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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
(This is long and heavy, but it's the first thing that came to mind when Kremena said to write about pizza.)
ReplyDeleteIt was a warm July evening. I sat on an outdoor lounge chair painting my nails a deep, sparkly purple. I had only been back in the country for about 2 weeks, and I was sentenced to stay with my mother until the start of the new semester. She had moved into this trailer about a year and a half earlier with her new boyfriend, and though I had only visited a handful of times, that trailer held nothing but unpleasant memories for me.
The dog had given birth yet again a few months before this scene. The pups ran around the 13 acre yard chasing the loose chickens which my mother’s boyfriend raised for illegal chicken fights. I sang along to Today’s Top Hits, trying to hold the nail polish brush steady, when I heard a loud, high-pitch yelp of pain.
One of the puppies had pinned down a chick, and rather than simply shooing him away as any civilized person would do, my mother’s boyfriend decided to hit him with a shovel. He didn’t swat at it, but instead launched the shovel as if it were a spear, with the pointed end impacting the puppy’s soft, plump tummy.
In a fraction of a second, I was running to make sure he wasn’t bleeding, only to find my path blocked by the sad excuse for a man that my mother chose to date. Yelling in a redneck accent riddled with poor grammar and words that didn’t even exist, he told me that I wasn’t allowed to check on the puppy. He told me that he was a parental figure and I, a 21 year old adult, had to follow his commands. He told me that he and I would have a problem if I went to check on that puppy, and that one of us would have to find somewhere else to stay.
It was as if everything slowed down. I was the calmest I had ever been in my life. I walked around him to get to the dog house, all the while he was hurling insults at me. The puppy ran up to me with a limp and giant mud mark from the shovel, but he was not bleeding. I went back into the trailer, packed my suitcase, and waited for a friend to come pick me up.
My mother begged me to stay and called her boyfriend every name she knew (and she knew them all), but never once did she say that she wanted him to leave instead of me. She didn’t understand why his words were such a big deal to me, but there was no way in hell that I was going to let some meth-head on probation with 5 children—none of which he had custody of—think that he had any leverage over me. He couldn’t control me by threatening to kick me out because I didn’t need him or even my mother, and I certainly didn’t need to be in that trailer.
I stayed with my friend in her apartment on campus until residence life let me move into my own apartment. She was there for me when I needed to cry, she distracted me with funny videos when I needed to stop, and she was down to take shots when my feelings became too much to handle sober. We ordered pizza so many times that just the thought of it was enough to make us nauseous for about a month afterwards. She and my other friends were always there to help me escape from my family, and they were the ones who taught me what familial love actually feels like.
I believe that family is not necessarily composed of those with whom you share a blood connection.
This actually brought tears to my eyes. What a heartwarming take out of a heavy story. I love your voice, and your take on the prompt. Thank you for sharing.
DeleteThis is incredible. You amaze me, Kacy!
DeleteI Believe in Leaning on Someone
ReplyDeleteWhen we began to proceed out of Rupp Arena in a “dignified manner,” I jumped out of line and hugged almost every teacher along the way before walking into the cool night air--a stark contrast to inside, where we all sat arm to arm, roasting under our gowns. Over six hundred students had their names called that night. As I navigated my way through a class I barely knew, taking pictures with friends and teachers I probably wouldn’t see again, I felt ready. Those last goodbyes were all the closure I needed. Indeed, I had been ready to leave since I was a junior.
After that, I remember we went to Goodfellas in the distillery district. As we ate pizza slices larger than our faces, I felt a sense of wonder at the dimly lit cavernous space. My aspirations seemed to fill the air alongside the chatter of customers and the echo of 1979. I didn’t pay much attention to what was said because I was somewhere up in the rafters, excited to take my next step into adulthood. After an onslaught of AP classes, I felt that nothing could stop me. I was ready to take on whatever challenges college had in store.
In a similar way six years ago, I felt light. My dad and I were sitting at a picnic table at the end of fairly warm day. We had traversed the horse park, visiting all of the booths and displays, grabbing all of the free merchandise, and pointing out the flags of other countries as golf carts puttered by. We had managed to get free tickets to the World Equestrian Games. As we ate an eleven-dollar Papa John’s pizza that was about the size of a frisbee, I felt free. Not only had it been an exciting day, but I was going to a see a psychiatrist. Invasive thought after invasive thought had been dragging me down in the months prior. My parents knew this was beyond me, but I refused to see someone. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t crazy and that I had this under control. But after so much fighting, I gave in. I needed help.
And I would need help again, because I was most certainly not ready for college. I was not ready for the assignments, or a roommate, or sleeping somewhere else that wasn’t home, or having to interact with an entirely new group of people. Those first two months, I was drowning in anxiety.
One Sunday, when I was sitting alone in church and fretting over all the assignments I had to get done, the choir started singing "Lean on Me." I was tired and worried sick about failing, almost to the point that I was paralyzed with fear. Finally, I gave in. I couldn’t bear the psychological weight of it all. I told myself and then God, “I can’t do this anymore. I need someone to lean on.” I couldn’t foresee the future. I couldn’t always do well on everything. I couldn’t be the self-sufficient adult that I thought I was. Like my sixth-grade self, I relented and was at once greeted with a feeling of peace. If I had forgotten what I learned six years ago, I certainly remembered it that day: I could only get the help I so desperately wanted by opening myself up to it. Sometimes we have to give in because the burdens are too heavy for us to carry alone. That’s why I believe in leaning on someone.
I am so sorry to hear about your anxieties about being in college, Zach. If you are ok with that, let's talk about them some time. I may have suggestions.
Delete99 cent pizza was my sustaining force as a broke college student living in New York City. That greasy slop made in the back of a kiosk not big enough to hold more than four people at a time kept many of us young actors from going to bed hungry. Now, this stuff is not good. This is not brick oven Brooklyn pizza that you savor with a glass bottle of coca cola. No. That’s for when your parents visit. This was fake cheese on fake crust cooked in an oven with a C rating from the health department.
ReplyDeleteAs a student at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, you are split up into sections. Within each section are 12-16 people who you take every class with. Very rarely do you get to venture from your section. As first years, we were encouraged to have section outings, to get to know each other so that we would have people to help us navigate the big city. My first ever section, Section 6, had the brilliant idea that every Wednesday after our evening class, we would walk the few blocks to the nearest 99 cent pizza stand and get dinner.
Now, this was not a healthy habit. It took at least four napkins worth of blotting, and half a bottle of that powdered parmesan cheese to make 99 cent pizza edible. For most people, 99 cent pizza is not a bonding experience. In fact, I would hypothesize it’s why most New Yorkers fold their pizza in half - so they can shove it down their throat and keep moving. For my little section 6 group, though, it was the best bonding we could have had. I made some of my best friends on those journeys, and learned a lot about what it meant to be a New Yorker. Sometimes, being a New Yorker means paying for food with the change from your couch cushions. And sometimes, making friends means eating 99 cent pizza in the snow.
This story begins with Andy when I was in second grade. He was a senior and, without a doubt, the tallest person I had ever seen. He let me sit next to him on the school bus. With my back pressed against the window, I looked at his elbow, tightly folded from Cerebral Palsy.
ReplyDeleteThis same elbow nudged me as I waited outside the cafeteria on a Friday in 5th grade. A janitor at the school now, Andy knew everyone by name. He asked if he could look at my wallet. I was too shy to show it off even though I was proud of having made it myself from the pleather material that just a week ago lined the seat of my brother’s snowmobile. For this reason, I was glad that Andy asked. I was also glad because Andy’s interest caused Helen to notice my wallet as well. She noticed how the snap I used to keep the change pocket closed matched the snap on my shirt, a cowboy-style shirt made with Mickey Mouse fabric by my mother. I loved that snap. If it weren’t the only remaining one, I would have used at least one more on my wallet. If I were braver, would have offered to make something with a snap for Helen.
Andy pointed to the cafeteria door and nodded. Helen and I hurried to catch up with the line snaking ahead of us. We accepted our slices of Friday pizza, and declines the small dish of green peas scooped directly out of a gallon-sized aluminum can with the lid freshly cut off and a label that read: “green peas.”
After paying two dollars for my lunch, I filled a cup with cold milk from the new high-tech dispenser that gave milk the allure of a soda from McDonald’s. Because Friday was the only day I bought lunch at school, it was also the only day I could treat myself to a Strawberry Shortcake novelty ice cream bar for twenty-five cents.
34 years later, Andy is dead. The school he cleaned is now a community center. Helen is married to a woman just 4 years out of highschool. The mother-of-pearl snaps on my wallet and my Mickey Mouse cowboy shirt are even more out of fashion today than the Strawberry Shortcake novelty bar. Even the least saavy industrial food-packaging company knows labels have to say more than “green peas.” Only pizza remains.
I believe in Friday pizza.
I moved to the "middle of nowhere" in middle school. I use quotations because it was the middle of nowhere, but my house was in a normal neighborhood. I consider it the middle of nowhere because the closest grocery store was 15 minutes away and the closest mall was 30 minutes away. When I went to my friend’s house for a sleepover with a couple other friends I was introduced to a whole other world. The houses looked like trailers but were a lot larger and not on wheels. And the house was on acres of land where you did not have another neighbor for miles. My friends all had chickens, horses, and pigs, where I did not even own a dog. I remember the coolest part about spending the night at my friend’s house was we all got to sleep and hang out in a trailer separated from the main house, so it was as if we all were no longer in middle school, but the adults we kept wishing we could be. It was a simple time of watching movies and singing at the top of our lungs to Lady Gaga and the Jonas Brothers. We would make up dance routines and read Seventeen magazine. We thought we were adults when we ordered pizza all on our own, paid by our parents money. Long nights were spent dreaming of high school and all the stereotypes of high school portrayed in movies. We wished to be in college so we could be adults and live on our own and become anyone and anything we wanted. Little did we know that in college we would be wishing we didn’t have to be an adult because going to work, paying your own bills, and having no idea where your life will take you is not as fun as playing shadow tag and having no care for how unhealthy pizza was. I believe paying for your own pizza with your parents money does not mean you’re an adult.
ReplyDeleteHa! I like how you weave pizza into your story of adolescence.
DeleteI believe in Jack’s Frozen Pizza.
ReplyDeleteMost people would never want to admit how great these thin, mass-produced imposters are actually pretty tasty, but I have no shame in doing so. I will gladly throw pride away and accept the label of being a cheap-o or having exceptionally low standards. Because, Giving into the bliss of mass production and consumerism, the deal is why my parents originally started our weekly tradition of frozen pizza night. As I was younger I was actually very prideful of dinners when Jack’s was on the table. Now, as I can feel the result of this judgemental society I can see how I some may not be as proud of this fact.
Other mothers in the neighborhood would comment on how my parents should take the time to cook actual dough or have the red sauce that is actually made from tomatoes. When I was younger I could not see why it mattered if it was real or not. See I was not focused on the food, I mean yeah it was good. The ranch and hot sauce concoction that my father always made for the table was literally better than anything I had tasted to that point, but there was something more going on at our table. Though our tables might have been personal sized and could be packed up and put away, and our chairs were the couch, the feeling that would fill me was everlasting. As any tradition no matter how good or bad it gives a sense of belonging to those who are apart of the tradition. And that is exactly what it did. I felt more comfortable, connected and most of all loved during Jack’s Nights than I even did if we went out to dinner at a nice restaurant.
So I believe in the strength that Jack’s Pizza nights can give to a family. Those dinners when we laughed so hard we all cried are some of the best memories that I have. I am still proud, though maybe not as vocal, about these nights spent in our basement because as a whole family, we would enjoy the simple cheap pizza and most of all enjoy each others presence. I will be forever grateful that my parents did not let the pressure of society make them change how we ate dinner on those nights. Any night that we all could be together was exactly what we all wanted, and the cheap pizza was the extra bonus.
In the last long months of my first pregnancy, my stomach ballooned to the size of a soccer ball. My new body shape heralded both inconveniencies and unexpected surprises. My daily runs slowed down to the pace of an unwavering walker. My meals shrank proportionate to what felt like an ever-diminishing space inside my body. But I marveled at the skin of my stomach. It felt elastic, as if it could seamlessly keep expanding to the size of a sitting ball, much larger than the old-fashioned wooden desk I squeezed myself into at work.
ReplyDeleteA few months after the birth of my daughter, my stomach got back to its pre-pregnancy shape. I don’t know where the extra skin went. You can’t shrink a soccer ball to the size of a toddler’s teddy bear without some left-over leather and thread. My skin did.
Two days before Thanksgiving, I slipped on the wooden deck behind our house. The temperatures had just dipped below freezing. I was carrying a potted fir inside the house. My fall was so quick, I didn’t know when the pot slipped from my hands. I knew I didn’t break any body parts and breathed a sigh of relief. I did notice blood on one of my fingers and dismissed it as insignificant. But my finger nail didn’t stop bleeding for hours. Thanksgiving travels made a doctor’s visit unlikely and I resorted to Band-Aids. Five days later, my doctor asked me to get an X-ray. It turned out my finger was not broken under the nail, but I was told it would take 6 months to fully recover. Though recovery may be too strong a word to describe the process of healing, my nail did take half a year to grow back. I still feel a dull pain whenever an object touches my fingertips. I realize I don’t understand how skin, flesh, and blood work.
I believe bodies are magical and I am in awe of them.
My parents’ financial situation has shifted drastically since I was a small. Back in the day, my ten older siblings and I were outfitted head to toe in the world’s worst hand-me-downs. We would roll up to church every Sunday in our least-holey sweats and the pair of socks that appeared to match the most. Apparently, having eleven half-people under your roof puts a significant financial strain on a working class couple (who knew?).
ReplyDeleteBUT as I’ve vacated my position as a small, I have watched the gradual wealth transition of my parents as, one by one, the olders have moved out to do their own lives. Nowhere is this wealth transition more evident than in all things pizza. At the time of all-too-holey sweats, it was a feast if Mom bought a Chef Boyardee pizza kit at Valumarket. We would sit around the dining room table with the bum leg (forever on the verge of collapsing onto an older) and taste the sweet, delectable canned marinara on our lips.
As the first few olders moved out and I started school and Mom went back to work, we upped our game. This time, Youngs were balling with a budget. We upgraded to Little Caesars. I couldn’t believe it. We had cheese pizza, pepperoni, hell we even got Crazy Bread. It was crazy bread for crazy times.
Around the same time, my school had adopted Pizza Hut’s Book-It initiative. If you read so many books in a certain span, you got a FREE personal pan pizza from our local Pizza Hut. The idea, of course, was that if you’re taking your child to redeem their coupon, the parents are supposed to buy something, too. My dad didn’t care. We had read our books and earned our free pizza. He’d roll up with five of us in the back of the station wagon and turn us lose with our coupons and a quarter a piece for the bouncy ball machines. We couldn’t afford soft drinks, but they had the freshest tasting free water you’d ever put in your mouth. Pizza Hut didn’t like us too much, but we LOVED Pizza Hut.
I remember the first time my Mom suggested we order Papa Johns as clear as day. Jaws hung open in shock. We were about to order an $11 pizza. We had made it.
Now, I live here, myself an old. When I visit home, there are two siblings and two parents left. I understand now that my parents are still not wealthy people, but they can afford any pizza they please. Sometimes, though, I still crave Chef Boyardee nights around the janky table with the bum leg.
I believe in the power of canned marinara.
Everything was going smooth and I was eating a lot of pizza at Gattitown until I felt my head feel like it was under water. My cousin was like what is wrong with you? The reason why he asked that was because I am usually arguing, debating, or challenging him in something because we are the same person just different sex with dominant personality. I was super quiet because my ear felt like shit. I mean it got to the point where my hearing was muffled. So I went home and tried to shake it off but I knew what was wrong...I knew exactly what it was...an ear infection. I mean damn, I just had one in the right ear a month ago and now the left ear except this one I cannot hear. What pissed me off even more is that on Wednesday when I went to the ER the doctor said my ears looked “fine” and then 3 days later I can't hear and feel like I have water in my ear. However, it was Mardi Gras weekend at the Club. Hell, I couldn't miss that...I mean I am the damn club most of the time. So I made the great adult decision to go to the club but then go back to the ER after partying. Well I ended up going to iHop afterwards and my ear is still going through hell and back. On Sunday morning, I woke up and procrastinated on studying for an exam as well as going to the ER but I was like, “why do I need to go to the ER when I already know what I have but I need them to give me some medicine so I have to go”. Then Monday comes, and I go and fail my exam but at this point I just said fuck it and decided to go to the ER. As soon as he stuck the ear thing in my ear to check, the doctor said, “yep you have a nasty ear infection and your eardrum is protruding outward so there’s fluid”. Great! I’m back on antibiotics for the next week and a half and I cannot drink this weekend for my best friend's birthday. I believe that I am a doctor at heart though.
ReplyDeleteThe nights I watched the girls always started with tackles and welcoming hugs. “Hannah Fouts! Hannah Fouts is here!” We considered each other family at this point, and it wasn’t just because when I nannied at the summer we pretended I was their older sister to get on the family pool plan with them. When their parents had left the younger girls were ready to play all the games in the world, while the oldest, who now was almost ready to graduate the eighth grade laughed and went to watch TV. I was still close with her though, we sent the funniest Snapchats to each other.
ReplyDeleteSoon after I had settled in the sounds of footsteps and giggles echoed through the house. The girls were hiding as I was peaking through my fingers and pretending to count at normal speeds. Although finding the three of them wasn’t so hard as you could still hear giggles while you were walking quietly past them even after shouting “Ready or not here I come!”, peaking through my fingers while counting was just insurance to make sure I remained the best player of hide and go seek. No matter how often I came over or how often we played this game, it was still their favorite. By the end of every night I was here we had always played it at least once. The only thing that could separate the girls from this game was the sound of the doorbell.
DING DONG!
The youngest jumped out of her hiding spot as fast as she could and screamed “CHOCOLATE DIPPERS!” as the middle softly said “Pizza!” Yes, Pizza Hut was all that could separate the girls and their hiding spot, other than being found. Pizza was almost a tradition when I was there. Sometimes I couldn’t have decided which they liked more. Me or the pizza.
By the end of the night when their mom and dad arrived, they were always begging me to spend the night and holding on to me like their lives depended on it. Hugs lasted forever and there was always more than one, the parents appreciated me their and I know the little girls definitely did. They like me more than pizza. I hope. I believe in Pizza Hut and Chocolate Dippers.
Part one of two
ReplyDeletePsychology says that we really begin to form and solidify our personalities and personal identity around middle school age.
In middle school, one of my favorite shirts had four ducks on it. One of the ducks had a fuzzy texture and was wearing the classic mustache, nose, and glasses disguise. Printed under the ducks was the boldly straightforward message, “be weird.”
That's me. I'm weird. And I am not ashamed
As far back as I can remember, I've never quite fit in, I've struggled with making friends, and I’ve stubbornly refused to let trends influence me. Instead, I make decisions based on what I like and practicality. To top that all off, I have a stubborn streak that keeps me from backing down just because of social pressures.
So it isn’t that surprising that I’ve always had difficulty finding my place among my peers.
Though I didn't find out until my sophomore year, but I was apparently branded, “the weird hedgehog girl at the end of the hall” my freshman year of college.
Something tells me it wasn't meant as a compliment, but it doesn't bother me as much as you'd expect it to.
At a certain point in my life, I decided to embrace my weirdness.
And that's easily one of the best decisions of my life.
The essay I wrote for my college applications was about hedgehogs. How I'd loved, lost, and found the inspiration for a service project that, then, showed me my own strength in a time of weakness- all from passionately loving hedgehogs.
Weird, right?
I was accepted at all three colleges I applied to.
I found out that they flag those essays for two reasons: really bad, and really outstanding. Mine was flagged for being outstanding, and was shared with enough of the administration that most of them knew who I was just from my mentioning the topic of my essay, and were pretty excited to meet me. Even the university’s president.
Accepted into first choice college and instantly well known and loved by the majority of the administration?
Weirdness 1, normal 0
But being weird doesn't make college easy. That's pretty obvious when you take into account that the bizarre title I was branded with was, judging from context clues, given to me by my freshman roommate.
I really struggled my freshman year of college, due in no small part to difficulties with my less than stable mental health.
The second semester of my freshman year of college, I took the foundation level psychology class. College had already been putting me through the wringer at this point- a point highlighted by the list of depression symptoms in my textbook- a list I had been living, save suicidal thoughts, for the majority of the school year.
One day, when I'd been a bit late to class, my teacher spoke with me afterwards about the homework assignment that had been explained before I got there. We were to watch a documentary about an experiment, and write a response. And it was then that she paId me a huge compliment.
She said she was really interested in hearing my response- and then she clarified the statement. She said that she was interested in everyone's responses, of course, but that she was extra interested in reading mine because I have a unique and interesting perspective.
Talk about a compliment.
And I was already keenly aware of that unusual way of looking at things- it had become quite clear that I approach things in an unusual manner a long time ago. This trait is prevalent enough that I have a name for it: I call it thinking sideways.
Getting a compliment from your psychology professor for having an interesting and unique perspective?
Weird 2, normal 0
Part two of two
ReplyDeleteIf you know me much at all, you know I'm a borderline crazy cat lady. I'm naturally in tune with cats, and they love me, too- an effect I call my internal cat magnet. I actually even considered being a cat behaviorist: AKA a cat whisperer. When, after two years away from Transylvania, managed to come back, there was someone two doors down with an emotional support cat. He's pretty well known on campus, his name is Chi.
Even though I kinda sorta definitely wanted to steal him, I held back to avoid being creepy. And when we had our first hall meeting, and she announced she had a cat, to which multiple people asked that they be able to meet him, I jumped on that bandwagon faster than you could blink.
His owner and her friends are from a different social circle than I am- they're all athletes; in sororities; and a frequently attend parties, whilst I'm an independent; nerdy artist type; and am a serious homebody. But despite these differences, they saw how good I was with him, how well he reacted to me, and just how much I knew about cats- and they all took a liking to me.
It turned out this was her first cat, and the not yet one year old kitten who had yet to be neutered was a source of joy and frustrating chaos for the group. I taught them the reasons and solutions for his problem behaviors, picked and bought or made him toys that quickly became his favorite, and even gave him his first catnip. My relative expertise, creativity, and artistic skills blew them away.
Quickly, I went from lonely and isolated to a go to for cat information, artistic help and advice, and the second room to check if you were looking for the cat. His mom told me was one of his favorite people, and he actually even came to my door to say hello all on his own, one time.
These new friends helped me with one of my classes and even invited me to a party- something that NEVER happens to me.
I made friends by being a cat nut.
Weird 3, normal 0
I believe that weird is awesome.