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Created January 6, 2020
Community? Engagements? Arts? Well, for starters this is a class taught at Transylvania University in Lexington, KY by professors Kremena Todorova and Kurt Gohde. The goal of this class is to form a relationship with the community by engaging in artistic projects with the community. The outcome of this will manifest itself in many ways, some recognizable and others not so much.
CETA 2020: Our first 2 emojis (of hundreds)
Created January 6, 2020
Individual Tasks
Collect addresses, make & write thank-you cards, design pronoun buttons--Anna Davis
Blog Manager--Paige Wessling
Recorder/archivist for This I Believe essays--Sarah Metcalfe
Social Media--Lydia Baggett & Garrett LeVan
Photographic Inventory (3 people)--Yousef Alsdudi, Sarah Bennett, & Faith Boles
Space, raw material, & tool inventory manager AND order enforcer--Emily Neat
Quality Control & Class Ethicist--Alex Toney
Software Design Team (3 people)--Shelby Barker, Emily Cecil, & Abby Pearson
Fabrication Team (3 people)--Brooklyn Greer, Will Hemingway, & Marissa Price
Finishing Team (4 people)--Nannie Baze, Emon Daneshmand, Ally Frederick, & Madison Phillips
Additional photographic documentation--Kremena and Kurt
Working with production design at Kre8Now Makerspace--Kurt and Kremena
Publicity for the class--Kremena and Kurt
Securing materials needed--Kurt and Kremena
I believe in playing in dirt. As a child I was taught to not being mud inside the house. This was a difficult task because I was so proud of the mud my sister’s old shoes collected. I played a game with myself as to how much of the mud could cover my body, one of my mother's favorite games. See from a young child thought it was weird that other kids were afraid of the dirt, afraid to get their clothes or shoes dirty. Only the bravest of souls would agree to take of their shoes and socks and join in squeezing mud in between every little toe. I remember being very confused as to why I often ended up playing without others my own age. I wondered why I was so lucky to be able to play in the creeks, trees and wildlife. Why were other kids stuck inside? I was never alone though, because I had the rolly-pollies and the worms that made other kids squeal. I had my shovel and a bucket of water to keep me company on my journeys to and from the farmer’s field nearby.
ReplyDeleteI believe in calluses being from a shovel instead of a game controller. I have found the old willow tree in my front yard to be more comfortable than any computer chair. There are infinite amounts of beautiful presents that nature can give. These presents or wonders will always be there, no matter if someone is there to see them. I found playing in the dirt to be one of these beautiful presents. Finding the clay deposits was like finding gold to me. I believe in the power that southern Illinois’ dirt can give to a young dyslexic girl who never seemed to fit in.
I believe that when there is a rain puddle, jump in it. I say be in control of your actions, and do not let the fear of imperfection alter how to live life. Why should it matter if you get dirty or your clothes are messy? Is that not how life is? I do not know much but I am confident in saying that life is messy. Life is not going to care if there is dirt under my nails so why should I?
I Believe Church Potlucks Are Like a Game of Russian Roulette
ReplyDeleteIf you’re a Christian, then you have potlucks. And if you’re Protestant, you have really good potlucks. But if you’re Catholic, well, you’re taking your life into your own hands. When Job asks “Is not man’s life on earth a drudgery?”, he must’ve had Saint Peter parish in mind. Potlucks at my church are always kind of dreadful. Often, you’re forced to sit with people you barely know and make halting attempts at conversation. Sadly, the only thing you share is an inability to keep up with the operatic cantor and a desire to exit mass unseen after communion. Normally good food makes these conversations bearable, but the food is just as bad as questions like, “Are you new to Saint Peter?” The answer is almost always “no” and something like, “I’ve been going here all my life.” What ensues is a long silence where you just sit and stare at your food.
And you’ll continue to stare, unsure of what that slimy grey/green thing is on your plate. Green bean casserole? There’s only one way to find out, and there’s about a fifty-fifty chance you’ll be gagging and wanting to throw up afterwards. As you lift your fork to your mouth, you cast one last glance at the buffet, hoping for a tray of some yellow food--something to save your stomach, something to give you an excuse to get up and leave the table. Sadly, there are no such dishes to save your life. When you place that mucus on your mouth, you immediately want to spit it out. It tastes like ash, rubber, and onions. You want to scream, “What kind of person would give this to their loving family? A psychopath?! I thought we were Christians here!” But you don’t. You try to choke it down as best you can and hope you don’t spit it back up because you don’t who made the dish. It might just be the person you’re sharing a long silence with. Although, it’s not completely terrible. If you die, you might just go straight to heaven and be canonized as the patron saint of terrible church potlucks. Then people would pray to you and you would perform a miracle, turning their food into something cheesy or with corn.
But even with yellow foods, you’re taking a chance. You have to develop a close eye for slight variations in color, unusual tints. It is this kind of skill which helps you navigate the ominous casseroles, stewed vegetables, pasta salads, and dishes masquerading as safe bets. But even if you’re sure that what you’re getting is at least okay, there’s always the chance that you’re wrong. Like in Russian roulette, you might be sure that the next shot you fire will be a blank. Sometimes chance just works against you and this is why church potlucks are risky business.
LOVE this essay, Zach! I really like so many things about it, but the idea of performing a miracle by turning food into something cheesy or with corn is really brilliant!
DeleteEverytime I go to the gym I always feel as if I am entering a warpath. That first initial step through the clear automatic doors is the battlefield grounds. As I walk past the scanner to scan in my membership, I feel as if it is a announcement telling everyone that I am here. When I enter the actual workout facility, I notice that all the lockers are taken on the top row so I have to bend down in order to secure a spot for my belongings. As I am putting my things away, my heart starts to palpitate because I am about to the do the one thing that I dread the most which is...CARDIO. If you look at me, I am no size 2 and the features on my body aren’t very light either. As I get on the treadmill, I am very self conscious because I feel like everything is moving and there's no self control but I have to push through in order to get to the stuff that I am amazing at. As I finish up the cardio, I feel like a everything in me has drained, all of the strawberry cheesecake ice cream that I had the night before, I mean EVERYTHING. Luckily, I am able to move on to my amazing talents which is weight lifting. I LOVE lifting weights. It’s like you can show off how strong you are as a woman physically and mentally. Basically I feel like you can’t tell me shit on the weights. As I continue to lift weights, I look at myself in the mirror and I am fascinated by the muscles in my body. It is like watching a dog walk on its hind legs (Meangirls). It’s so fascinating, the body, my body, everyones body to be fairly honest. Lastly, I work on my abs...this is the surrendering part of the war. I love doing abs but hate the fact that I have never had abs a day in my life to show even when I was an All-Star athlete. Thanks to my stocky mom and overweight dad, my genetics are just damned. However, the feeling afterwards is just do damn remarkable because you feel like you’ve accomplished so much, although the weight scale basically tells you to shut up because you didn't lose anything. However, I believe in feeling good about yourself in the gym as a woman.
ReplyDeleteYes!!!
DeleteBut I suck at weights.
Though we occasionally fight, the treadmill is my gym friend :)
Until I was twelve years old, my family and I lived in Sadieville on a lake, in a house the size of a shoebox. On the lake, with us lived a family of geese. They showed up when I was three or four, and would come back every year to lay their eggs. My favorite thing in the world was to stand on our front porch and watch them fly in onto the lake, after a long day of doing whatever geese do. When a goose lands on a lake, it skims the water for a distance, kicking up water and creating this majestic illusion of grace and wonder. They honk the whole time too, and when they come in in a gaggle it’s truly amazing. I used to stand on the porch and jump up and down as I watched my geese land. And they were my geese. Every year I’d watch the adults lead fuzzy little goslings across the damn and into the lake. And as they grew older, I’d watch them learn to fly, and then land.
ReplyDeleteMy mother and father and I used to sit on our porch for hours in the evenings waiting for the geese to land. Those evenings on our little closed in porch are some of my most treasured memories. We’d sit with the cats and the dogs and tell stories about what the geese were doing. We’d talk about their goose jobs, and their goose salaries, and what their goose offices must look like. How they must be so excited to clock out and get home to their new goslings. Then my mom would make the point that the mother goose should probably get maternity leave. That’s when it would happen. The geese would fly in on the lake and my eyes would light up and my evening would be complete. I believe in the magic of geese landings.
I love the idea of mother goose getting maternity leave...this is a reflection full of tenderness and yearning.
DeleteThough the automatic door locks stop working below 32 degrees and start again at unpredictable times, inconsistently, and in unpredictable moments,
ReplyDeletethough the steering wheel disintegrates, dropping potent dye onto my pants each time it touches the skin of my hand,
though the fabric lining of the ceiling droops lower, becoming a curtain I pull to the side in order to see the road while turning right,
though the power required to roll the windows up dims the lights, mutes the radio, and temporarily disables the left turn signal,
though I could no longer look at the passenger door without resurfacing the memory of slamming my son’s hand inside as he reached through,
though the fossils found in a New York stream where my children swim among leaches each summer were covered with nearly 10 years of road dust in the back seat,
though the headlights flash on and off for 10 minutes after removing my keys from the car when the left rear door is the last to close as passengers exit,
though the heat only works at your feet, the windshield defrosts just the passenger side, and the air conditioning works only when traveling at speeds greater than 60 miles per hour,
I believe in a minivan, one that is outfitted with a metal-studded leather steering-wheel cover and a story that pressing the triangular symbol on the ‘hazard’ button causes uncontrollable acceleration.
As a child, I was always shamed for reading into the movies when my father would take me to the theater. How many times have we heard someone proudly say “Oh, I don’t really think about movies when I watch them”. It’s as if the worst thing you can be is someone who analyzes and critiques something you watch.
ReplyDeleteThere is this disgusting strain of anti intellectualism that, I’m assuming is distinctly American, that runs through many people’s minds. It is cool to “not really think about movies when you watch them” and if you do, then you are just some pretentious Asshole. It is cool to watch Disney and not thing about the disgusting messages it teaches our children about how to find love. It is cool to watch movies with Asian characters and not question why white actors seem to be the only ones cast for these roles, it is cool to to see the latest Transformer movie but never that small indie film that quietly breaks your heart.
The day I had my first political argument with my stepbitch, I mean step mother, was thanksgiving a few years ago. She went on a typical rampage about how the poor are lazy, Black people just want someone to blame, and feminists hate men. I remember it distinctly, because after this heated discussion, she said “Alright, tonight was rough. Let’s go have fun and watch something entertaining like the hunger games.” And i was like “The Hunger Games? Are you like, do you just not listen to movies and just like mentally turn off? Are you that much of a fucking idiot that you don’t ever realize what the movie is saying? Like the most obvious topical thing the movie is about? At the bare minimum. Have you also thought about how it’s premiering on thanksgiving? And this is the final installment. So what have you even thought the series had been about up until this point!”
And she said “What’s your point?” And that’s when I knew how fucking deep people were into this whole non deep about Movies shit. Think about the millions of Americans who ate like pigs at their thanksgiving tables, on a problematic holiday, and then went to see that movie for entertainment. And then they went back home to their privileged lives and didn’t think about what they had just watched, and how the series is a big middle finger to everything they are. People really just show up to see hot people on screen. Or see explosions. And I’ll say yes, that’s valid. Go ahead. Be a fucking sheep and give movies your money for nothing in return. That’s your choice. But you are missing out on so much when you show up to a movie and don’t walk away with a question about being alive. You become lazy. You don’t make life connections. And you risk missing the point of a film that could change your life if you think about it. And I know it’s hard. Because you have to show up to that theater every single time and say “Ok, I’m ignorant. Teach me something.” And as Americans, we hate being told were ignorant while loving living that way at the same time. It’s a symbol of pride when we own it, but never when someone identifies us by it. I believe in not being my stepmother, my family, and a large portion of this country. I believe in thinking about movies.
The year is 2006ish. It could just as easily be ‘04 or ‘08 or really any summer day between now and 1995. The house is sweltering hot and all of the people in it have melted into big people puddles all over the floor, in various stages of grief. My siblings and I are in the anger stage, indignant that our home could possibly be this hot. Our parents, however, are still stuck in denial. If the first step to recovery is recognizing the problem, we're screwed. These folks just dredge up the cobweb-infested box fans from our basement and place them in the windows they threw open early that morning. This doesn't help. It makes everyone grumpier. Now, not only are our intestines literally boiling, but no one can hear us bitch about it because the fans are so incredibly loud.
ReplyDeleteOlder siblings call to ask, “What's for dinner? Is the AC on?” They’re not coming for dinner or to our rescue. It's too damn hot.
We protest. Oh, do we protest. There are innumerable fits thrown on this sweltering summer day. Nonetheless, the ruling stands: if the thermometer by the door reads less than 90 degrees, the air conditioning will not be turned on. Today it reads 89.9. There will be no rounding up. Only people puddles.
Finally, we protest too hard. We get a little too indignant. We become too entranced in the fight for social justice. We get kicked out of the house.
Just as we begin the debate over who the biggest idiot is, who couldn't keep their fat mouth shut long enough to at least keep access to TV, we remember. Down the street we see a rare mirage in Beechmont, this little desert town nestled deep in the heart of Louisville. A three story building emerges among the tumbleweeds and cacti. Inside the building are computers with colorful keyboards and Hooked on Phonics games. There are shelves upon shelves of tales about happier, colder times. Even in the heat of summer, they never retire the books about winter: sweet stories of snowball fights and ice skating rinks await us beyond those doors.
Most importantly: the building we set our sights on is air conditioned.
Our rescue is inhibited by one minor detail: our library cards are tucked away in a drawer in the dining room of the house from which we were recently banned. We know what must be done.
A rock, paper, scissors battle ensues. Best two out of three. I dominate. But, I am informed by the airtight logic of an older brother, I am the smallest so I have to do it anyway. I reach for the handle of the too-squeaky storm door and hope for the best.
I believe in the Louisville Free Public Library: Iroquois Branch.
What a brilliant way to both tell a story about your family AND praise the public library! Love the idea of people puddles, too!
DeleteSo in this class we read The Laramie Project, and I was surprised by how quickly I read the play and how much I truly enjoyed it. Past experiences of reading plays has been Shakespeare plays. Which do not get me wrong, he is a genius and one of the greatest writers in American history, but the language his plays are in and the actions are not spoken from this time, making them hard to relate to. Why in English class do we spend our time reading from works by Homer and Shakespeare? Are we truly saying no one since is as great as past writers and nothing worth reading has been written since? It is frustrating to spend time dissecting a language that has little to no use today, to miss time in understanding the actual story. In my English classes we spend countless days on short stories written decades ago in an English vocabulary not used today about events that are not relatable. I do not write a letter to contact my friend, I use my phone. I do not follow my husband’s commands, we are both mutually respected in our relationship. Today there is quickly advancing technology, different social issues, and a rise of mental disorders. I want to read something that will help me understand the world I live in today with characters that get me. I want to read a book that will teach me new vocabulary I can actually use today. I do not want to try to learn new words that I will never use today and waste time not understanding the story. I respect the writers of the past and they do have a place in today’s education, but I also respect the writers of today and believe they have something to say that will mean something to people today. Greatness in writing is not a thing of the past to reminisce in. Writing is alive today. That is why I believe in reading a book written in this decade.
ReplyDeleteYes! I, too, love contemporary literature!
DeleteWhen I finally got my wish to have my own kitten in 2010, I don’t think anybody expected just how wonderful he would be. But just how incredibly fabulous my cat is a collection of stories for another day.
ReplyDeleteThis about how my tiny cat got a giant name.
This was the first cat I’d actually gotten to name, and after a great deal of back and fourth about who “mommy” was going to be with my mother, I earned the right to be his mother, and as such, felt I had the right to choose the name on my own.
My family disagreed.
With my strong affinity for all things German, I was dead set on having a name with German roots, and though my brother claimed it had roots in another language, it was generally agreed upon that Leopold, meaning brave lion, Leo for short, was an acceptable first name for our newest family member.
But Leopold seemed too simple, and I wanted to make the name more German, so we set about coming up with a way to add von to his name. Von means of/from in German, and with my level of German at the time, I knew the word for cat, Katze, so my mother and I headed into the office to ask Google Translate for some help.
We tried fuzzy cat, which translates to flaumige Katze (flau-mig-uh cat-zuh). That just didn’t have the right ring to it. So next we tried fluffy cat, Flauschig Katze (flau-shig cat-zuh)- perfect.
But the name as a whole still didn’t have quite the right feel to it.
It was at this point that my father piped up from the kitchen, offering up his favorite name option: Vladimir.
And thus, four pound pile of fluff ended up with a name longer than he was: Leopold Vladimir von Flauschig Katze, and while he never grew into the name physically, despite how many people tried to tell me he would be a huge maine coon, he makes up for it in personality.
I believe in extravagant pet names.
Such a fun and funny story--now I know how much you really like all things German!
DeleteWhen I was in second grade, my mother took me to a hearing specialist. She was freaking out, thinking that I was partially deaf because I was completely unresponsive any time anyone tried to verbally get my attention. I would just continue with whatever I was doing without the slightest recognition that I was being spoken to. Weeks of hearing tests proved that I actually have perfect hearing. “She must be purposefully ignoring everyone,” the doctor said.
ReplyDeleteIn reality, I honestly did not hear anything at all; I wasn’t ignoring everyone. It took a few years for self awareness to kick in, but I eventually understood that I was simply so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn’t register anything that was happening outside of my head. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the type of person who just sits and thinks for hours on end without doing anything else. What I have going on inside of my head is just far more captivating than anything else I’ve encountered this far in my life. Luckily, throughout the years I’ve been able to train myself to constantly pay half of my attention to the outside world and the other half to my inside world, but I still slip too far into my head sometimes. If you ever get the feeling that I’m not listening to you, trust that feeling because I’m probably not (this is how I’ve earned the nickname “Spacey Kacy”).
I often wonder how much more productive I would be on a daily basis if I were able to fully bring my mind to engage with the outside world, but I don’t think I would be the same person if I did. My thoughts are what define me for myself, even though no one else can ever really know them. This is why I believe in getting lost in your thoughts.
It was my daughter’s 11th birthday: a celebration she had been planning since the summer. Her special day was to go like this: a playdate with her best friend (who now lives 40 minutes away), pepperoni pizza at Mod Pizza with her best friend, followed by the best friend spending the night at our house.
ReplyDeleteWhile the rest of my family drove the 80 min back and forth to collect my daughter’s bestie, I drove to Target. It had snowed a little earlier in the day, enough to fill my Facebook stream with posts about floating snowflakes. It was snowing a little as I headed to Target: not much, only a few flakes fluffing the air. By the time I was driving the 6 miles back from Target to my house, the air was thick with white. The roads, too, were covered with snow and, as I quickly realized, super slick. I had no control over my car. I slid down Nicholasville Rd at 10 miles per hour, managing to avoid hitting the car in front of me at a red light only because I started breaking a full city block early.
After my fortunate stop, I turned off the main road and parked after sliding carefully up to a curb. By the time I ordered my Uber, I knew I was lucky to get one: according to Facebook, streets all over town were slippery, cars were skidding entire blocks, and my next-door neighbor was advising everyone to stay in.
Getting into the Uber, I was struck by the uncertainty of this situation: I was relying on a stranger to drive me, while Facebook pleaded with everyone to not drive.
If I once knew his name, I no longer remember it. I remember these things:
• My Uber driver had grown up in Buffalo, NY. I instantly trusted his driving-in-treacherous-snow abilities
• When I asked him if he thought he might ever return to NY, he responded he couldn’t: he had split custody of his son; the boy’s mother lived in Versailles
• When he heard I had gone to Notre Dame, he asked me if I knew the Grotto. I said yes, holding back my thoughts about the grotto: an imitation worship space, a would-be-French sanctuary
• My Uber driver told me they had lit a candle for his older son at the Grotto. His son had been recruited to play baseball at Notre Dame, but died before the end of his senior year in high school
At my house, I wanted to give my driver a hug. I am not certain he wanted or needed one. I was the one who needed a hug to assure both of us life would go on, despite death, slippery snow, and driving decisions gone wrong.
The roads became icy. We didn’t go out for birthday pizza. We ate spaghetti and meatballs instead. The day after, the public schools closed.
I believe in Uber drivers and their ability to care for us: occasional passengers in their lives.
Three years ago I quit the sport that I had poured about a decade of my life into. And by life I mean my time, energy, friends, emotions, most of the choices I made and had to make were in conversation with practice schedules, eating schedules, and sleeping schedules. It was not something I had planned on ending in the way that it did, resulting in me not only having to adjust to a whole new way of life without the sport, but also having to do that without all of the friends I had made along the way. I held in a lot of anger, sadness, blame, regret that I’ve been sorting through in my head and unpacking whatever would help me move on in some direction. Since then I have thrown myself into other work, other friends, and new schedules, avoiding the reality that began to pop up in my mind, “I kind’ve miss swimming”. I fucking hate running, and it was the only sport/workout I really felt confident in. Also, I went from exercising over 20 hours a week for 10 years, to maybe running for ten minutes every once in a while, I was starting to lose all of those benefits. Whenever I would think about going back to the pool it always came with panic, and I mean like real honest panic - “I’m never gonna be as good as a was, what if so and so is there, how will I look in a suit, will I drown”...and so I always just said I didn’t have enough time. Well it’s my last semester of my senior year, and I have some time floating around. So yesterday I said fuck it, went to the store, bought a suit and some goggles, went to school, and when it came time for open swim, I was there. Going into the locker room I kept seeing the images of both the good and bad times I had while I swam for the university, I’ve begun seeing more of the good than the bad at this point on my journey, and with that I see how I have grown. I went to my old locker, it hasn’t had my nameplate on it for a long time, and changed into my little speedo. I went out to the pool deck and after three almosts, I jumped in. Turns out I didn't forget how to swim. A smile came over me, and I felt as if I was being greeted by an old friend.
ReplyDeleteI believe in driving by your old home once in a while, maybe even seeing if they will let you look inside, chances are they might.