The phone started ringing at 9:17 AM. Unknown caller. To be clear: I don’t have unknown callers in Denmark. In fact, I don’t really have any callers in Denmark. We all use e-mail, text message, and Facebook to communicate out of thrift and sheer laziness. Phone calls are reserved for emergencies; they rarely communicate good news.
I let it ring. And then, a moment later I received a text message: “Du har 1 ny besked i din telefonsvarer. Sidste besked er fra: ‘ukendt nummer.’ Læs mere om din telefonsvarer på vores hjemmeside.” In English: “You have 1 new message in your answering machine. Last message is from: ‘unknown number.’ Read more about your answering machine on our homepage.” The Web site, however, offered little assistance when it came to navigating through a Danish voice menu. This is why I do not check voicemail here.
The next day, my phone rang again. Not recognizing the number, I let it ring. It was the beginning of a crash course on Danish media, of which I was to become an unwitting participant this past Friday.
A month ago, the housing administration sent several of us notices in the mail that we were to vacate the premises by December 17th—in blatant disregard of the contract’s stated terms that we have seven (7) business days prior to the lease’s end. This new move-out date also preceded our final examination deadline by two days. The university sent angry letters to the housing administration, which responded with detached legalese, reiterating its original position. Many of us changed flight dates or made alternative arrangements for the holidays. Our schedule hung in limbo as the deliberations proceeded.
And then someone decided to take matters into her own hands—that someone was not me. I secretly hoped for the earlier move-out date in my rush to return to the States. One of our peers had contacted the media, sparking a local groundswell of support. Jessica, a quiet yet composed Californian, was the first to answer the call. Her interview hit the Danish radio stations on Friday morning, followed by a front page story and portrait in the local Jyllands-Posten (publisher of the controversial Muhammad cartoons in 2005) detailing the plight of “homeless students.” A few other peers spoke to reporters.
By mid-afternoon, the story had leaked to television reporters. We were in class when a camera crew showed up for footage. They asked if they could follow one of us home for an interview. I loudly refused when I sensed a vague movement for my election. After biking to class (read: I was sweaty), getting very little sleep, and having not bathed in two days (read: I was sweaty), I had hit my nadir of personal hygiene for the semester. “You look fine, actually,” whispered a friend. She paused. “Just brush your hair a little,” she added quickly. Without any prompting, she then handed me a tube of lip balm with a look that vaguely indicated sympathy. After considerable debate and buck passing, I found myself in the back of cab on the way home with my bicycle strapped to the trunk.
The TV crew got lost and announced they would be late. This gave me enough time to warn Heidi and Morten. Heidi ran upstairs to change her pants and finish the dishes. Morten bolted. Upon arrival, the crew surveyed the common room looking for a good interview spot. After inspecting the cleaning schedule with marked curiosity, the reporter asked, “So does this common area see a lot of traffic?” “No, it’s actually very quiet,” I said matter-of-factly. Right at that moment the door swung open, revealing a rosy-cheeked Martin sporting reindeer antlers and bells followed by jovial friends carrying bags of candy. “This isn’t going to work out here; the microphone is too sensitive,” said the reporter.
We moved to my tiny room for the interview. I sweated under the lights but answered all questions easily. He tried to egg me on, asking “So, how do you feel about being evicted?” It lasted about ten minutes. I prayed that the package of toilet paper on my shelf didn’t show up in the background. We moved back to the common area where they wanted to film me going about my “daily routine.” And then it was over. Here is the result, called “Out before Christmas”:
My riveting report followed a breathalyzer story and a piece about a basketball family with a pet monkey. Our class had just finished reading about Jürgen Habermas’ notion of the public sphere as a space in which rational deliberation about politics and other socially relevant issues occurs. This firsthand lesson on Danish media taught us that critical, public discussion actually works in some countries—even for the most mundane causes. Private citizens contacted the paper, university, and TV station, opening up their homes to us. A local school offered free housing and meals through the holidays. And the very next day, the housing administration backed down from its stance, allowing all of us to remain until December 20th.
As the apathetic and least invested member of the cause, I became its unofficial spokesperson. And while I am pleased to see that public discourse can force real change, I am happiest knowing that I will be on that plane come December 17th—contracts be damned.
Labels: Denmark, multimedia
