason Taylor is one man who represented a team. At one time, Jeff Conine represented the Florida Marlins and much like Dwyane Wade currently represents the Miami Heat. For our favorite teams, we often identify key players associated with them. Taylor had 11 seasons with the Miami Dolphins before signing with the New York Jets earlier this year. In my opinion – next to Dan Marino and Don Shula – he is one of the most identifiable people associated with the Dolphins. It may be drastic for some to accept, but it’s just the principle.

Principle? What principle? It’s FOOTBALL. He’s not stealing your first born.

For some people, football is a casual activity they occasionally enjoy. For others, it’s a way of life. Countdown to training camp, pre-season, regular season, and Super Bowl were a yearly tradition. It’s hard to accept the fact that my FAVORITE PLAYER in football leaves my FAVORITE TEAM in football for the team that makes me want to… vomit. And ‘vomit’ is not an exaggeration.

I could very well be alone on this, but I love the Miami Dolphins because they are my team. I was born a fan (quite literally – my mother was a fan long before I came along). I supported them when they had a near winless season. I cried, yet stood by them when Taylor left to the Redskins following that horrendous 2007 season. I questioned their decisions, motives, ethics and morals, yet I still stood by them. They were my team. Sort of like my mother is my mother. Even when my mom makes decisions I don’t support, I can’t always stand by her, no matter how much I love her.

But isn’t it kind of lame, though? To forfeit an entire season because your team doesn’t have your favorite player?

It could be lame to those that have learned to deal with football in a less-passionate way than myself. Like my earlier comparisons to a relationship, putting off an entire season of football is the equivalent of completely removing your ex from your life in order to get over the break up. I’ll get back to watching football, but only after my heart is colder and my mind is stronger. Right now, both are angry.

Wait… You said watch football. What tricks are you playing?

No tricks, that’s just what I said in the moment. Technically, I could read, listen, and discuss football as long as I don’t witness it in person or on television. But really, what’s the purpose of football if you can’t watch what the hell is going on? Obviously, if you’re blind, you can’t really help it.

What about college football?

Are you out of your sick and twisted mind? I wouldn't give that up. Those suspenders are glorious. Strictly professional.

Protesting football… Really? What are you trying to prove?

I’m not out to convert the masses into believing that what I say is the only way to live. I made a personal promise and I am a woman of my word. I truly believe that in certain business moves the Miami Dolphins have made, they haven’t considered their target demographic: their fans. If the fans are not their target demographic, then this personal protest is to convince myself that my entire life has been made up of a lie. Last time I checked, my money goes to seeing them at home games, buying merchandise, and supporting my team. If they aren’t out to please me and people like me, then I’m wondering what their godforsaken purpose is.

In short, taking a season off of football is to learn to stop being so intense about it. It’s a time to accept what was done and realize the Miami Dolphins don’t play for me. They play for their business. Everyone deals with pain differently. This is my choice.

Why don’t you just boycott the Dolphins and root for another team?

Why don’t you just boycott In-N-Out and go to Burger King?  They essentially make the same product, don’t they? The Miami Dolphins are my team. Why watch football at all if I can’t root for my team?

(Barf, by the way, if you consider Burger King better than In-N-Out).

It’s BARELY season. Are you sure you wont come back?

It’s not as simple as it sounds. It’s actually insanely difficult, even during pre-season. To go from one extreme to another is a complete lifestyle change. Some people have their different takes about it. Ken LaVicka says I’ll be back mid-season (thanks for the confidence, bro). Mike Silver says he respects my principles (at least someone’s got my back). I’m not out to prove to anyone else but myself that 1.) I can do it, and 2.) I can get over it. This extremity isn’t for anyone else’s benefit but mine. I used to believe the Miami Dolphins owed me something: an explanation, an apology, a reason. Now it’s more of just learning that they aren’t my friends, my family, or my significant other. They are merely just a football team.

“I got married at 20. Your Grandfather was two weeks away from being 22.”

I knew she had gotten married young, but I looked at her startled. Then faced my mother.

“Can you imagine what I would be like if I had gotten married at 20?”

She giggled, and I walked away, still relatively stunned.

I looked into that future for a minute. Married at 20 meant being married to someone I was in love with. Who doesn’t imagine something so fantastic to happen so early on in life? It saves us time, doesn’t it?

But I grew out of that love. I grew out of being that person. I matured and imagined one day, when I wasn’t still completely unaware of myself, that I would be able to find a great love.

But a great love would only appear after other means of great happiness. I’d graduate college, begin a career where I made enough money to support myself and be professionally happy. Once that whole ‘work’ thing got straightened out, the rest would presumably follow. Marriage, kids, life. Or whatever.

Almost two years after graduation and I’m still wondering where my path begins. I’m at no point in my life to even consider marriage, kids, or that adult-ish future. I can barely wake up to walk my dog in the morning, let alone consider the thought of caring for a child.

But I am a product of the instant gratification generation. If we don’t get what we want, when we want it, we a.) Find another way of getting it, or b.) Find shortcuts of getting it, or c.) Assume we are a bunch of failures if neither of those work.

We set expectations for ourselves, whether it’s to follow in our parent’s footsteps, go above and beyond them, or even go in the complete opposite direction. The generations before us taught us to be stable, supportive and do what makes us happy. When we don’t reach our goals as planned by the time we planned them, we believe we have failed, in part because success should be immediate, and we can’t swallow the thought of actually having patience. I could be alone on this. Because really, who wants to talk about failures?

Some people have argued (even to me) that there is nothing different about our generation from those that came before us. I believe everything is different. My Grandmother, even at 20, settled. Not for a husband, I hope. My Grandfather was the shit. But she had a husband. She completed a formal education. What more do you need as a 20-something in the 1950’s? Her limits had been met, even if she thought college was a good idea for her.

We spend our adolescence rushing to grow up, then spend the early part of adulthood being adolescent. You can’t fault us, can you? We’re not really grown up, even though we can legally vote, drive, drink, and some can even rent cars. Last week, New York Times Magazine wrote a feature about ‘Emerging Adulthood’ here.

Even reading the article is a testament of our limits. Ten pages in Internetland is equivalent to 100 pages in reality. I read the first few graphs and then did what we all do: scroll to the bottom of the page to see how long it is. 10 pages? It took me two separate days to read this, mostly because I couldn’t keep my brain focused on the same thing on the computer that long. If I’m not satisfied by page 2, I’m clicking elsewhere.

But that’s how we are as young people. We rush to grow up, rush to complete work, rush into relationships, marriage, and kids because that’s how it’s just supposed to be. If our parents and grandparents could do it, why isn’t it happening for us? Why couldn’t I be completely happy at 20? Better yet, why couldn’t I one-up them and be perfectly content with life at 19?

Because we expect more from ourselves. We want to be better than those before us because process tells us we’re smarter, faster, and more equipped to just be better. Am I conceited to say I’m better than those who came before me? Maybe. For the most part, they did good with what they had. Do I think they could have done better? Yes, in some cases, I do. With that being said, I want to be good enough for myself. My fear is to end up like the one that came before me.

That sounds meaner than it really is, but it’s validated. I’m not skimping out on college, getting pregnant young, having four children and raising them (partially) alone. Did my mother plan that? No. Could she have prevented that? Yes. Learning from her mistakes is one of my biggest influences in life. Yes, I’m selfish.

The hardest lesson our generation is learning is patience. Our time table is lined up similar to how we were raised: either family achievement or professional achievement. On the one hand, our personal history has taught us to do it better than our parents. On the other hand, we want to achieve so much more by a certain point in time that we are just never completely happy. It’s either to be professionally successful or to be personally successful (i.e. independence, relationships, marriage, kids, etc). Today, if young people aren’t patient enough, they are sacrificing one for the other because, well, goals are goals. We put off our careers to raise a family, or halt family for professional success. There are cases where both exist, but aren’t those of the people who were just patient enough to wait?

Because we slow the process of growing up, we’re frowned upon by older generations. To each other, we’re competing with the book deals of Shit My Dad Says, the Facebook billionaire Mark Zuckerberg, or even former classmates who are making six figures while we’re barely counting five. It’s the ultimate tug of war: it’s either settling for something we already have, or driving ourselves to be better. If we’re not rich, married and procreating by 24, we’re wondering where we went wrong. We’re not wrong, we’re just taking a longer time in attempting to be more right.

I have a significant problem with “getting the hint.”

I’m the one you point and laugh at when a joke is gotten by everyone, and it completely goes over my head. I’ve accepted this.

I don’t catch on well. I don’t look for signs, get the hint, or even figure it out. It’s quite simple: unless you tell me, chances are, I’m not going to get it.

I call it working in absolutes. I don’t always expect a yes or no answer, because not everything is black and white. I do, however, expect an answer.

When confronted with a direct question we feel uncomfortable answering, we tend to fumble over our words, divert the conversation elsewhere, or say something political like “a discussion will be had… a meeting will take place to further embark on this decision.” We can't just… say it.

And it’s because we’re scared. We’re scared of hurting people’s feelings because we were raised under the notion that if we can’t say anything nice, we shouldn’t say anything at all.

I’m not going to argue that point, because I do support it. What I don’t support, however, is lying about it… especially when it smacks you straight in the face and demands honesty.

We don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. Rightfully so, people take things personally. We’re human. We’re fragile. Journalists are taught to gain thick skin, or gain a different profession. If something doesn’t look right, sound right, or even seem right, we say something. It’s just how we operate.

On a personal level, we – as people – can’t seem to look someone in the eye and tell them how we feel because we’re scared of what will happen. It’s like telling your child there’s no Santa Claus. We don’t want to face the reaction. Instead, we carry on with a lie, because it’s easier to deal with in the moment.

Somewhere in between the initial lie and the leak of the truth, we expect people to just get it – to catch on eventually because really, don’t they just GET IT?

Maybe. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they believe everything you say because you let them. Maybe, if you just said it in the beginning, you wouldn’t have to worry if they didn’t get it.

I can’t be mad at someone who is honest with me, because even if it isn’t how I want them to feel, or expect them to feel, I know they told me the truth. Above any and all hurt I feel from the disappointment, I will ultimately get over it. They told me the truth, and that is all I ever ask for. If people would stop being scared of the truth, we wouldn’t have to worry if everyone got it or not.

Last week I was driving to an event at the FAU Davie campus. On the way, I passed the Miami Dolphins training facility. I nearly broke down in tears. My heart sank.

In April, I made the promise that if Dolphins Linebacker Jason Taylor signed with the New York Jets, I would not watch football all season. In fact, the night I heard the news that JT had, indeed, signed with the Jets, I went on to write how heartbroken I was. There’s no getting around it: I’m bitter. I’m angry. I’m pissed. But, I am a woman of my word.

For me, the beginning of training camp can only be described as the start of my holiday season. I would get giddy, sing songs, parooze the internet for gifts (mostly for me) and completely dedicate myself to the Dolphins. I made baked goods. I dressed. I even decorated. They played football, I watched it. We had a nice relationship going. It was true love.

But this summer was different. Instead of counting down the days until training camp began, I spent the off season eliminating nearly all areas in which football was discussed. I hid “Like” pages on Facebook. I un-followed lots (but still kept a list) of my favorite sports guys. I limited my discussion about the game, mostly to my disappointment and sheer disgust for what was once my favorite sports team. Ever.

Maybe it’s because I’m a girl. Maybe it’s because there’s (kind of) a heart inside of me. Maybe it’s because I feel that for the last four months, I (along with other Dolphins fans) have yet to receive an explanation on why this team disrespected one of the best guys to ever play for this organization.

April wasn’t such a great month for the Dolphins. Just a week after announcing Taylor had signed with the Jets, Yahoo! Columnist Michael Silver uncovered that Dolphins General Manager Jeff Ireland was a really big douche. So Ireland may or may not have sort of apologized to Dez Bryant for allegedly suggesting his mother was a prostitute. Good for them. But it’s August, where’s my apology?

Or maybe just an explanation? Is it possible for the Dolphins to eliminate all the bullshit and please just tell me why they let Jason Taylor sign with the Jets?

As much as I’d like to reverse history, I know I will never be able to. But I do know that taking the time away from football will mean that my return next year will be with a colder heart and thicker skin… which means I’ll fit right in with the Dolphins organization. I’ll miss you, boys...

Up until about six months ago, I was perfectly content being a third-wave feminist. If it needed to be done, I did it. I wouldn’t ask a man because I didn’t need to. I could do it myself and that was that.

And then by some strange encounter, I was introduced to a man doing something. Despite the common courtesy of simply opening the door for someone, it made a difference when a friend of mine got out of his car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door for me. I was amazed at how good it felt – even for a split second – to be old-fashioned. A man opened the door for me, and I instantly felt like a lady.

As an aside, if you know me, you are aware that I am not a lady… Nothing about me is proper enough to be considered "lady-like."

It was a moment I relived a few times since, and somehow discovering that being old-fashioned isn’t a bad thing. I have an obsessive compulsive disorder with doing laundry, and I make some of the best brownies in the tri-county area. I’m quite domesticated, if I do say so myself. Note to all future husband candidates.

A few weeks ago, I went ultra old-fashioned when I discovered the only means of contacting a friend in the military was by pulling out a notepad and writing him a letter. I wasn’t quite sure where to start, really, because who writes letters anymore? If I can’t get my point across in a text message, an instant message, a Facebook status update, a tweet, an email, or even a blog post like this one, then my point should simply not be made. That is, unless, it can be made by writing a letter.

I sat on my bed and wrote three pages to a kid who was in Navy boot camp (and graduates July 1 at the top of his class, as a matter of fact). I wrote about how I respected him for his decisions, no matter how much I may have disagreed with them. I wrote about how I missed his family. I wrote about how after 13 years, I never stopped caring, even if we stopped talking.

I was surprised my mailbox served such a multi-faceted purpose, since I’m normally opening it to cringe at the bills or half-hazardly smile and the weekly freelance checks. This time I was putting something in it… sending it off to someone else, in a different state, to read in hopes that he would write back.

To date, I haven’t received anything. In his defense, I’ve convinced myself I did something wrong since it was my first time writing a letter in well over a decade.

The feeling it left me, however, was liberation… more than any third-wave feminist definition could. I wrote from the heart, which is far too often left out when writing anymore. When I realized I still had a heart, I realized I still wanted to use it.

I want to write letters to anyone who wants to get one. And, naturally, those who think they would write me back. I discovered the lost art of letter-writing, and I won’t even charge you for stamps.

My family is a team of packrats. Don’t walk into the garage unless you have a machete, a pair of steel-toed boots, and a flashlight because you will have no idea what is in there. For decades, they have accumulated more shit than a landfill. Shelves piled high with gifts they couldn’t ever get rid of, or failed at trying. Boxes line the floor filled with stuff they could just not part with. It’s not a pretty picture. They just never said no.

When I moved out at 18, I had to compact my entire life and fit it into a dorm room. This meant getting rid of unnecessary things for my venture into college. I moved around twice more before I graduated and I’ve capitalized on that skill of ridding junk… something my family still hasn’t quite gotten the grasp of yet.

Unlike them, the word “no” exists in my vocab. So does the word “delete.” A few days ago, I posted on Twitter that I was going to start unfollowing people. A couple responded. For the most part, it went unnoticed. Great, I thought. Everyone gets it.

Then I realized the majority of them probably didn’t notice it, because they follow entirely too many people to realize what I said… which is exactly why I’m doing this in the first place.

We get into this little community where we feel we need to follow people back because we’ve met them and/or they follow us. Then we notice what they say doesn’t interest us, whether it’s about their new umbrella, their disgusting love for Social Media, or massive amounts of feel good quotes. You find yourself skipping over these people in hopes to get to the tweets more valuable. More often than not, you see that you’re missing the good tweets because you’re too used to skipping.

Twitter then becomes this stream of people you’ve met, but aren’t that interesting to you. Instead of the possible insult of *gasp* unfollowing them, you continue to skip. Because you’re nice.

Gladly, Twitter is what you make of it. I make of it what I wish, which is to follow people who I feel will be funny, insightful, intelligent and (possibly) educational (which is why I never miss a Joel Kodner tweet). While many may fall under these categories, I may not feel they are people I want to follow.

Am I really going in depth about this? Yes. Why? Because there are people that get offended when they see someone they thought was their “friend” unfollow them. No need to be upset about an unfollow. I’m sure you’re a nice person. I’m sure you do a lot of good in this world to someone. But on Twitter, to me, you aren’t interesting. It’s nothing against you as a person.

Actually, it probably is against you as a person if you’re the one tweeting about your new umbrella, your Social Media love, or those feel good quotes. Take a look at your twitter feed. If you’re reading it and thinking “wow, most of this isn’t even interesting to me, let alone those people that follow me,” then you are that person I probably unfollowed.

Thankfully, I get to decide what/who I follow and what/who interests me. If I unfollowed you, you weren’t saying anything that interests me. Don’t lose sleep about it tonight. I’m really not that big of a deal.

On September 17, 2006, just months after starting at the Florida Atlantic University school newspaper, the University Press, I celebrated Constitution Day the way everyone should: by violating the rights of my fellow students. It’s a federal mandate that every publicly funded institution celebrate this day. In a nutshell, the government is forcing you to celebrate your freedom. Ahh America…

Normally, a speaker would be brought in to talk to an open room full of empty chairs about the importance of our freedoms. In 2006, FAU approved the first ever First Amendment Free Food Festival. As the brain child of Michael Koretzky and Michele Boyet, I helped foster an event where a fictitious country was set up outside across from the Live Oak Pavilion on the Boca campus. More than 400 students showed up for free food from on-campus eateries like Burger King, Pizza Hut, and Quiznos. The catch? They signed away their rights at the door.

The event was re-created the following year. I wrote about it here. Since its inception, the event has been held on more than a dozen campuses nation-wide. I’ve traveled across the state helping other schools like UF, FGCU and Flager College put on this event. Hundreds of students have left the event and told me “I had no idea this is the way it could be.” The biggest satisfaction I get from traveling to other schools to put on this event is hearing that we are educating students on their freedoms - that we are showing them what life would be like without them. Watch a video of it. Or watch a 2006 slideshow of it by Michael Koretzky. (Now you can host one).

Nearly four years later, on the same campus that helped harness an award-winning event, administrators are attempting to take away those very rights. University Press Editor in Chief Karla Bowsher received a verbal memo from Student Media Director Marti Harvey earlier this week saying her staff cannot meet with former UP adviser Michael Koretzky (he got fired a couple weeks ago). On or off campus.

Bowsher then contacted the FAU lawyer who supposedly issued the statement, only to get the best “no comment” response ever. Koretzky and Bowsher continue to find out where FAU has legal ground to do this (check out Koretzky’s blog here), but there really isn’t anything you’re missing: FAU is violating the First Amendment rights of students. In case you didn’t get the memo, that’s ILLEGAL.

I would hope that the Student Government would be able to back the very students that put them in office, but they are too busy complaining about the UP  to care. In fact, in that very meeting, representative Hakeem Haye even said after hours of DOING HIS JOB, “I just want to leave."

As a former UPer and student, I couldn’t be more embarrassed of this pathetic explanation for a higher education institution. The administration is telling students they cannot continue to learn by a guy who is offering to educate them FOR FREE and the representatives for those students are too eager to get out of meetings to handle business FOR STUDENTS.

If I was still a student, I wouldn’t hesitate to walk into one of those weekly house meetings and discuss this issue with Mr. Haye. If my hard-earned tuition money was still going to his wallet, I would not hold back in telling him that he is not only an embarrassment to FAU, he’s a disgusting excuse for a Student Government representative. If this is the way the leaders of SG plan to “lead,” I’m glad I graduated when I did. If no one is representing the students of FAU, how can FAU believe they are worth investing in?

Florida Atlantic University reminds me of the Florida Marlins: once they’ve got a good thing going, they let the best thing that ever happened to them go.

Nearly five years ago, the Florida Marlins traded Josh Beckett and Mike Lowell to the Boston Red Sox for star shortstop Hanley Ramirez. This week, it was quite clear that Hanley Ramirez is a douchebag douche bag. Not to be outdone, FAU Vice President of Student Affairs Dr. Charles Brown had to one-up him.

This week, Brown showed us that douchebaggery doesn’t end with the Florida Marlins. Granted, Brown has been with FAU less than four years, so firing University Press Adviser Michael Koretzky came sooner than expected (or later than expected, depending on who you are).

I’m still waiting for Dr. Brown to show me where the firing of an educator who has a proven track record of not only giving students the ability to learn, but also providing them with the necessary skills to survive in the “real world,” has actually been beneficial to a university.

I’m not quite clear on Dr. Brown’s history with students, except that he specializes in them. However, it seems as though with letting go Michael Koretzky, he is specializing in building a team of like-minded followers, not free-thinking students. If Dr. Brown wishes to make everyone think, feel, and express themselves in the same manner, I can see why firing Koretzky would be beneficial to FAU.

However, it reminds me of Adolf Hitler – if they don’t conform to the rules and regulations set before them, they are banished. Koretzky never broke the rules. In fact, he made sure we were well aware of them. But one thing he instilled in us was that we knew how to be freethinkers under those rules and regulations. Clearly, Dr. Brown doesn’t seem to encourage freethinking. It looks like he’d much rather be the Hitler of FAU.

It didn’t last long for Ramirez to apologize for being a douche. But for Dr. Brown, that apology may never come. We never saw one from Hitler, did we?