Zippin'

     I always thought that zip lining was something that only the most adventurous of people would attempt. After all, doesn't zip lining take place hundreds of feet above the ground in the middle of Amazonian rain forests? I thought so; but I was oh so wrong.
     Apparently, the most average of Joe's can zip line. Even myself, an eighteen year old university student. All it takes is a set of arms and legs, not to mention a bit of courage and impulse decision making.
     Waking up at 7:00 a.m. this past Monday morning was a treat for me, as I usually have to wake up an hour earlier for an 8 am class.  I managed to shower, get dressed, and get my daily Einstein's coffee, all before 8:15. I paced back and forth for fifteen minutes before heading to the red minivans which slept in the parking lot of my Res Hall. It was the first morning of the year that actually made me shiver.
     After watching my English professor nearly run over her own students due to an incident with her emergency break, I called shotgun on a van that was to be driven by a goateed man I had never seen nor spoken to: Brian. The silence of the van was only broken by our front seat conversations about his work with refugees, and my being an English major.
     The awkward morning van ride finally ended in the parking lot of Discovery Adventure Park. I leaped out of the vehicle and made my way to the briefing station, where I was handed a pair of gloves and a set of straps and lines. After a quick info session on how not to die on the zip line course, I was off.
     I'm a bit of an adrenaline junky when it comes to outdoorsy stuff. I've been known to jump of bridges into rivers, go a little overboard with campfires, and paddle out during large swells. Zip lining was something I had never been exposed to, and the challenge of strength mixed with the possibility of falling from great heights gave me a rush. I couldn't wait to make my way up to the " Double Black Diamond" trail.
     However, by the time I was halfway through the "Blue" trail, I felt my arms growing tired. I hadn't realized how much energy I was actually putting into my zip line experience, and come the end of the trail, I found myself sitting on a bench instead of venturing into the Double Black Diamond.
     It's funny how exercise comes easily when one's mind is occupied. I had so much fun attempting to get past each element, that I didn't even realize I was basically doing pushups every other step. Needless to say, I felt no need to go to the gym that day.
     The ride back to campus was nearly as quiet as the latter. There wasn't much that needed to be said other than the occasional "wow, my arms hurt," or, "that was fun!" Once back, I wasted no time in rushing to my dorm. I as in need of some hard earned rest.

Sean Michael Tobin

     I am the definition of an Irish American. My mother's grandparents immigrated from Northern Ireland in the early 1920's. My great-grandfather, Patrick Farrell, was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB), and fled west to escape escalating violence. My great-grandmother, Kathleen Farrell, was one of twelve children, and her family was unable to support each child. The oldest five siblings left for America in hopes of finding a better life. On my father's side, our exact story is unknown due to my grandfather's solitary childhood. All we know is the we are in fact Irish.
      My paternal great-grandfather, Michael Tobin, was a first-generation Boxer in New York. Of his four kids, my grandfather was the second oldest. Before him was my great-uncle Michael. Michael was basically my grandpa's father figure, as his actual father wasn't around much. Michael would protect my grandpa from bullies, buy groceries, and do other parental chores that no twelve year old should be required to do.
      Tragically, Michael was hit by a milk truck while riding his bike to the grocery store, and passed away.
     The day I was born, my parents yearned to be original. My dad, his father's junior, was tempted to name me John Francis Tobin III, but he resisted. Instead, he kept the legacy going in his own way. The Gaelic for John is Sean, so why not use Irish roots in the naming of a child? Once the first name was decided, there was no question that I would be named after the tragic Michael Tobin, as well as my mother's uncle and World War II Veteran Michael Farrell, and, somewhat, my great-grandpa Michael Tobin Sr.
     Growing up, I came to meet many other Sean's: Sean Yerks, Sean Colligan, Sean O'Donnell, Sean Lavin, and many more. Friends and acquaintances of mine began to call me by my last name, Tobin, in order to avoid confusion. Through middle school, high school, and now college, I feel that I respond more to Tobin than I do my own first name. I don't mind, though. It makes me feel unique.

Literacy Autobiography

     From a very young age, I wanted to be a writer. I had no idea what I wanted to write, but I knew I wanted to. My grandpa would take me to the library on a weekly basis, allowing me to check out books on wolves and other animals that I thought were "cool" as a six year old. I would make my parents read me Kipling's Jungle Book in order to fall asleep, and then dream about being raised by wolves. To this day I'm not quite sure why I was so interested with wolves; it was kind of a weird obsession actually. For whatever reason, though, this interest inclined me to read more complex novels at an inappropriate age, such as Jack London's White Fang and Call of the Wild. Of course, I had no idea what I was reading. The words were entering my brain but nothing was truly registering. The only reason I even attempted to read these books was because of my dad's raving about them. After all, he named his first German Shepherd "Buck" after the heroic dog from Call of the Wild.
     Once I hit middle school, my wolf obsession had been long gone. By this time I was reading novels by Ned Vizzini, and other authors that my English teacher, Ms. Emerson, suggested. Each book that she shoved in my face turned out to be impossible to put down. I read and wrote more throughout middle school than I have at any other point in my life because of that woman. In fact, it was because of Ms. Emerson that I was introduced to poetry.
     Before Ms. Emerson's classes, I imagined poetry as a few rhymes on a piece of paper that some old man or woman became famous for. Then I was introduced to Robert Frost, who did in fact fulfill my stereotype for a poet, but was also much more than that. It may have just been my love for The Outsiders, but for some reason I fell in love Frost.

     Because of my interest in Frost, I was introduced to further poetry, none of which stood out to me the way Frost had. Frustrated, Ms. Emerson assigned a poetic lyric assignment. Never before had I thought of lyrics as poetry. I had been involved with music from birth, and not once had I associated songs with poetry. After all, poetry was just old men and women writing stuff that doesn't make sense, not songs like Springsteen's "Jungleland" or The Killer's "Mr. Brightside." But I was wrong.

  Click Here for Frank Turner's "Recovery"

      My interest in song lyrics escalated. I began studying lyrics, finding deeper meanings. Then I developed an obsession with finding new songwriters and musicians. From this hobby I found my two favorite musicians: Brian Fallon of The Gaslight Anthem and Frank Turner. These two musicians among others inspired me to pick up an acoustic guitar. Later, I began singing. And eventually, I began songwriting. I taught myself guitar during the summer of 2012, and now, a little over a year later, I have written some fifteen songs, five of which I actually like. I'm still no Frank Turner, but I found what I truly enjoy reading and writing: song lyrics.                            

#College

     I have barely any insight into what the college life is supposed to be like. I am the oldest of three siblings from the Jersey Shore. I have only two older cousins, both of which attended community college. My dad was a commuter student, and my mom doesn't like to talk about her college experience much. (She had a little too much fun).

     This being said, I've just been thrown to the wolves. Of my fifty-some friends from high school, I managed to drag one with me to Fairfield: Mike Riordan. Other than Mike, I knew absolutely no one before orientation. Not a single person. I realize the same goes for majority of students here at Fairfield, but for some reason I can't help but feel like everyone already knows each other. It seems like cliques are already forming (the jocks, the would-be frat bros, the straight edge, etc.) and I can't help but feel like I'm stuck in a Bowling for Soup song.
     Don't get me wrong, I've got my own group of friends here. I wouldn't say we're a "clique," considering one kid wears gold chains, another wears salmon shorts, and another wears nothing but Under Armor. Each of us has his own personality. His own origin. I could be wrong, but I feel like that's the way college is supposed to be; branching out and getting to know different people, not forming duplicates of the people that we left back home. I loved high school, but it's over now.