Written by Jessica Ardrey
The problem is trying to pinpoint exactly when the trouble began.Was it junior high?Mom: “Now, let me get this straight. He skateboards … and does some minor league professional wrestling on the weekend. I’m not so sure about this one.”Angsty Jess: “Don’t judge him, Mom! You don’t know him!”Hmm. Surely that can’t have been the beginning of my rebelling. Sooner. Fourth grade, maybe?Mom: “Jessica. Come on. You know she’s not actually talking about being locked up in a genie’s bottle. You’re going to have to hand over that CD.”Pre-pubescent Jess: “Mom, she’s a great role model for girls my age! And just because she shows her bellybutton doesn’t mean I’m automatically going to start showing mine. Geez, Mom!”No, no. It had to be earlier.Mom: “We talked about this, Jessica. You can’t go outside without me. Choco doesn’t know how to play nice. Remember when he ate the bows out of your hair? Don’t you open this door.”Aaand I’m off. In no time, a doe-eyed Jess is pinned to the ground by a huge and overly playful chocolate lab, and my frilly bow is lost.We start young, don’t we? It starts as an exploration of just how much you can get away with before you get in trouble, and before you know it, you’re in all-out rebellion mode.Granted, our challenging acts grew with us. You slowly moved from sticking that fork in the toaster to buying that Korn CD at Hastings with your allowance money. Nevertheless, the spirit still dwells within us.Oddly enough, the only thing that never changed was my mother. Wise and level-headed, she had legitimate reasons for the orders she gave me. It wasn’t until later that I could look back and realize that Christina wasn’t exactly the kind of person a 10-year-old should be looking up to.Irrelevant. I was a rebel. And I was fighting the man. Er, the mom.The fact of the matter is that it still happens. Just look at how many of the students on this campus have tattoos. Yes, the vast majority of them have meanings. Yes, most of them are religious. But just because you got some Hebrew on your arm instead of the Jolly Roger doesn’t make it any less rebellious.I’ve seen crosses. I’ve seen Celtic designs. I’ve seen countless languages (most of them from the country the individual visited during an abroad program). And I like them. Most of them. But the point is, they’re defiant. That’s right. Even you, girl with the tiny lotus blossom on your foot. You’re downright mutinous.Of course we can’t overlook the quintessential vision of revolution, the hippie. Harding is not void of these individualists. They roam the campus like mini-prophets, enticing city kids to take up a life of chill, complete with rock climbing and folk music. No-Shave November? Pssh. Children. No blade has touched his face for the past three years. He also holds the three B’s in the highest regard: Beards, banjos and bare feet.Now, don’t get me wrong, denizens. I like all of those things and see nothing wrong with them.I’m also from Arkansas.But you go ahead. Roll up your jeans. Leave your worries and your TOMS at the door. You show society that you won’t become one of its drones. You show ’em.However, these aren’t the only rule breakers around Harding. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, kid in front of me in chapel who’s got to be at least eight skips over. And I’m lookin’ at you, swarm of students who snuck, I mean signed, out just to go to Waffle House at 4 in the morning. Rogue, indeed.In the meantime, I’ll sit at my computer wearing torn jeans and a bandana, listening to Linkin Park’s “Hybrid Theory” and writing sarcastic columns about my private college.Mom, just try and stop me.
