Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Silence Kills.

Slogans matter, so let me share...

My freshman roommate wasn't exactly the Roommate from Hell. But she was the first non-family person I had to live with, longer than the weeklong assignments for band and yearbook camps, and the European spring break with foreign language club.

Elizabeth was from Emporia, Kansas, daughter of a doctor, she wrote me, with two older sisters. She was excited I was from the Chicago area, as she was eager to take in Bears games, this being 1986 and nobody yet seeing an end to Buddy's defensive domination. (As if tickets at Soldier Field were easy to come by. She learned.)

Guess what else?

She played violin. Very disciplined young woman. Up at 4:30am or 5, to head from our dorm -- 1835 Hinman, on Lake Michigan -- to the practice rooms. She learned by Suzuki method, I learned, with her mother participating too since childhood.

It was an odd pairing, but we made it work. The up-early-in-the-morning was more odd than bothersome, as I could roll over and easily fall back asleep. And once we worked out that it was way better if she stepped outside our closed room to give that final squirt of Giorgio perfume in the more open suite, rather than leaving it behind for me to smell, things were good.

Of course, there were sensitivities.

When she offered to buy me a new alarm clock -- one that didn't tick so loudly and keep her up -- I shouldn't have taken it personally. Folks can fall asleep, or not, to different things, I realize now. (Mal without a tv set at night ... love me, love my tv, I have learned.) But then, it seemed insensitive. (I think the clock was a graduation gift.)

Still, we grew. Remained friends. Roomed with others next year: she in her sorority, me with a newfound group in Elder Hall -- up campus, closer to athletic facilities, and ... older. (You have more luck as a freshman ending up with a plum dorm assignment, it seems.)

Today's kids have it rougher. With the parents doing so much, they don't get the opportunities to practice their own commonsense working-it-out ways, learning how to stand up for themselves and negotiate appropriately the rest.

If the system fails, as it so often does, it seems there's no fallback, no empowering of taking things into your own hands to find an acceptable solution. Even if it means the short-term punch in the nose to express anger. Delivered by one's self, or even a ... Bodyguard. (You'd be surprised how many big guys have a sensitive soul lurking inside, capable of delivering justice when needed.)

Sometimes balance is more what's needed than any policies or parental interference. You really do learn things, about others and yourself, when you're forced to work it out with no special help or outside protections.


Now here's my question:
What becomes of the other male "caught" in these illegally taped kissing, or sexual encounter sessions?

Hopefully, he sues in civil court to the full extent of his damages. You don't tape somebody and broadcast their private moments for your own jollies. Whether it's the high school football team laughing, or an online community.

Who's raising these ethically challenged, dumb bunny kids anyways?