‘Shoobies’ not welcomed Addicted to love

CHRISTINE ERNEST A&E EDITOR CME722@CABRINI EDU

As the weather warms up here at Cabrini College, I’ve been hearing the typical little snippets of “I can’t wait until I can go to my summer house down at the shore.”

I grew up at this so-called “shore” and I have never referred to it as being the “shore.” Maybe I’ll stretch so far as saying the “beach,” but I usually just stick with calling it “home.”

I am from South Jersey, not Seaside Heights and not Cherry Hill. They are not South Jersey. When I say South Jersey, I mean that if I lived 10 feet lower, I would be residing in the ocean.

I am from Cape May Court House, and I would like to share a few secrets for all of you people planning on visiting my hometown, or near-by areas of Stone Harbor, Wildwood, Avalon, Cape May, the Villas, North Cape May or Dennisville this upcoming summer.

First off, we don’t really like tourists. Yes, they provide jobs to our area and they are the reason for the majority of our incomes come the summer months. Yet, any local will usually agree that come summer, tourists are the bane of our existence.

The main question is, “How do I know if I’m a tourist?” Well there is a sure-fire test that any tourist will fail unless they truly are from South Jersey. This test consists of only one question, “What is a shoobie?”

I understand that many will not know what a “shoobie” is, so I will give you some tips of how to spot a “shoobie.”

“Shoobies” are the people that cross into the road even when they know there is oncoming traffic. Yes, it is true that pedestrians always have the right away, but this does not give you license to dart out in front of my car lugging your five-dollar-drugstore chair and your gallon-size jug of drinking water that will double as feet cleaner once you remem- ber exactly where it is you parked.

“Shoobies” are the people that will fight to the death for a parking spot even if one is only a few spots down. “Shoobies” are the people that expect you not to look at them funny when they say sub and not hoagie.

“Shoobies” are the people that ask where the beach is even when the ocean is in their plain view. “Shoobies” are the people who say you must eat some Mack’s pizza and wash it down with a Lime Ricky in order to fully appreciate the “shore” experience.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, “shoobies” is the local way of saying tourist. I’m guessing this is the first time for many of you to come to this conclusion.

I just thought I’d clue you in so when you come to vacation in South Jersey, you’ll understand what those crazy locals are yelling in your direction.

Why would anyone spend their vacation in a town like Wildwood? I’m using Wildwood as an example because that is where the majority of college-age kids spend their summers when they venture down to the “shore.” Why not rent a house in Key West? It’s probably cheaper and you won’t have to deal with the trash and the crime.

There is absolutely nothing advantageous or worthwhile for college-age kids to do in South Jersey. I grew up down there, and I will vouch that you can only play miniature golf, lay on the beach, swim in the ocean or walk the boardwalk so many times before you get completely sickened with how boring South Jersey is.

I’m guessing that many kids just want to party because they think they can get away with it down there or because they’re not crashing at their own hometown. Well go ahead and waste three months of your life indisposed. It doesn’t matter to me if you want to spend your summer getting nothing positive accomplished.

Don’t call me, for I’m not coming home at all this summer, and no you cannot use my “shore” house to crash at for a night because just for the record, “shoobies” are the bane of my existence.

DIANA ASHJIAN A&E EDITOR DA725@CABRINI EDU

My mom held my shoulders in her hands as she tried to tell me that Jeff overdosed and he was dead. I guess she thought that the placement of her hands could keep me from falling apart on that rainy Friday night, April 19, 2004. But, like the glass that lay at my feet I was broken into what seemed like a thousand tiny pieces.

Thinking back I can still feel the metal of his tongue ring in my mouth when he kissed me just as vividly as I can hear the glass that shattered around me when I heard the news that he was gone. Just as surely as I had lost my grip on the tray that I used to carry drinks to my tables, I also lost my grip on the emotion called love and everything that comes with it.

The mish-mesh of feelings and memories that at times have consumed me from that night on have pointed me on a personal journey and even driven me on a crash course that’s challenged me to question the fairytales I’ve built my philosophy of life upon.

You see, the last time he walked me home my heart thudded with disappointment as each of my footsteps drug slower than the last. Somehow I knew that the closer I got to home the further I’d be from him. The more he tried to explain the less I understood. I’d never really experimented with drugs and heroin seemed to me like some dirty word that shouldn’t even be spoken out loud. To me, drug problems were the stuff of afterschool specials, and the consistently rising percentage of people living with drug problems in the city of Philadelphia didn’t actually include a real person, especially someone who I loved.

What he wanted most for me to understand was that although he had become a user of such a monster of a drug, his heart still wrenched for someone to understand his conscience-shaken, shock-stricken state. He couldn’t bear for me to be that person anymore than I could watch him drown in such a hell. I knew I lost him that night, but could never have known I would have lost him forever.

In spending days fleeing from the inconsolable grip of grieving the loss of a childhood friend, a confidant and a deep love and trying to use school, work and even dance as an escape, I’ve learned that what I’ve found up until now is what my existence always comes down to, in the grand scheme, of my emotions: myself. Not someone else’s pain or someone else’s problem, just my own image as it is not what it was or what it could be.

I think it’s true that growing up isn’t always an easy thing, but the decisions that we make and the relationships we hold are infinitely apart of us. Jeff is an infinite part of me and some of that part will be some of the basis upon which I’ll make a lot of decisions. Instead of accusing him of hurting me with his shocking choices or leaving me with too many pieces to put back together, I’ve decided to continue loving that undying part of him.

And as much as each stage of grief in losing someone close to you is more personal than most things a person could even start to understand, that air of pain is still a universal enlightenment that varies from so morbid to somehow so beautiful.

As far as remembering the Jeff that I knew, and not the drug addict that other people saw in the last of his days, I’ll always think of him as the boy with the most inquisitive James Dean stare with imploring eyes revealing more than his mouth would ever dare. What I’m asking you is to remember to consider this story the next time you want to ‘get high with a little help from your friends.’