"What is council?" This is a question I heard a lot at Elections con 2010. And despite the number of people asking the question, few seemed to know the answer.
Council, in the words of council member Mia Shackelford, is "The governing body of cons. Adults aren't the ones organizing conferences, it's us: an elected group of your peers who each have a specific role to keeping cons running." Council also meets to discuss general issues that come up at cons, and policy changes. She went on to describe being on council as "Like wrestling with trolls. Very articulate, opinionated, long-winded trolls. But there's also cuddling."
However, this only covers the basics the generality of what council does. What is council? What do the indiviual members do? Obviously, describing each and every council position would take up too much space for a single GRUUST article, but Emily Dumond, the acting Co-Conference-Coordinator with Mia Shackelford, has given a description of their job. Dumond says,"[We do] a bunch of things. CoCoCos choose dates and get locations for cons. We also get most of the YELLers (Youth-Empowered-Lay-Leaders), [and] at the end of cons we say until the entire church is clean, then take responsibility for any damage to the property." CoCoCos are also in charge of lost and found, and thanking the church foruse of it's facilities. Shackelford, before being elected CoCoCo, was the Officer of RE Outreach.
The Officer of RE Outreach is in charge of talking to DREs and MREs at different churches throughout the district in order to make sure the youth hear about, and have an opportunity to go to, conferences. While it may seem like cons are made possible largely because of these two position, you shouldn't forget the other positions on council. The OREO and CoCoCos, while important, make up only a fraction of the effort and dedication that goes into making cons happen.
I hope I've helped to answer the question "What is council?", but there will be more questions, and there is more council. So next time, ask them. Ask council what they think they are. Ask questions, listen to answers, and learn what it is that makes this community possible.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Cookie Rebels by Amy West
As the downtown clock tower strikes midnight, Colin, Bailey and I grasp our chocolate-chips, the trophy of the night’s adventure. What had started as an innocent errand to satisfy our craving for dessert had morphed into a mission that led to our first run-in with the law.
Bailey and I were thrilled that our friend Colin had traveled down from San Jose to stay with us in Petaluma for two nights. We lounged in Bailey’s cozy bedroom, chatting and giggling. At approximately 10:30 at night, the thought of warm, fresh chocolate-chip cookies seizes us. We agree we simply need to make some. We scavenge through the cupboards and pantries, and to our dismay we discover there were no chocolate-chips to be found. Still, with undiminished hopes, we acquire permission and a few dollars to purchase the key ingredient easily, as our parents know we always act responsibly.
We strut down the dark, empty roads towards the nearest corner-mart. The moon, stars, and the crisp night air pump adrenaline though our veins.
Upon arriving, the hour is nearing eleven and we find the store had closed hours ago. Yet our hunger for chocolate-chip cookies and adventure prohibits us from giving up, so we begin our trek to another store.
Either because we thought we might be able to cut some time off the journey, or because we were drunk with our pride and teenage rebellion, we choose to take a shortcut through the high school that sat between 7-11 and us.
We approach the first chain-link fence that pathetically attempts to thwart trespassers. Though unaccustomed to fence hopping, our able bodies scale the fence with little protest, but my conscience bickers with me. I muffle its warnings and climb the next chain-link fence. I jump down into a soggy softball field. We squint through the darkness and spot sprinklers, mocking us for our stupidity. We dash through the maze of water, but soon realize the short fences had grown to menacing walls of twisted metal twice our height. We roam the perimeter of the field searching for a gap or at least another section of the shorter friendlier fence that would allow us to continue our expedition.
No one acknowledges we had chosen the wrong path, but Colin nonchalantly proposes the imagined fear we had all composed in our minds. “Wouldn’t it suck if a police car came by?” he laughs humorlessly. Bailey and I chuckle at this even as our hearts beat faster and we carefully scan the area for any sign of flashing red and blue lights, but the streets remain still. We suck up a deep breath and head back the way we came.
The darkness is suddenly illuminated. We spin around and see a pair of blazing headlights, scorching our unadjusted eyes. Our hearts thump faster and harder. The car cruises closer to us and, to our horror, slows and comes to a stop along with our hearts when we read each black letter printed on the white door. More street-savvy kids might have run into the darkness, but our fear and guilt staple our cold, sodden feet to the grass.
The policeman rolls down his window and we gape at his bald head, thick neck, black uniform with shiny pins, and Aviators, which he wore despite the late hour of the night. He whips off his sunglasses and we gulp.
“Are you kids aware you are on school property after hours?” he quizzes us in a smooth monotone as if the answer wasn’t staring back at him on our petrified faces.
The three criminals glance at each other searching for help none of us could provide. To stop the silence from gnawing at us, I opt to play dumb.
“Is that bad?” The policeman chooses not to answer my stupid question, and instead hits us with another of his own.
“What are you doing out at this time of night?” After another silence Bailey takes a deep breath and decides on the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Well, we were at my house and we really wanted to make some chocolate-chip cookies…” she bursts. After she explains our story, the police man appears slightly dumbfounded. Confused, he asks us where we had come from and why we had thought cutting through the school would be faster. We surrender our answers as truthfully as we can, fully aware we sound more foolish with every word that tumbles out of our mouths. I can almost see the gears spinning in his brain contemplating whether or not we could be trusted. Evidently he decides no one would be daft enough to make up such a story, because with creased eyebrows he says, “Hmm, you guys are alright. I’ll let you go this time, but get yourselves back home,” and he drives off.
We take a moment to grasp what had just happened. We would never have thought our guiltless craving for cookies would lead to such insubordinate behavior. I guess we are real teenagers now.
“Wow, we are such rebels… but let’s get the hell out of here,” I suggest. We all laugh with relief, and with new found incentive, we used a garbage can to boost our selves out of the field.
Once free from the grassy trap, we momentarily considered going back chocolate-chip-less, but only momentarily.
7-11 supplied no chocolate-chips; however it did yield gummy worms and green tea. We found Grocery Outlet closed for reconstruction, but it did provide a stray shopping cart. We raced the shopping cart. We consumed sugar. We crashed the shopping cart. We laughed ourselves silly.
Eventually, we arrive at a Longs and seize the last bag of chocolate-chips in stock. We know, no matter how these chocolate-chip cookies end up tasting, every bite will brim with the awesomeness of our pitifully rebellious adventure.
Bailey and I were thrilled that our friend Colin had traveled down from San Jose to stay with us in Petaluma for two nights. We lounged in Bailey’s cozy bedroom, chatting and giggling. At approximately 10:30 at night, the thought of warm, fresh chocolate-chip cookies seizes us. We agree we simply need to make some. We scavenge through the cupboards and pantries, and to our dismay we discover there were no chocolate-chips to be found. Still, with undiminished hopes, we acquire permission and a few dollars to purchase the key ingredient easily, as our parents know we always act responsibly.
We strut down the dark, empty roads towards the nearest corner-mart. The moon, stars, and the crisp night air pump adrenaline though our veins.
Upon arriving, the hour is nearing eleven and we find the store had closed hours ago. Yet our hunger for chocolate-chip cookies and adventure prohibits us from giving up, so we begin our trek to another store.
Either because we thought we might be able to cut some time off the journey, or because we were drunk with our pride and teenage rebellion, we choose to take a shortcut through the high school that sat between 7-11 and us.
We approach the first chain-link fence that pathetically attempts to thwart trespassers. Though unaccustomed to fence hopping, our able bodies scale the fence with little protest, but my conscience bickers with me. I muffle its warnings and climb the next chain-link fence. I jump down into a soggy softball field. We squint through the darkness and spot sprinklers, mocking us for our stupidity. We dash through the maze of water, but soon realize the short fences had grown to menacing walls of twisted metal twice our height. We roam the perimeter of the field searching for a gap or at least another section of the shorter friendlier fence that would allow us to continue our expedition.
No one acknowledges we had chosen the wrong path, but Colin nonchalantly proposes the imagined fear we had all composed in our minds. “Wouldn’t it suck if a police car came by?” he laughs humorlessly. Bailey and I chuckle at this even as our hearts beat faster and we carefully scan the area for any sign of flashing red and blue lights, but the streets remain still. We suck up a deep breath and head back the way we came.
The darkness is suddenly illuminated. We spin around and see a pair of blazing headlights, scorching our unadjusted eyes. Our hearts thump faster and harder. The car cruises closer to us and, to our horror, slows and comes to a stop along with our hearts when we read each black letter printed on the white door. More street-savvy kids might have run into the darkness, but our fear and guilt staple our cold, sodden feet to the grass.
The policeman rolls down his window and we gape at his bald head, thick neck, black uniform with shiny pins, and Aviators, which he wore despite the late hour of the night. He whips off his sunglasses and we gulp.
“Are you kids aware you are on school property after hours?” he quizzes us in a smooth monotone as if the answer wasn’t staring back at him on our petrified faces.
The three criminals glance at each other searching for help none of us could provide. To stop the silence from gnawing at us, I opt to play dumb.
“Is that bad?” The policeman chooses not to answer my stupid question, and instead hits us with another of his own.
“What are you doing out at this time of night?” After another silence Bailey takes a deep breath and decides on the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Well, we were at my house and we really wanted to make some chocolate-chip cookies…” she bursts. After she explains our story, the police man appears slightly dumbfounded. Confused, he asks us where we had come from and why we had thought cutting through the school would be faster. We surrender our answers as truthfully as we can, fully aware we sound more foolish with every word that tumbles out of our mouths. I can almost see the gears spinning in his brain contemplating whether or not we could be trusted. Evidently he decides no one would be daft enough to make up such a story, because with creased eyebrows he says, “Hmm, you guys are alright. I’ll let you go this time, but get yourselves back home,” and he drives off.
We take a moment to grasp what had just happened. We would never have thought our guiltless craving for cookies would lead to such insubordinate behavior. I guess we are real teenagers now.
“Wow, we are such rebels… but let’s get the hell out of here,” I suggest. We all laugh with relief, and with new found incentive, we used a garbage can to boost our selves out of the field.
Once free from the grassy trap, we momentarily considered going back chocolate-chip-less, but only momentarily.
7-11 supplied no chocolate-chips; however it did yield gummy worms and green tea. We found Grocery Outlet closed for reconstruction, but it did provide a stray shopping cart. We raced the shopping cart. We consumed sugar. We crashed the shopping cart. We laughed ourselves silly.
Eventually, we arrive at a Longs and seize the last bag of chocolate-chips in stock. We know, no matter how these chocolate-chip cookies end up tasting, every bite will brim with the awesomeness of our pitifully rebellious adventure.
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