My first column for the mighty Northwestern Chronicle debuted around this time last year, which was a small wonder in itself.To commemorate my entrance into Wildcat academia, my computer decided to host a party in its hard drive on move-in day. At least, that was the best possible explanation I could muster at the time. It's hard to think rationally after you flick the power switch and find your computer tossing you the mechanical equivalent of "the bird."
My computer's hard drive, a tireless scribe of my digital activities since 1997, decided to transform itself from "working bundle of happiness" to "whirring chunk of metal." Add that to the general hustle and bustle of New Student Week and suffice to say, I was pissed.
My anger was partially directed towards Northwestern's mighty ResCons, for I falsely believed that they were the basic helpers for any and all computer "glitches." As the implications of the digital disaster slowly pervaded my mind, the truth hit me like an overused analogy: ResCons can only plug in your internet, if that.
I was screwed.
As a sophomore (with a working computer, mind you), I'm now able to look back on the situation with an elderly sort of wisdom. I blew things a bit out of proportion, mainly through a written, 3-column assault against Northwestern's foot soldiers of tech support.
ResCons, though still not the gurus I once believed them to be, can offer more assistance than plugging you into the wall. And in a delicious sense of irony, I observed the hidden helpfulness of one particular ResCon on move-in day '03.
I've changed the kid's name in case the higher-ups at the Information Technology department decide to crack down on ResCons who don't distribute information in a gushy, pamphlet-style speech. Or, for that matter, ResCons that actually try to help to the best of their knowledge, rather than succumbing to the relatively low limits of assistance IT requires.
Jhonka, as I've dubbed him, didn't spend his move-in day in a mental trek through Unconsciousland upon a comfy, Northwestern-issue bed. I'd have to cut off my roommate's hands in order to correctly count the number of times I saw Jhonka pass by my door alone, asking if my computer was experiencing any technical difficulties in the slightest.
And for the poor freshmen who could not connect to their Instant Messenger, let alone get their computer out of the box, Jhonka was there, pulling cables and offering advice like a wired John Madden.
Granted, Jhonka probably earned a substantial amount of pay for his approximately 12 hours of work that day. But hearing him explain university policies against file-sharing, only to teach freshmen how to set up their Kazaa minutes later, speaks of true, technological devotion.
And his help didn't fall on deaf ears.
I lived with the man in the dorm last year. He fit the stereotype of "computer geek" to the letter, and his devotion to constant room occupancy, to put it nicely, earned him a gentle combination of respect and teasing from peers.
But now, scribbled on the white boards of freshmen and upperclassmen alike, one occasionally finds a message for the dorm's only savior of silicon chips.
And they're not requests for help, nor pleas of advice from the newest targets under RIAA crosshairs. They're messages of acceptance, long-awaited praises for a once-underappreciated man.
"We love Jhonka," they often read, with smiling faces crudely drawn nearby.
The man responsible for finding new, helpful software and fixing hardware modifications has finally received one of his own: an upgrade of the heart.
I doubt it'll ever leave his memory.
