MANY LANGUAGES, ONE WORLD

MANY LANGUAGES, ONE WORLD http://www.els.edu/en/ManyLanguagesOneWorld

2015 Student Essay Contest and Global Youth Forum

Share your ideas and be heard... perhaps even in the General Assembly of the United Nations! 70 Students will be selected as delegates to the 2015 United Nations Academic Impact Global Youth Forum where they will create plans of action related to the United Nations Post-2015 Global Development Agenda. The students will present these plans of action at United Nations Headquarters in New York City. Airfare, Room and Meals will be provided by ELS Educational Services, Inc. To participate: Write an essay (2,000 words or less) related to the post-2015 global development agenda, in the context of the 70th anniversary of the United Nations, and the definition of new goals reflecting the imperative of global sustainable development that recognises, and is enriched by, cultural and linguistic diversity. You are encouraged to visit the website sustainabledevelopment.un.org for background material in this regard. Entries must be in an official language of the United Nations that is not your first language and was not your principal language of instruction during your primary or secondary education. To enter, you must be a full-time university student and

must be 18 years of age or older by March 25, 2015. Your participation must be sponsored by a Faculty Member or Authorized Representative at the university you are currently attending. Essay Submission Deadline: Wednesday March 25, 2015 at 11:59pm EST

http://opportunitydesk.org/2015/02/01/2015-un-academic-impact-global-youth-forumstudent-essay-contest/

Modern Love College Essay Contest Wanted: Your Voice. Here. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/02/05/style/modern-love-collegeessay-contest.html?_r=0 We’re inviting college students nationwide to open their hearts and laptops and write an essay that describes what love is like for them today. Modern Love has held this contest twice over the last seven years, and the response from thousands of students at hundreds of colleges and universities was overwhelming and eye opening.

A book of collected columns — “Modern Love: 50 True and Extraordinary Tales of Desire, Deceit and Devotion” — is available in paperback and e-book at online booksellers.

The first time, in 2008, many students wrestled with their ambivalence over the no-stringsattached sex of hooking up, and by 2011 the focus had shifted to exploring how technology was changing how we meet, connect and love. What will be on students’ minds this year? If you have a personal story that illustrates the current state of love and relationships, email it to us at [email protected]. The winning author will receive $1,000 and his or her essay will be published in a special Modern Love column in May 2015, and on nytimes.com. For more information and behind-the-scenes commentary as the contest progresses, follow Modern Love on Facebook and the Modern Love editor on Twitter: @danjonesnyt. An essay by the Modern Love editor, “How We Write About Love,” may also be helpful to students.

How to Enter

Email your essay (1,500 to 1,700 words, attached as a Word document AND pasted into the body of the email), along with your name, email address, phone number, college and year of graduation to: [email protected] Official Rules » Submission Deadline

March 15, 2015 Contest Winner: Even in Real Life, There Were Screens Between Us By CAITLIN DEWEY Published: April 28, 2011

CURLED up at the foot of my bed, my face inches from the laptop screen, I stared anxiously at the Google chat box. “Will is typing,” the box told me, helpfully.

Brian Rea

I forced myself to read e-mail while I waited for his message. Then I refreshed my Twitter feed, scrolled through my blog posts and began brushing my teeth. Still the box said, “Will is typing.”

“Don’t you dare get hurt by this,” I muttered around my toothpaste. “This was a stupid idea, and you knew that from the start.” But recognizing the stupidity of falling for someone on the Internet does not prevent you from doing it. My friend Jeanette, a college radio D.J., chats constantly with some music blogger she met on Tumblr. My friend Tuan, who lives in Los Angeles, stays up until after 3 to talk to his London-based girlfriend. And I had just driven nearly 1,100 miles round trip to visit Will, a guy I met in October at a Web journalism conference and got to know almost entirely on Skype. I noticed him across the table at a noisy hotel bar. Will owns thick black-frame glasses but no hairbrush or comb, traits that lend him the look of a basement-bound hacker. If you have ever attended an Internet conference, you understand how pale skin, thick glasses and scruffy hair can be attractive; otherwise, I can’t explain it to you. In either case, I liked Will’s weirdly overconfident smirk and his obsession with WordPress. He regaled me with the merits of plug-ins and PHP until I became tired and went to bed. “I’ll find you on Twitter,” I joked when I left. I didn’t expect or even want to see Will again after that weekend. Since he lived three states away, further face time seemed unlikely. I followed his Twitter posts with detached curiosity; in January, he G-chatted me to complain about work. Then he got drunk and messaged me again, sometime near midnight, as I uploaded photos and otherwise wasted bandwidth. With obvious sarcasm, he wrote, “Do you have that Skype thing kids talk about these days?” I’ve read that 90 percent of human communication is nonverbal. Skype captures that 90 percent on a low-resolution video camera, compresses it, funnels it to a node computer and reproduces it on a screen anywhere in the world. Skype eliminates distance; that’s why it works. And that’s exactly what it did for us. With my Skype screen open and my webcam on, I viscerally felt that Will was sitting a foot away on my bed. Ignoring the times the picture froze or his voice cut out, I thought he looked and sounded exactly as he had in person. Sometimes, when he leaned into the computer to read an article I had sent him, I could see the pores of his face. We started video chatting for hours every night — he from an ascetic all-white bedroom, me from the cupcake-print corner of my studio apartment. I learned that he ate take-out for every meal, slept in a series of identical white V-neck T-shirts and smirked with one side of his mouth when I said something clever. I knew his preferred coding languages, his least favorite content management system, and his general hatred of dancing, small talk and girls in bars.

One night, when we talked too late, I fell asleep with my laptop open and woke up seven hours later, tangled in cords. He was still there, asleep in the light from an open window, pale and young and pixelated. Eventually he stirred, blinked at the camera and said, “Hey, you.” “Hey,” I said easily. “How did you sleep?” As the weeks went on, I told Will about my last boyfriend, a guy I had met in psychology class and dated for almost two years. He listened quietly, his glasses reflecting my image from his computer, and gave good, clear-eyed advice about letting go. I couldn’t remember the last time I met somebody that smart and talented in ways I certainly wasn’t. He told me about his ex-girlfriend, who never appreciated his work. I texted him from classes when I was frustrated or bored. In the safety of my apartment, I could see Will, but I couldn’t touch him. I could summon him when I wanted to talk, but I never knew him in any light other than the one from his bedside lamp. This phenomenon worked in my favor as well. I could call him after a few drinks, when I felt sufficiently talkative and social; I could avoid him if I had videos to edit or blog posts to write. I could say whatever I wanted and risk awkwardness, because at the end of the conversation, one click of the mouse would shut him out of my room. THE irony is that we flock to the Internet for this type of safe, sanitized intimacy, but we want something entirely different. “In real life,” or IRL, is a popular term in online parlance. At Internet conferences like the one where I met Will, Twitter explodes with people celebrating IRL meetings: “So nice to finally see @so-and-so IRL.” “Hey @so-and-so, I can’t believe we hadn’t met IRL yet!” The Internet brings these people together with hash tags and message boards, but it never satisfies them. No matter how much you love someone’s blog or Twitter feed, it isn’t their posts you actually want. And so — slowly, cautiously — Will and I began circling the question of what it all meant. “I really like you,” he said one night, after getting home from the bar. “I really like you too,” I said. “I don’t know what that means.” I wanted to find out. So in early March I rented a car, begged my professors to let me out of class a day early, and drove 540 miles to spend a long weekend in the midsize city where Will lives. When I got close, I called my friend Tuan from a rest stop, where I fixed my makeup and chewed gum and generally tried to calm down. “What if it’s terrible?” I demanded. “What if he’s nothing like I expect?”

In fact, Will was almost exactly as I expected: thin lips, straight nose, small hazel eyes, glasses. He stood waiting at the side of the street while I parked my car — going forward and back, forward and back, until I nervously got within two feet of the curb. We kissed on the cold, blustery sidewalk as the wind whipped my thoughts around. Mostly, I felt relieved. I thought: “This works in real life. This means something.” But after we kissed and ate pizza and went back to his house, we struggled for things to talk about. In real life, Will stared off at nothing while I talked. In real life, he had no questions about the drive or my work or the stuff that waited for me when I went back to school. He took me out for dinner and read his e-mail while we waited for our food. He apologized profusely, but still checked his Web site’s traffic stats while we sat in his living room. He took me to a party at his friend’s house where they proceeded to argue for hours about Web design while I sat on a futon and stared at the ceiling, drunk and bored and terribly concerned that I looked thinner online. At points, he grabbed my hand and gave me small, apologetic smiles. It seemed like a strategy game: a constant dance of reaching for me and pulling back, of intimacy and distance, of real life and Internet make-believe. On the last day of my visit, Will overslept. He rushed around the apartment with his hair wet and his tie untied, looking for his laptop. According to the plan we made the night before, he would go to work and I would leave when it suited me, dropping his spare keys in the mailbox. In the front hallway, where I stood rubbing my eyes, Will hugged me goodbye and told me to drive safely. He struggled for a closing statement. “It was great to see you,” he said at last. I didn’t leave right away. After I showered and packed and studied the books near his fireplace, I sat for a long time at his kitchen counter, trying to work out what happened. I didn’t like being surrounded by his things. I felt more comfortable in my room, with my things, and with his presence confined to a laptop screen. I wrote him a note before I left: “Dear Will: Thank you so much for having me this weekend. It meant a lot to me to spend time with you in person.” I signed my name and left it on the counter. Then, willing myself not to cry, I dropped his keys in the mailbox and gunned it home. In real life, getting there took nine hours. Eating the Forbidden Ham Sandwich

Brian Rea By ANDREW LIMBONG

AT 8 in the morning, I expected some old woman to be working behind the counter of the pharmacy — the kind of person who usually gets up at 6 a.m. anyway. Instead, there was a young guy in tight jeans and one of those faux-ethnic kaffiyeh scarves. I thought about how cold it wasn’t inside the pharmacy. When he asked me if I needed anything, I stepped aside to let my girlfriend, Sam, walk up to the counter. “Yeah, a morning-after pill?” she said. “We have Plan B and a generic,” he said. “Which one do you want?” Sam looked at me as if I would know. I made a face Sam knows all too well that said, “Uh?” “How much is the generic?” Sam asked. “Ten dollars cheaper.” She looked at me again, then said, “I’ll take the generic.” “O.K., that’ll be $35.” I held out my debit card and he took it, looking as if he had done this a hundred times before.

I paid, we went home, Sam took the pill and I’m not a father: all good. But something felt off. Had that proverbial old woman been behind the counter that morning, I think I would have been more comfortable. Well, actually I would have been a lot less comfortable at the pharmacy, but I think that would have made me feel more comfortable about the situation as a whole, because we would have fulfilled the archetype that I thought our story was supposed to fulfill: young couple has sex, condom breaks, they feel ashamed buying a morning-after pill and no one speaks about it after. But as it happened there was absolutely no shame in it at all. Everything was fine, and I was joking about it later that day. Yes, this was a good thing. But it still bothered me. On my first day of college, my mother took me aside while my father carried my stuff from the car to my dorm room. She held my shoulders tightly and told me not to hug any girls because they’ll lie, say I raped them and then I’ll go to jail. Either that, or I’ll get them pregnant. It wasn’t the first time I was hearing this. I nodded along, pretty certain that the chances of a girl accusing me of rape because I hugged her weren’t very high. I knew a lot of my mother’s attitudes toward women and sex were wrong, but that didn’t keep me from absorbing some of it. Persistence does count for something. I met Sam when I was 20. She’s my first girlfriend, my first sexual partner and the first girl I’ve ever kissed twice. Luckily for me, she was very patient throughout this whole process. And it really was a process. Both of my parents are Indonesian immigrants. They grew up in a strict Christian household, and they did their best to impart all aspects of their home culture to me. My father never spoke to me about sex. We never sat down and had the “talk” that seems to happen only on television. But I always knew we were a different kind of family from the ones I watched on a nightly basis, because nobody on “Full House” ever got in trouble for kissing a boy, as my sister once did. I never got that far when I was younger. There was something about girls that scared me. This isn’t uncommon, but most people seem to get over it somewhere around high school. By the time I was 20, I still had this irrational fear of rape, jail, pregnancy, God and my mother. It led to feeling lonely a lot, but at least I knew I wasn’t alone.

My friend Haroon calls this fear the “ham sandwich” effect. Like me, he’s a first-generation American, born to a religious family. He’s Muslim. His parents would tell him not to eat pork because it’s evil and God will send you to hell. They had a similar attitude about sex. But he was 16 and curious, so why not? He sat down one day, bought a ham sandwich, ate it and then threw up. He tried again, though, and was eventually able to eat ham sandwiches like any other American. It was the same way with sex. A lot of people suffer from the ham sandwich effect, especially first-generation Americans. You can reject the parent culture all you want, but the more serious the situation, the harder it is to get over. And sex is very serious. Over the course of one semester, Sam and I went from being friends of friends to making out in my bed on a nightly basis. There was nakedness and there was touching, but it never went any further than that because I always felt my mother was there in my room, too. Sometimes, she would be sitting in the chair across the room, holding a Bible. Sometimes she would just be casually standing by the wall next to my bed. Once I even saw a vision of her in my room with my imaginary teenage son, who started using heroin because I gave him up for adoption. These characters, these figures, put pressure on my blood vessels, not allowing the blood to go where I oh so desperately wanted it to. It was like this for a month. Sam was patient, but I didn’t want to wait for her patience to run out. So I called Haroon. At this point, he had already had sex, or “eaten the ham sandwich,” as we like to say. He laughed when I called, but not condescendingly. He was expecting this call from me. He had become something of an expert in overcoming the ham sandwich effect. He ran off a list of people we both knew in similar situations whom he had coached through this sort of thing. His advice? Breathe a lot, do some push-ups and don’t really think about it. “Stop thinking about her as a person,” he told me. “People are animals, and having sex is a natural thing that animals do all the time.” He probably could have worded it differently, but I was comforted by the simple fact that he got over it and was now eating ham sandwiches on a regular basis.

That kind of achievement wasn’t really my goal, but I did need to stop thinking about it so much. For my blood to go where I needed it to go, I needed to distance myself from my fears, my religion, my mother, Sam and even myself. So I did, and it happened. I don’t blame my mother for how difficult it was for me to have sex, to have any sort of physical relationship with women at all. That’s how she was taught, and she was just trying to do her best with me. Actually, unlike Haroon, I appreciated my mother’s old-school leanings for making sex so difficult. Getting over the mental block seemed like an achievement, an accomplishment, something worth doing. I tried explaining all of this to her once. The semester before I met Sam, I was studying in London. My parents visited me, and my mother and I took a walk around my campus. She asked me a lot about women. Apparently she thought I went to London to go on a wild sex romp. She seemed almost disappointed when I told her no. There was a glassy, wet look in her eye, and she asked me if I was gay. And I said no, I was just messed up. She nodded. A lot of times traditional families can display a certain degree of homophobia. My mother certainly wasn’t friendly with the idea of homosexuality, but on that walk, for the first time, I knew that if I were gay, she might actually be all right with it. It was nice to know. “Haroon calls it the ‘ham sandwich,’ ” I told her. And I told her about the religious pressure, and the constant clashing of Eastern and Western ideals when it came to sex. She stopped walking, so I put my arm around her. Then she apologized to me. She had never done that before, and she’s never done it since, but that bit of progress was nice. SO when the kaffiyeh scarf guy in the pharmacy sold Sam that morning-after pill, I think what was missing for me was the ritual of seriousness, the sense of progress that I was doing something big. If the old woman had been behind that counter that morning, I’d like to think I would have asked quietly for the pill. I would have paid the extra $10 for the brand name. I probably would have also picked up some toothpaste and deodorant to act as if I was doing this casual thing that didn’t mean much to me. But I would have known that she thought it was serious, and that would have been enough.

What Is Carved in Stone By DAVID MARK SIMPSON

THREE years ago, when I was a sophomore at Northeastern, I typed a text to my thengirlfriend, Sarah, telling her I was leaving college for a year. The thought entered my brain and, as usual, I let her know immediately. I’m not sure I had even fully made up my mind, but I had made it up long enough to hit “send,” and so it became real. She sent back several sad but supportive texts, woven together with ellipses.

Brian Rea

A few days later we were discussing the details in person. I would join AmeriCorps, a roving volunteer organization. I would be stationed in Denver but moving around. She would visit at Thanksgiving. I’d return to Boston during winter break. Then I said, “I’m not bringing my laptop,” and her lip turned over and she started to cry. I realized later that she saw my rejection of technology as an assault on the very core of our relationship. We had gone to the same high school in New Jersey, and when we both ended up at colleges in Boston I fell in love with her familiar face. Together we nursed our dying childhoods, going to the circus and calling each other pet names. I would call her as I walked to class, alternating my phone hand when it turned pink from the cold, and she would text me during lectures. We’d video chat from our dorm rooms, halftalking while surfing the Internet, calling out occasionally to make sure the other was still there. This was after communication had become nearly limitless but before people thought much about boundaries. Taking advantage, we fell in love like addicts. All day long the contents of my heart would slide down my arm, past my sleeve and into my phone. When we were together I chafed from overexposure, but when we were apart I would lose my sense of identity and grab my phone.

Our ultimate break-up was confusing and explosive. I landed in Denver around the time the housing market crashed. Deep in heartache, I called my friends while pacing outside my new dorm. Sometimes I called Sarah, until we agreed to stop talking. During the monthlong orientation I explored and grieved and went to bed early. New friends would invite me to the Mexican bar across the street, but I was dedicated to my loneliness. I met Patti in an airport van full of idealistic AmeriCorps members. I liked her eyes, which looked like those of the Afghan girl from that famous National Geographic cover. While everyone was discussing the best ways to save the world, she was taking in the passing public art. Forced to weigh in on the conversation, she expressed a bold realism that I found refreshing. Back at the dorms, I watched as she crossed the parking lot and sailed off into the sunset in her boxy 20-year-old Crown Victoria. Soon I was inventing reasons to hang out with her. She was quiet, pausing for several seconds before answering questions. I would talk until I exhausted myself, fearing that her silence meant she didn’t understand. Then, like Muhammad Ali coming out of the rope-a-dope, she would say something astoundingly true. Knocked out, I couldn’t repress my smile. We started sitting together during the AmeriCorps meetings. Still, I was resistant to love, fearing a repeat of my past relationship. I opted to join a wildfire-fighting team, assuring that I would spend a majority of the year in isolated mountain towns and away from Patti. Upon separating she suggested we write letters. A few weeks later I addressed an envelope to Texas, where she was living in a tent city and working for FEMA. At first I poured thoughts onto the page like I was sending a long text message. By the time I finished, the words at the beginning seemed untrue or melodramatic. I crafted and reworked. Sometimes I would rip the letter up and start over. Her letters were often entirely visual, scattered magazine collages. I would hold an unopened letter for a while, delaying gratification. After reading them, her intimate stories wouldn’t fall to the bottom of my in-box and disappear, but stay with me, under my bed, waiting to be reread. We started to call each other at night. She told me about her love for the sprawl and beaches in our home state, New Jersey. She told me that, despite her tall, slender frame, she hated sports. I was falling in love, but Patti hesitated, wanting time to allow her feelings to settle. I struggled to accept the uncertainty. One morning my teammates and I left our cabin in the mountains for the desert canyons of southeast Colorado near the border of Oklahoma. As our truck rolled into the desert, I realized we were losing cell service. Our new bunkhouse, low-roofed with nine beds for 10 people, lay centered in a flat desert valley. In our first days we vented our frustrations: rationed food, undrinkable tap water,

coyotes, hours from a hospital. Perhaps most daunting was the task of removing invasive tamarisk with chainsaws. The thin branches whipped my face so hard I cried. But my greatest objection was to the isolation: no Internet, mail or phone service. Without Patti to validate my feelings, they seemed not to exist, and our blossoming relationship began to feel increasingly fragile. With no line to the outside world, I turned inward, hiking in silence with a teammate, Jonah. While searching for the famous Picketwire Canyonlands dinosaur tracks, we came upon the remains of a campfire. I thought about the young vaqueros sitting under the stars, feeling lonely — perhaps longing for someone — and slowly becoming men. Our foreman told us about petroglyphs carved in the walls up on the mesas, so after work we set off to find them. From the rocky slopes, our bunkhouse looked like a raft floating upon a deep orange sea. As we scaled an unavoidable rock face, I was deep in thought. Had I ever stopped to question my relationship with Sarah? It seemed now like a buzz of forward progress. Did I really want to get into another relationship? I worked through this on the rock face. Jonah pushed up over the top ridge as if he were getting out of a pool, and I followed. We stood in front of the Zookeeper, a rock mural depicting a lone human surrounded by dozens of snakes, goats, horses and other creatures. A single wandering line connected all of the beasts and the human. I had read that ancient people carved out the brown stone 3,000 years ago. When my chainsaw hit the same type of rock, it left vague scratch marks. I imagined the petroglyph as a letter from the artist to his girlfriend, the work of a young man etching away in solitude, working through his feelings, brave and patient enough to create something lasting. Everything I ever wrote felt cheap. I had sent probably 10,000 love-related text messages. They had been so easy: quick “I love you” texts without even thinking. Most had been trivial, and they were all gone now. We hiked along the canyon’s ridge for hours. On a high plateau we stopped to rest in the stringy tall grass. Off in the distance I noticed a blinking red light atop a tower. Jonah had noticed it, too, and was already standing on his toes, reaching his hand in the air. In his straining hand, his cellphone began to buzz. I threw down my pack, pulled out my phone, held it up, and soon it, too, was filling with messages, messages from Patti, sweet messages. Jonah and I were like lost explorers stumbling upon a watering hole, our hands shaking as we filled our canteens, these mute phones brought along each day just in case. Patti said she missed me. She couldn’t wait to talk again.

SOON Jonah had constructed a rock tower several feet high from which we were able to get two bars of service. I called Patti, and she answered. Her team had moved to Arizona and she told me about their near mutiny. I could hear her smiling and it made me smile. As we talked, I thought about the dedicated rock artist, and it seemed indulgent to be talking to Patti, to have found a communication loophole in the desert solitude. But I also thought about the wandering line he had drawn connecting all creatures, and how that connectedness, too, was a beautiful thing. Jonah and I stayed out on the plateau until the sun started to fall. When we reached the bunkhouse, the sky was black. I could hear coyotes playing in the desert as we pulled cactus needles from our legs with tweezers. Every day for the next two weeks, we scraped our way up the cliffs of our two-bar plateau. It may not have been the same as carving a petroglyph, but the three-hour journey required a kind of resoluteness. It was exhausting and dangerous. And it left ample time to ponder if the climb was worth making. A Love for the Ages, but Which One? By ANNA KLENKE Published: May 12, 2011

IT was early June in Illinois: hot, humid, unbearably sticky. The cicadas droned in the trees, their monotonous buzz somehow adding to the heat.

Brian Rea

There was no air-conditioned room to escape to, not even an electric fan. I wore a long-sleeve cotton dress, two petticoats, stockings, shoes and an apron. Although in the outside world it was 2008, inside the fenced confines of Blackberry Farm’s Pioneer Village, the year was 1840. And I was being courted.

I worked at the most remote historical site in the park, the log cabin replica, and Matt worked in maintenance, blessed with the freedom to cruise around in a golf cart. As two of the few college-age workers amid a group of older people, we had been introduced on his first day and promptly became friends out of desperation for conversation that didn’t involve quilting. Across the pond from the prying eyes of supervisors, Matt would take a break from his maintenance duties and bring his lunch to eat on my doorstep every day. We rested in the shade on the small front porch and watched the children visiting the park chase turkeys around the yard. While Matt looked on, I lectured the crowd about churning butter and dipping candles. The younger visitors gaped at me and asked unanswerable questions: “Are you a mom?” “Are you Abraham Lincoln’s sister?” “Are you dead?” The period costume prompted a deep sense of long-repressed domesticity to rise up in me during the workday hours of 9 to 3. Channeling the spirit of my pioneer ancestors, I swept the porch, tidied the cabin and labored for hours, making soup and baking mulberry cake in the fireplace. Deep down, I hoped my prowess in the 19th-century kitchen would convince Matt that I was a good candidate for a 21st-century girlfriend. I looked the other way when he scraped the burned pie crust edges out of the cast-iron Dutch oven and reminded myself that it was 2008 and Matt surely wasn’t judging me on my culinary skills. After work, I shucked off my sweat-soaked pioneer garb, donned a tiny pair of athletic shorts and a tank top that showed off my navel ring, and biked home to the wonders of indoor plumbing and wireless Internet. Matt requested me as a friend on Facebook, and I spent two hours fine-tuning my “About Me” paragraph and untagging myself in unflattering photos before I accepted. To my thinking, Matt had only met the 19th-century me, and the opportunity to present myself in a more modern light was akin to being able to make a second first impression. On our first date, we had dinner at a sushi restaurant, a far cry from my charred fireplace cakes at the pioneer cabin. I struggled with the chopsticks, demolishing the delicate crunchy shrimp rolls. Eventually, I resorted to eating with my hands, which was, Matt assured me, the mark of a true sushi connoisseur. Drinking sake out of a tiny glass and chatting with the waiter, Matt morphed before my eyes from the cute maintenance guy at the historical village to a cosmopolitan, sophisticated man who tipped well but not too extravagantly. Our next stop was Borders, where I was thrilled to learn that he, unlike other guys I had dated, was not only functionally literate but also read books for fun. As we browsed the shelves together, we might as well have been back in a previous century for all the Jane Austen-esque emotions that coursed through me. I was completely entranced

by this rare specimen of sensitive human male — rustic maintenance man by day, refined consumer of literature by night. From there our relationship expanded, bleeding across centuries and through cultures. We rode the train into Chicago, and Matt instructed me about the beauty of steam engines, those long-gone giants of transportation and his passion. After emerging from the Red Line, we visited the Jazz Record Mart and picked over thousands of CDs and vinyl records, the bigband music transporting us back to the 1930s. Over the drawn-out summer months, we watched Blu-rays, shopped at thrift stores, ate Mexican, Indian and Italian in dark restaurants. We looked at old family pictures in Matt’s basement and reminisced about the good old days that we hadn’t lived through. I felt that the yellowing photographs could tell me something about the boy sitting next to me, that through the eyes of his ancestors I would somehow come to know him. I was physically drawn to Matt, my hands shook whenever he stepped into the semidark pioneer cabin or I gazed at his profile picture on Facebook. But he was a mystery, waiting two long weeks before kissing me, and then, after he finally did, moving much faster. He later admitted that my modest pioneer dress had made him think of me as a “good Christian girl,” and he was happy to find out otherwise. Yet there still seemed to be no rhythm to our ways. Some days, we would make out for hours in my basement; others, we wouldn’t even touch each other. The television show “16 and Pregnant” and movies like “American Pie,” in which four high school boys make a pact to lose their virginity before graduation, had taught me that guys would take any advantage to sleep with a girl. But when Matt’s parents left town for the weekend and we hung out alone at his house late into the night, the subject of sex didn’t even come up. And the sad thing is, I was confused and a little distraught that he didn’t jump all over me. I didn’t know what to think. And I didn’t ask. In this age of Facebook, Google, YouTube, Twitter and other untold online troves of information, it’s easy to think we can learn everything about anyone within minutes. On the Internet, there are no secrets. Turns out, real life isn’t like that. Whenever Matt and I went out as our 2008 selves, it was hard for us to know what to talk about or how to act — there didn’t seem to be any clear rules. And at the historical park, I not only felt prim and self-conscious in my heavy, unflattering costume, but I also found myself embodying the expectations of 1840s womanhood as I cooked, cleaned house and generally behaved. At night, I’d sometimes dream of the 2008 Matt — the one I’d already fooled around with — and then rush off to work only to be greeted by the shy, reserved 1840 version. The disconnect between the centuries was oddly real.

Every day, I was struck by the way Matt and I reinvented ourselves in each other’s eyes. Talking to him at work in my high-necked dress was a vastly different experience from hanging out with our friends hours later in “civilian” clothes. Complicating matters, our exchanges on Facebook would always be totally open and honest, and we’d end up telling each other things that could sway our relationship, making the next in-person encounter either more joyful or more awkward. What I remember most from that period is feeling stretched between the past and the present, and between our in-person and online selves, struggling to reach an equilibrium where we could relate on a real level rather than being influenced by what time period, electronic medium or ethnic restaurant we were interacting in at the time. We made it there eventually, to the point where we had created our own context and didn’t need to rely on an external one, but it took a while. We had to learn to become less selfconscious, to stop viewing every move through the warped lens of a Facebook photo album. The possibilities of personal reinvention that society affords us today make it more difficult to get onto an even footing with another person, as both of you change your appearance and even personality to match a constantly shifting world. The rules change hour by hour, situation by situation, and I would often look at this nice guy who I had been dating for months and wonder who exactly he was. Now that I’m away at college, Matt and I keep in touch through texting, e-mail, Facebook, Skype, gchat, phone calls and good old-fashioned letters. I look back on the time before the Internet and shudder, wondering how anyone ever kept in touch or managed a long-distance relationship without modern technology. As much as the technology helps, however, it’s never enough. Every now and then, when the reality of our relationship begins to slip, Matt drives the six hours north to visit me. When he steps out of his car, shaking the 400 miles of driving out of his limbs, I am transported back to 2008 (or was it 1840?). I feel the heat of the wood fire on my face and marvel at this crazy, jumbled world and the real, physical inevitability of Matt, who it seems I’ve known forever and for no time at all. Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define By MARGUERITE FIELDS Published: May 4, 2008

It’s a Complicated Subject

David Chelsea

Just before Valentine’s Day this year, Sunday Styles did something very unromantic: we asked college students nationwide to tell the plain truth about what love is like for them. We weren’t sure what to expect, but we thought we wouldn’t receive many essays about red roses and white tablecloths. When the contest deadline passed seven weeks later, more than 1,200 essays had arrived, from 365 schools in 46 states and Puerto Rico. In perhaps typical collegiate fashion, nearly 700 poured in on the last day, 400 over the final hour. We counted only three red roses among them, and one was bestowed in a laundry room. As for the more complicated stuff, and the uniquely 21st century struggles — those we got by the hundreds, covering everything from how students view communications technology (as a lifeline, a crutch or a scourge) to their ambivalence about the no-strings-attached sexual opportunism of the hookup culture. Five of these essays will appear as the Modern Love column, starting today with Marguerite Fields’s winning entry, “Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define,” an eloquent, clear-eyed account of her generation’s often noncommittal dating scene. On the Sundays between Mother’s Day (May 11) and Father’s Day (June 15), we will publish the four runner-up essays. Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define By MARGUERITE FIELDS RECENTLY my mother asked me to clarify what I meant when I said I was dating someone, versus when I was hooking up with someone, versus when I was seeing someone. And I had trouble answering her because the many options overlap and blur in my mind. But at one point, four years ago, I had a boyfriend. And I know he was my boyfriend because he said, “I want you to be my girlfriend,” and I said, “O.K.”

He and I dated for over a year, and when we broke up I thought my angsty heart was going to spit itself right up out of my sore throat. Afterward, I moved out of my mother’s house in Brooklyn and into an apartment in the East Village, and from there it becomes confusing. So, a few days after the chat with my mom, when I found myself downtown drinking tea with my friend Steven, I asked him what he thought about dating. He has a long-term girlfriend, and I was curious how he viewed their relationship. “The main thing,” he said, “is I don’t mind if she sleeps with other people. I mean, she’s not my property, right? I’m just glad I get to hang out with her. Spend time with her. Because that’s all we really have, you know? I don’t want her to be mine, and I don’t want to be anybody’s.” I sucked my teeth and looked over at the next table, where two men sat opposite each other. One looked over his shoulder and gave me a closed-mouth grin. Steven explained that it’s not a question of faithfulness but of expectation. He can’t be expected not to want to sleep with other people, so he can’t expect her to think differently. They are both young and living in New York, and as everyone in New York knows, there’s the possibility of meeting anyone, everywhere, all the time. For the sake of brevity and clarity, I’ll say I’ve dated a lot of guys. It’s not that I’ve gone out anywhere with a lot of these guys, or been physical with most of them, or even seen them more than once. But there have been many, many encounters. I’ve met guys in the park, at the deli, at galleries, at parties and on the Internet. The Internet idea came from thinking that if I could sift through people’s profiles, like applications, I could eliminate the obvious lunatics. And that didn’t work out very well. One leaned across the table an hour into dinner and screamed: “You love me! I know you do!” Another stood outside my apartment with one finger on the buzzer and another covering the peephole, occasionally banging his fist, until he finally exhausted himself and left. As for the guys I first met in person, there was the construction worker I ran into on the train twice before saying anything, kissed the third time, kissed the fourth time, got stood up by the fifth time and never saw again. Then there was the guy with tattooed knuckles, the young Republican, the Irishman on vacation and the guy who stole $300 from me to buy drugs. There was the activist, the actor, the librarian, the waiter and the bond trader. So when my friends and I started having a conversation about the nature of monogamy, I thought I knew something about monogamy. Because, despite the fleeting nature of most of my encounters, and despite my own role in their short duration, I think what I have been seeking in some form from all of these men is permanence.

Sometimes I don’t like them, or am scared of them, and a lot of times I’m just bored by them. But my fear or dislike or boredom never seems to diminish my underlying desire for a guy to stay, or at least to say he is going to stay, for a very long time. And even when I don’t want him to stay — even when he and I find each other as strangers and remain strangers until we stop doing whatever it is we are doing — I still want to believe that two people can meet and like each other well enough to stay together exclusively, without the introduction of some 1960s rhetoric about free love or other noncommittal slogans. But noncommittal is what we’re all about. There was the guy with red hair and big steaklike hands that walked with me arm in arm through Washington Square Park, kissed me on the stoop of my mother’s brownstone and said he wanted to be my boyfriend. Until our next walk, when he kept his hands to himself and said he meant boyfriend “in the theoretical sense of the word.” Then there was the installer of soy insulation who cooked soggy pasta and made me watch football and whimpered and kicked in his sleep. In the spring there was the guy 12 years older than me who shared an apartment overlooking Tompkins Square Park with an antediluvian man who walked around in graying long underwear. There was the guy who wore more makeup than I did, and the one who waxed his eyebrows clean off his face. And the one who slept with a guy when he was drunk, then with another when he was sober. (But he insisted he wasn’t gay, just curious, and since when was I so uptight anyway?) Over the summer there was the Jesuit taking a break from the seminary who stopped calling after I said I wouldn’t sleep with him on our third date. In the fall, back at school, there was the banjo player from the woods of New England who took me home to meet his family, then moved away and told me to wait for him. And I did, for months, until he called to say he was falling in love with me, and oh, man, I had to come see him right away (“Buy your ticket tonight!”), before he called again to say it was moving too fast and he wasn’t ready. And on, and on, and on. Then this winter I met a guy while waiting to have my computer fixed. He had big blue eyes and a wide red mouth and delicate hands and greasy brown hair. He sat down and asked what I was reading and did I have a boyfriend because he was asking me out. He smelled like incense and clean linen, and I was overwhelmingly and instantaneously smitten. Among other things, I liked his indifference, confidence and knowledge of foreign film directors. On our first date he explained his theory of exclusive relationships, which was that they shouldn’t exist. We talked about our (and all of our friends’) divorced parents, about how marriage was nothing but a pragmatic financial venture, and about the last time we cheated

on someone. He said that his disregard for monogamy wasn’t a chauvinistic throwback, but quite the opposite: the ultimate nod to feminism. On our second date we watched coverage of the Iowa caucus, and later, after listening to jazz at his apartment, he crawled onto his bed, leaned against the headboard and said he didn’t burn artificial light after dark. I sighed and edged into bed next to him. During the night he kicked and snored, grabbing greedily at me with his well-moisturized hands like a child snatching at free candy. We overslept. In the morning I watched him dress frantically, the way a drifter would (gray pants and shirt tucked in and tie and vest and brown wingtip shoes and gray sweater and red scarf and jacket: it was lovely). He looked up occasionally from his scrambling to give a big toothy smile. I made the bed and drank the orange juice he bought for me the night before. We left his apartment and tried to find a cab. As we crossed Hudson Street, we waded through a passing stream of preschool children walking in pairs, holding hands. I watched their teachers — one at the front of the line, one in the middle, one at the back — while he hailed a taxi. A week passed before I saw him again. I was about to go back to school in Vermont, and he was headed to Jamaica on vacation. When I entered the restaurant, he said: “The nice part about having a shoddy memory is I forget how pretty some people are. You look beautiful.” As we ate, we theorized about the effects of pornography on romantic relationships. Dinner ended; he had to go pack for his trip. I asked casually when I was going to see him again. He sighed. “That’s a loaded question.” I asked what he meant, because I thought the question was fairly straightforward. Then it came. The story. The long, boring, aggravatingly rehearsed and condescending story. It spewed, overflowed and dripped off our table and onto the floor and underneath the shoes of the other patrons and into the street. He said he had just gotten out of a long relationship, and now he was single and didn’t really know how this whole dating thing works, but he was seeing a lot of other people, and he liked me; he thought I was special. Cross my heart, he actually called me special. WHEN he was done, he asked: “That’s what you were talking about, right? Seeing me again and the nature of our relationship? Like, what are we to each other?” I said I just meant to ask when we were going to see each other again, because I thought that was the polite thing to do after a few dates, and I wondered if he wanted to make time for me

to come back to New York to see him. And he said no, that was “too much, too soon,” but if I’m ever in town I should call him. He would love to see me. We left. It was raining, he hailed a cab for me, and we hugged without looking at each other. I got into the cab and rode away. And tried to process it. And tried to remind myself that when we first met I thought he was an arrogant, presumptuous little man. I tried to think about my conversation with Steven. I tried to remember that I was actively seeking to practice some Zenlike form of nonattachment. I tried to remember that no one is my property and neither am I theirs, and so I should just enjoy the time we spend together, because in the end it’s our collected experiences that add up to a rich and fulfilling life. I tried to tell myself that I’m young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and fun; don’t ruin it.

LKTIM NASIONAL SUPER HERO LINGKUNGAN 3 Deadline 7 Maret 2015 http://www.info-lomba.com/2015/03/lktim-nasional-super-hero-lingkungan-3_3.html

A.TEMA “Pengelolaan Lingkungan Berbasis Green Technology yang Berkelanjutan” B. SUB TEMA

1.

2. 3.

Inovasi teknologi sebagai upaya untuk menciptakan energi terbarukan yang ramah lingkungan dan tepat guna Pengelolaan limbah lingkungan berbasis green technology Pemanfaatan sumber daya lingkungan guna meningkatkan kesejahteraan masyarakat.

4.

Sistem tata kelola energy alternative yang ramah lingkungan sebagai pengganti energi fosil.

C. PERSYARATAN PESERTA 1.

Peserta KTI merupakan mahasiswa aktif jenjang S1 atau Diploma perguruan tinggi negeri atau swasta di seluruh Indonesia. Dibuktikan dengan Scan Kartu Tanda Mahasiswa (KTM) yang masih aktif.

2.

Peserta dapat berupa kelompok dengan anggota maksimal 3 orang dan dibimbing oleh satu dosen pembing dari perguruan tinggi yang sama.

3.

Setiap aanggota dalam satu tim diperbolehkan dari lintas fakultas/jurusan yang berbeda dan tahun angkatan yang berbeda namun tetap berasal dari satu perguruan tinggi yang sama.

4.

Setiap mahasiswa diperbolehkan mengirimkan maksimal 3 karya dalam satu tim yang berbeda.

5.

Setiap mahasiswa hanya diperkenankan menjadi ketua pada satu tim karya tulis saja dan diperbolehkan menjadi anggota dalam tim lainnya.

6.

Abstrak yang dikirimkan sebagai seleksi tahap awal harus asli dan belum pernah dipublikasikan sebelumnya.

karya

tulis

D. TAHAPAN PELAKSANAAN 1. Pendaftaran dan Pengumpulan abstrak : 23 Februari-7 Maret 2015 2. Pengumuman lolos abstrak : 22 Maret 2015 3. Pengumpulan naskah full : 23 Maret 2015-14 April 2015 3. Technical Meeting : 6 Mei 2015 4. Presentasi : 8 Mei 2015 CONTACT PERSON: Halimah : 085745563948 Novan : 085735755934

http://www.infosayembara.com/sayembara.php?judul=bisnis-indonesia-writingcontest-hemat-energi-secara-total-2015 http://www.akumaru.com/Event/lomba-menulis-hemat-energi-secara-total/ Lomba Menulis Hemat Energi Secara TOTAL

Harus ada kesadaran dari pemerintah, pelaku industri dan masyarakat yang dibarengi aksi nyata untuk mengurangi konsumsi energi dan menggunakannya secara efisien. Selain itu, pengalihan suplai energi kepada sumber energi baru terbarukan yang lebih ramah lingkungan juga harus segera diwujudkan. Tujuannya untuk pencegahan krisis energi, penghematan biaya, dan kelestarian lingkungan. Untuk itu, SKK MIGAS dan TOTAL E&P INDONESIE

bekerjasama dengan Bisnis.com dan Kabar24.com dibawah payung Bisnis Indonesia Group of Media (BIG Media) menggelar kegiatan lomba menulis.

Tentang Kontes

Sejalan dengan pertumbuhan ekonomi, konsumsi energi di Indonesia menunjukkan peningkatan. Outlook Energi Indonesia 2013 memperkirakan pertumbuhan rata-rata kebutuhan energi sebesar 4,7% per tahun (2011-2030), naik dari dekade sebelumnya yang hanya tumbuh rata-rata 3% per tahun (Indonesia Energy Outlook – BPPT, 2013). Peningkatan kebutuhan energi yang tidak diimbangi oleh suplai yang cukup akan menimbulkan krisis energi. Prediksinya, sekitar tahun 2025 atau paling lambat 2030 Indonesia akan mengalami krisis energi. Bahkan gejala awal krisis sudah mulai tampak beberapa tahun belakangan, misalnya pemadaman listrik di berbagai daerah di Indonesia, keterbatasan bahan bakar minyak, dan lain-lain. Namun, kemungkinan itu dapat diantisipasi jika kita bisa melakukan gerakan hemat energi secara nasional. Artinya, harus ada kesadaran dari pemerintah, pelaku industri dan masyarakat yang dibarengi aksi nyata untuk mengurangi konsumsi energi dan menggunakannya secara efisien. Selain itu, pengalihan suplai energi kepada sumber energi baru terbarukan yang lebih ramah lingkungan juga harus segera diwujudkan. Tujuannya untuk pencegahan krisis energi, penghematan biaya, dan kelestarian lingkungan. Untuk itu, Bisnis.com dan Kabar24.com di bawah payung Bisnis Indonesia Group of Media (BIG Media) menggelar kegiatan lomba menulis bertema hemat energi secara Total! Dewan Juri Redaksi Bisnis.com dan Kabar24.com serta juri tamu dari pelaku bisnis di bidang energi & migas. Gde Pradnyana, Sekretaris SKK Migas Ahmad Djauhar, Wakil Pemimpin Umum Harian Bisnis Indonesia Arif Budisuilo, Pemimpin Redaksi Harian Bisnis Indonesia SYARAT & KETENTUAN Syarat Lomba 1. Lomba terbuka untuk umum, minimum usia peserta 17 tahun. 2. Lomba ini tidak berlaku bagi karyawan TOTAL E&P INDONESIE beserta keluarga, dan karyawan Bisnis Indonesia Group beserta keluarga. 3. Peserta harus melakukan registrasi secara online. Dengan melakukan registrasi dan mengirimkan artikel ke Panitia, peserta menyetujui semua syarat dan ketentuan lomba menulis ini. 4. Peserta boleh mengirimkan lebih dari satu artikel dengan panjang setiap artikel 4.000 –

10.000 karakter termasuk spasi. 5. Peserta dianjurkan untuk tidak mengirimkan gambar/ilustrasi yang terkait dengan isi artikel yang dilombakan. 6. Artikel harus asli karangan sendiri. 7. Artikel dalam bentuk populer (bukan laporan akademis, skripsi, tesis, makalah, jurnal, dan sejenisnya). 8. Artikel belum pernah diikutsertakan dalam lomba sejenis. 9. Artikel tidak mengandung unsur pelecehan/penghinaan terhadap SARA. 10. Artikel yang dikirimkan menjadi milik Bisnis Indonesia Group termasuk dan tidak terbatas pada hak untuk mempublikasikan artikel tanpa harus izin kepada peserta. Hak cipta tetap ada pada peserta sebagai penulis. TOTAL E&P INDONESIE berhak untuk mempublikasikan tulisan pemenang dengan mencantumkan sumber: Bisnis.com 11. Keputusan penyelenggara tidak bisa diganggu gugat. 12. Penyelenggara dibebaskan dari tuntutan pihak ketiga terkait dengan artikel yang diikutsertakan oleh peserta. Ketentuan & Tahapan Lomba 1. Registrasi dan pengiriman artikel: 1 Februari – 20 Maret 2015 – Peserta wajib melengkapi data profil yang terdapat pada BisnisID. – Peserta wajib melampirkan copy identitas diri (KTP/SIM) dan foto diri dalam format JPG/JPEG (*jpg) dengan ukuran maksimal 180×240 pixel (portrait) & kapasitas maksimal 70kb. – Registrasi cukup dilakukan satu kali saja. User ID dapet digunakan untuk mengirimkan artikel lebih dari satu. – Artikel dalam format Word Document (*doc/*docx) maksimal 20kb dikirimkan melalui menu Kirim Artikel atau email berupa lampiran ke [email protected] 2. Periode share & vote: 30 Maret – 8 Mei 2015 – Artikel yang masuk akan dilakukan penyaringan oleh panitia sesuai dengan syarat dan ketentuan yang berlaku. – Artikel yang lolos seleksi akan masuk ke tahap share & vote – Notifikasi hasil seleksi akan dikirimkan oleh panitia kepada pengirim artikel. – Penayangan share & vote akan dilakukan 7 (tujuh) hari setelah dikirimkannya notifikasi oleh panitia. – Durasi penayangan share & vote adalah selama 7 (tujuh) hari. – Pembaca dapat memberikan suaranya melalui halaman Artikel. – Hasil share & vote akan keluar pada 13-17 Mei 2015. 3. Periode penentuan pemenang dan penyerahan hadiah: 13 Mei – 5 Juni 2015 – Penyelenggara akan menetapkan 50 nomine (calon pemenang) berdasarkan hasil share & vote. – Artikel ke-50 nomine akan dipublikasikan untuk dilakukan verifikasi oleh publik. – Verifikasi akan dilakukan pada 13-17 Mei 2015.

– Dewan juri akan menetapkan 10 finalis dari 50 nomine pada tanggal 21 Mei 2015. – 10 finalis wajib mengisi lembar konfirmasi dan surat pernyataan yang disediakan oleh panitia. – Finalis yang tidak melakukan konfirmasi pada tanggal yang sudah ditetapkan akan dianggap gugur dan panitia berhak menentukan penggantinya berdasarkan ketetapan dewan juri. – Finalis yang telah ditetapkan akan berkunjung ke wilayah operasi Total E&P Indonesie di Kalimantan Timur pada 3-5 Juni 2015 untuk mengikuti seleksi final menuju 5 besar. – 10 Finalis akan diberi waktu untuk menulis tentang pengalaman kunjungannya dan menyerahkan tulisan tersebut kepada panitia untuk dilakukan penjurian dan seleksi 5 pemenang. Deadline Pendaftaran

20 March 2015 23:59

Registrasi dan pengiriman artikel: 1 Februari – 20 Maret 2015 Periode share & vote: 30 Maret – 8 Mei 2015 Periode penentuan pemenang dan penyerahan hadiah: 13 Mei – 5 Juni Timeline Acara 2015 Pemenang akan diumumkan pada 5 Juni 2015, bertepatan dengan hari lingkungan hidup. Pelajar (SD/ SMP/ SMA) Kategori Peserta

Mahasiswa Masyarakat Umum

Juara 1 : Rp 50.000.000 Juara 2 : Rp 20.000.000 Juara 3 : Rp 10.000.000 Juara 4 : Rp 7.500.000 Hadiah/Fasilita Juara 5 : Rp 5.000.000 s

*) Pajak hadiah ditanggung pemenang **) 50 nomine mendapatkan paket berlangganan ePaper Bisnis Indonesia gratis selama 6 bulan Kontak email : [email protected] Penyelenggara Visit Link Here Website Penyelenggara http://writingcontest-total.bisnis.com/ Jenis Pendaftaran

Gratis

Syarat dan Ketentuan Hari Wanita Internasional#kenapawanitaingindimengerti?

1. Peraturan umum Sehubungan dengan Hari Wanita Internasional yang jatuh pada 8 Maret 2015, maka dibuatlah sebuah program engagement bertemakan “#kenapawanitaingindimengerti?” yang bertujuan untuk meningkatkan awareness pelanggan terhadap layanan social media Facebook dan Twitter Telkomsel. Program ini ditujukan kepada seluruh pelanggan Telkomsel, kecuali karyawan (tetap atau kontrak ) serta direksi, termasuk anggota keluarga langsung dari penyelenggara, anak perusahaan dan perusahaan afiliasi PT. Telekomunikasi Selular, perusahaan periklanan dan promosi, pemasok hadiah, serta orang dan organisasi yang terkait dengan promosi“#kenapawanitaingindimengerti?” (yang secara bersama-sama disebut sebagai para "Sponsor"). Adapun peraturan umum program ini adalah sebagai berikut : 1. Seluruh peserta kompetisi bersedia mematuhi syarat dan ketentuan yang berlaku. 2. Kompetisiberlangsung mulai tanggal 8 – 10 Maret 2015. 3. Seluruh data dan informasi yang dikumpulkan oleh PT. Telekomunikasi Selular bersifat rahasia dan hanya digunakan untuk keperluan dokumentasi oleh pihakTelkomsel.

2. Cara ikutan 

Pelanggan harus like Fan Page Facebook Telkomsel



Pelanggan menuliskan jawaban kuis di Wall Post Facebook Telkomsel atau mention ke twitter @telkomsel dengan tema “#kenapawanitaingindimengerti?”

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Tambahkan hastag #kenapawanitaharusdimengerti?

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Adapun wording kuis yang akan diunggah di Facebook Telkomsel dan Twitter@telkomsel.

Wanita adalah mahluk Tuhanyang tegar dan ingin dimengerti. Menurut kamu kenapa wanitaingin dimengerti? Ayo tuangkan alasan kenapa wanita ingin dimengerti melalui Facebook dan Twitter Telkomsel

Contoh Facebook: “Wanita ingin dimengerti karena di balik senyumnya ada kekuatan hati yang luar biasa" #kenapawanitaingindimengerti?”

Contoh Twitter: “@telkomsel Karena wanita adalah makhluk Tuhan yang halus perasaannya" #kenapawanitaingindimengerti?”

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Komentar yang diajukan pelanggan tidak boleh mengandung unsur SARA, pornografi dan tidak melecehkan seseorang atau kelompok tertentu.

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Peserta boleh mengirimkan komennya di Wall post Facebook Telkomsel atau mention twitter @telkomsel lebih dari satu kali (sebanyakbanyaknya)

3. Penentuan Pemenang 

Penentuan pemenang adalah hak mutlak juri yang berasal dari pihak penyelenggara, yaitu PT. Telekomunikasi Seluler.

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Pemenang merupakan pelanggan Telkomsel.

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Peserta diharuskan like Facebook Fan Page Telkomsel dan follow twitter @telkomsel.

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Pemenang akan diumumkan melalui akun Facebook Telkomsel dan Twitter @Telkomsel, pada Senin, 16 Maret 2015.

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Untuk pemenang Facebook konfirmasi dikirimkan melalui Message yang akan masuk pada akun Facebook pelanggan.

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Untuk pemenang Twitter konfirmasi dikirimkan melalui Message yang akan masuk ke folder message pada akun twitter pelanggan.

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Pemenang harus memberikan informasi data (alamat lengkap dan Nomor Telkomsel) paling lambat 7x24 jam. Jika dalam batas waktu 7x24 jam pemenang tidak memberikan data yang diminta, maka pemenang akan dibatalkan.



Apabila ada kecurangan atau pelanggaran yang dilakukan oleh peserta, maka juri berhak untuk membatalkan penyerahan hadiah dan mengalihkan hadiah kepada peserta lain.

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Pemenang ditentukan berdasarkan komen atau pun harapan yang diberikan.

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Jika peserta ditemukan melakukan kecurangan dalam bentuk apa pun selama kompetisi berlangsung, penyelenggara berhak mendiskualifikasi peserta tersebut.

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Pemenang ditentukan berdasarkan keputusan juri dan tidak dapat diganggu gugat.

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Pemenang adalah peserta yang belum pernah memenangkan kompetisi/permainan yang diadakan oleh Telkomsel dalam kurun waktu 3 (tiga) bulan terakhir.

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Syarat dan ketentuan dapat berubah sewaktu-waktu tanpa pemberitahuan terlebih dahulu.

4. Hadiah 

1 orang pemenang @ Asus Pad

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1 orang pemenang @ NokiaLumia 530

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3 orangpemenang @ voucher belanja Rp 500.000

Event Cerpen Horor Thriller “Teror Penyakit” (Deadline diperpanjang sampai 25 Maret 2015) January 29, 2015 at 9:14pm

Yuq, teman-temanku semua, khususnya di profesi kesehatan (kedokteran, kedokteran gigi, kesehatan masyarakat, kedokteran hewan, farmasi, kebidanan dan sebagainya), tunjukkan kebolehan imajinasimu di sini \(^0^)/

Menakutkan nggak mesti berkaitan dengan hantu. Terkadang penyakit yang kita derita bisa lebih menakutkan dari sekedar penampakan hantu. Untuk itu Raditeens Publisher mengajak para penulis untuk membungkus keterkejutan, rasa mencekam, was-was, kesakitan, dan bayang-bayang kematian ketika sebuah penyakit mendera. Munculkan kesan traumatik pada setiap bait ceritamu. Penyakit yang diceritakan tidak harus penyakit berbahaya, seperti jantung koroner atau kanker. Itu terlalu mainstream. Ceritakan betapa menakutkannya penyakit- penyakit sepele seperti sakit panu, atau sakit gigi. Itu akan memberikan kesan lebih mendalam bagi setiap pembaca tentunya.

Tulis karyamu dengan ketentuan : 1. Berteman dengan akun Facebook PJ Event yakni ARIESKA ARIEF (https://www.facebook.com/arieska.arief) dan akun Facebook penerbit Raditeens Publisher 2. Like Fanspage Raditeens Publisher & FP: My Horrible Stories Collection atau Follow twitter @raditeens_good 3. Cerpen ditulis dalam format Ms. Word 2003/2007, A4, TNR font 12 spasi 1,5 margin normal, 4-5 halaman, sudut pandang bebas. 4. Sertakan biodata singkat yang berisi nama asli/nama pena, akun Facebook, akun Twitter dsb dalam bentuk narasi. 5. Kirim naskah ke e-mail [email protected] dalam bentuk lampiran, bukan di badan email. Subjek dan Nama File: CHP_judul _nama penulis (perlu diperhatikan, karena kesalahan banyak terletak di sini) Deadline: 25 Maret 2015, pukul 23.59 WITA 6.

Naskah merupakan karya asli penulis, tidak mengandung unsur SARA, dll.

7. Copas info ini ke note FB peserta dan tag ke minimal 25 teman FB, termasuk PJ Event (bagi pengguna Facebook) atau share info ini di Twittermu dan mention@raditeens_good (pengguna Twitter) 8. Pengumuman peserta yang lolos selambatnya dua minggu setelah deadline di Blog Raditeens Publisher, Twitter dan Facebook Raditeens Publisher serta FB PJ Event 9. Naskah terpilih akan dibukukan (menyesuaikan), jadi akan dilakukan seleksi demi menjaga kualitas karya. 10. Segala pertanyaan, hubungi PJ ARIESKA ARIEF (085399566422)

Dan dari karya terpilih yang lolos untuk dibukukan, nantinya akan dipilih kembali 2 peserta dengan karya terbaik yang akan mendapatkan : Terbaik 1 mendapatkan Voucher Penerbitan senilai Rp.150.000 (tidak dapat diuangkan) + 1 eks buku terbitan Raditeens Publisher + e-sertifikat Terbaik 2 mendapatkan Voucher Penerbitan senilai Rp.100.000 (tidak dapat diuangkan) + 1 eks buku terbitan Raditeens Publisher + e-sertifikat Semua kontributor terpilih nantinya akan mendapatkan e-sertifikat

Grup Kepenulisan Write With Love, Keep Silent,Write the Best

PJ Event ARIESKA ARIEF Menulis merupakan salah satu keterampilan berbahasa. Dalam menulis, setiap kata memiliki arti yang luar biasa. Baik menggunakan diksi yang sederhana ataupun majas yang terlalu hiperbola. Mengawali tahun 2015, AE Publishing mengajak kalian semua untuk merangkai cerita dengan tema kisah awal menulis. Tentunya kalian memiliki kisah hingga tercebur...Top of Form

PJ PUNYA KABAR BAIK DAN KABAR BURUK! Mau dengaryang mana terlebih dahulu?! Kabar baiknya? Oke! Kabar baiknya: DEATHLINE EVENT CERPEN HORORTHRILLER “TEROR PENYAKIT” DIPERPANJANG!!! (13 APRIL) \(^0^)/ Yuq,teman-temanku semua, khususnya di profesi kesehatan (kedokteran, kedokterangigi, kesehatan masyarakat, kedokteran hewan, farmasi, kebidanan dansebagainya), tunjukkan kebolehan imajinasimu di sini \(^0^)/ Menakutkannggak mesti berkaitan dengan hantu. Terkadang penyakit yang kita derita bisalebih menakutkan dari sekedar penampakan hantu. Untuk itu Raditeens Publishermengajak para penulis untuk membungkus keterkejutan, rasa mencekam, was-was,kesakitan, dan bayangbayang kematian ketika sebuah penyakit mendera. Munculkan kesan traumatik pada setiap bait ceritamu. Penyakityang diceritakan tidak harus penyakit berbahaya, seperti jantung koroner ataukanker. Itu terlalu mainstream. Ceritakan betapa menakutkannya penyakit- sepeleseperti sakit panu, atau sakit gigi. Itu akan memberikan kesan lebihmendalam bagi setiap pembaca tentunya. Tuliskaryamu dengan ketentuan : 1. Berteman dengan akunFacebook PJ Event yakni ARIESKA ARIEF(https://www.facebook.com/arieska.arief) dan akun Facebook penerbitRaditeens Publisher 2. Like Fanspage RaditeensPublisher dan FP: My Horrible Stories Collection atau Follow twitter@raditeens_good. Join pula di Grup Kepenulisan‘Write With Love’. 3. Cerpen ditulis dalamformat Ms. Word 2003/2007, A4, TNR font 12 spasi 1,5 margin normal, 4-5 halaman, sudut pandang bebas. 4. Sertakan biodata singkatyang berisi nama asli/nama pena, akun Facebook, akun Twitter dsb dalam bentuknarasi. 5. Kirim naskah ke [email protected] dalam bentuk lampiran, bukan di badan email. Subjek dan Nama File: CHP_judul _nama penulis (perlu diperhatikan, karena kesalahan banyak terletakdisini) Deadline: 13APRIL 2015, pukul 23.59 WITA 6.

Naskah merupakan karyaasli penulis, tidak mengandung unsur SARA, dll.

7. Copas info ini ke noteFB peserta dan tag ke minimal 25 teman FB, termasuk PJ Event (bagi penggunaFacebook) atau share info ini di Twittermu dan mention @raditeens_good(pengguna Twitter) 8. Pengumuman peserta yanglolos selambatnya dua minggu setelah deadline di Blog Raditeens Publisher, Twitterdan Facebook Raditeens Publisher serta FB PJ Event 9. Naskah terpilih akandibukukan (menyesuaikan), jadi akan dilakukan seleksi demi menjaga kualitaskarya. 10. Segala pertanyaan, hubungi PJ ARIESKAARIEF (085399566422) Dan darikarya terpilih yang lolos untuk dibukukan, nantinya akan dipilih kembali 2peserta dengan karya terbaik yang akan mendapatkan : Terbaik 1mendapatkan Voucher Penerbitan senilai Rp.150.000 (tidak dapat diuangkan) + 1eks buku terbitan Raditeens Publisher + e-sertifikat Terbaik 2mendapatkan Voucher Penerbitan senilai Rp.100.000 (tidak dapat diuangkan) + 1 eks buku terbitan Raditeens Publisher + e-sertifikat Semuacontributor terpilih nantinya akan mendapatkan e-sertifikat

Grup Kepenulisan Write With Love, Keep Silent, Write the Best

PJ Event ARIESKA ARIEF

===============================================

Sekarang kabar buruknya apaan?! Banyak… T.T apaitu??? Mari kupas satu-satu… Begini! Di antara beberapa naskah yang masuk,sayangnya yang sesuai genre HOROR THRILLER hanya bisa dihitung jari. Meski punnaskah yang masuk sudah sesuai tema dan

penyakit yang dipaparkan bagus-bagus(karena aku baru dengar), tapi sayang sebagian besar sekitar 70 persen naskahyang masuk (seperti drama sedih, komedi, fantasy dan sebagainya) tidak sesuaidengan genre yang diminta, yaitu: HOROR THRILLER… T.T Pertanyaan utama, pasti banyak yang menanyakanapa itu HOROR THRILLER?! Oke, ada baiknya saya menjelaskannya terlebih dahulu.Jadi begini, thriller itu merupakan genre yang benar-benar memainkan tingkatketegangan dan adrenalin pembaca. Seram dan misterius. Ada banyak sub genrethriller, seperti: misteri, kriminal, konspirasi, bencana alam, psikologi,supernatural, horor, teknologi, politik, militer dan masih banyak lagi. Nah bisalihat sendiri kan sub thriller mana yang bisa kalian tuliskan untuk even ini? Berikut adalah contoh kisah HOROR THRILLER temaTEROR PENYAKIT yang super tegang, misterius, mencekam, penuh teka-teki, bikindeg-degan, juga mengerikan:

IZINKAN AKU MENULARKANPENYAKITKU!

Sensei memasuki kelas Ena dankawan-kawannya di kelas 5 dengan wajah lesu. Ia yang tampaknya tengah sakit,kemudian menyampaikan sesuatu yang mencengangkan pada seisi kelas, “dengarkan,anak-anak! Ada info penting untuk kalian semua. Saat ini terjadi penyebaranpenyakit misterius dan untuk mencegah penyebarannya, kalian tak boleh keluardari kelas dulu. Mengerti?” “Sensei, penyakitnya sepertiapa?” tanya Ena penasaran. “Penyakitnya…” Tak lama kemudian,kulit tangan Sensei tampak bergelombang kemudian menjalari wajahnya dan…“Penyakitnya seperti ini!” Blar! “Kyaaaaaaaa!!! Sensei meledak!” Jerit panik seketika bergemuruhdi kelas Ena setelah menyaksikan tubuh sensei mereka tercabikcabik dan meledakdi depan mata mereka. Ena menyuruh teman-temannya untuk tenang, agar bisamenyimak baik-baik berita di TV kelas mereka yang sedang menyala. “Pengumuman dari pemerintah,seekor tikus yang dijangkiti virus khusus telah kabur dari lab. Virus menyebardengan sangat cepat dari tikus ke tikus lainnya. Kalau manusia terjangkit virusini, maka tubuhnya akan meledak 15-30 menit kemudian, dan tewas…” Teman-teman lainnya pun mencaricara untuk menyelamatkan diri masing-masing agar tak tertular. Ada yangmengasingkan diri, bahkan ada juga yang mencari solusinya di internetponselnya.

“Berita tentang penularanpenyakit misterius. Penting! Virus menular melalui cairan tubuh. Kalauditularkan ke orang lain sebelum meledak, korban akan selamat!” Kaorin, gadiscantik itu membaca info di internet itu sambil berlinangan air mata, soalnya…karena ia telah terinfeksi cairan tubuh senseinya yang meledak tadi karenaduduk di kursi paling depan! Kulitnya mulai bergelembung,kemudian ia pun menangis tergugu sambil menutup wajahnya hingga menarikperhatian pacarnya. “Kamu kenapa, Sayang? Kamu takut? Tenang, ada aku di sini.Jangan menangis, ya. Aku akan selalu melindungimu. Apa pun yang kauminta, pastiakan kuturuti. Aku akan berkoban demi kamu!” hibur cowok itu sambil menyeka AIRMATA Kaorin! “Oh, begitu ya?” Kaorin lalumembuka wajahnya dan tersenyum penuh racun. “Makasih ya, Sayang. Karena kau maumenggantikan aku untuk… MATI!” “Hah?” Mulanya pacarnya tadi takmengerti apa maksudnya. Namun setelah melihat kulit tangannya kemudianbergelombang… “Sembuh! Berhasil! Ternyata infodi internet itu benar. Penyakitnya bisa sembuh kalau kita menularkannya keorang lain!” pekik ceria gadis licik itu. Sementara itu, satu per satu…blar! Blar! Blar! “Ugh! Sudah waktunya meledak…,”lirih salah seorang anak perempuan begitu melihat temantemannya yang duduk dikursi paling depan tadi dikenai hujan cairan tubuh senseinya – meledak semua!“Aku tadi juga kena…” Ia kemudian berlari keteman-teman lainnya. “Tolong! Tolong gantikan aku mati! Tolong izinkan akumenularkan penyakitku ini pada kalian! Aku mohon!” pekiknya panik, sementaraitu tentu saja teman-teman lainnya segera kabur, menjauhi sentuhan apa pundarinya terutama cairan tubuhnya. Blar! Namun sebelum berhasilmenularkan penyakitnya, tubuh anak perempuan malang tersebut keburu meledak. Ena ikut melarikan diri. Untungsaja ia ditolong oleh Keita, sang ketua kelas. Sepasang kekasih itu punbersembunyi di lab sains dalam keadaan sehat-sehat saja, belum tertulari. Hanyaada mereka berdua di sana. “Kenapa jadi begini? Inikah sifatasli teman-temanku yang ternyata hanya ingin menyelamatkan dirinya sendiridengan mengorbankan orang lain? Hiks!” isak Ena pilu melihat keadaankacaubalau di luar sana. “Kamu tenang saja, aku sudahmengantongi kunci-kunci sekolahan ini untuk jaga-jaga. Kita harus keluarhati-hati dari sekolah ini. Jangan sampai kena pegang siapa pun. Kamu siap?”Keita mengintruksinya sambil melihat sekeliling. Ia membuka pintunya secaraperlahan. Krit… Namun begitu tiba di tangga,teman-teman lainnya dengan wajah bergelembung siap menulari mereka. Keita danEna segera melarikan diri secepatnya masuk ke lab Sains kembali.

“Kei, cepat kunci pintunya!” seruEna panik. “Iya! Iya! Duh, kuncinya?Kuncinya yang mana ya?” Buru-buru Keita mencopot-pasang kunci yang cocok denganlubang kunci pintu lab itu. Tangannya sudah mulai gemetaran saking tegangnya. Klik! Dan akhirnya pintu tersebutterkunci juga tepat pada saat… blar! Blar! Blar! Tubuh temantemannya yang diluar sana pun meledak-ledak. Untunglah semuanya tepat waktu meski mereka harusmenyaksikan pemandangan menggenaskan itu dari balik kaca jendela pintunya. Fiuh, mereka pun selamat!Keduanya tampak lega sekali… “Uhuk-uhuk!” Ena terbatuk-batuksambil menutup mulutnya. “Kau tak apa-apa? Capek, ya?”tanya Keita perhatian. “Iya, nih. Mungkin karenadaritadi berlari-larian terus,” ulas Ena dengan tanpa sengaja melihat tangannyayang… bergelembung halus! ‘A… aku… tertular?!’ batinnya memekik tak percaya. Baru saja Keita ingin menghelapeluh di kening Ena, gadis itu langsung menepisnya. “Jangan sentuh aku!”serunya kemudian berlari menjauh ke jendela. Keita terbengong-bengong akanreaksi itu. “Ke… kenapa?!” “Pokoknya jangan mendekat! Akubenci sama kamu!” “Hah? Ta… tapi kenapa tiba-tibabegini? Kau sedang bercanda, bukan?!” Ena tetap memperlihatkan wajahsok bencinya. Air matanya berderai-derai. “Pokoknya mulai sekarang kita putus.Aku mau kita putus!” “Ena?! Kamu kenapa, sih?!” Keitasangat kebingungan. “Na, jauhi jendela itu. Bahaya, tahu! Kamu bisa jatuh!” “Kamu tak usah pedulikan akulagi!” jerit Ena bersimbah air mata. Namun Keita mencoba untuk mendekat.“Jangan mendekat aku bilang! Dengar nggak, sih?! Kalau kau mendekat selangkahlagi, aku akan bunuh diri dengan melompat dari sini!” ancam Ena. “Ena! Pliz, jangan lakukan itu!Oke, aku takkan mendekat lagi, tapi kau mau turun, kan? Kau tak jadi bunuhdiri, kan?” Keita mulai putus asa. “Oke kalau kau mau kita putus dan itu bisamembuatmu bahagia, tapi tolong jelaskan apa alasannya?!” Ena menggelengkan kepala. “Tidak.Tak ada alasannya…” Ena malah semakin menjorokkan tubuhnya ke ambang jendela.“Meski pun begitu…” “Ena!!!”

Ena kemudian menatap Keita sendu.“Keita, lupakanlah aku. Yang perlu kau ketahui hanyalah satu: aku juga tertulardan aku tak ingin menularimu seperti mereka. Biarlah aku mati sebagai manusiayang tidak egois. Selamat tinggal, Keita!” Baru saja Ena nekat untuk lompat,namun Keita bergegas mendekapnya tanpa mempedulikan kalimat Ena. Enaterbengong-bengong. “Ke… Keita?” “Sekarang giliranmu yangmendengarkan aku. Kalau kamu tak selamat, tak ada artinya bagiku karena yangingin kutolong hanyalah kamu!” sahut Keita tulus sambil menghela air mata suciEna. “Kalau kau harus mati sendirian, biarlah aku juga ikut mati. Kalau berdua,aku takkan takut!” Mereka kemudian saling mendekapsambil menunggu detik-detik terakhir mereka. Tik-tok 15 menit lagi… tik-tok 8menit… tik-tok 3 menit lagi dan… teng teng teng! Keduanya saling melepas pelukansambil terbengong-bengong. “Ki… kita selamat?” sahut Ena takpercaya. “Aku pernah dengar, dalampenyebaran virus apa pun itu, ada kemungkinan 0,1 persen manusia dapatditolong…” “Ya, mungkin kita yang tergolong0,1 persen itu…”

“Bagaimana? PJ yakin temanz zemua bisa membuatcerpen TEROR PENYAKIT yang lebih HOROR THRILLER lagi daripada contoh di atas:=(D Mohon maaf karena sudah tak professional dengantak memberikan gambaran naskah yang diminta sejak awal even ini beredar. Sebagai bonusnya, ntar bakal aku share lagibeberapa cuplikan naskah yang bagus dijadikan referensi di FB PJ…“