Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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
Every single morning, I do my makeup
ReplyDeleteEvery single night, I wash it away.
Then I do it over again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Sometimes, realizing how monotonous and repetitive my daily routine is leaves me mentally exhausted. It crushes me to think about the prospect of doing the same exact thing every day until I die. I have to push the thought out of my mind so that I can function again.
But I would never consider not wearing makeup. At this point, it’s more like a compulsion than anything else.
It doesn’t matter what my plans are for the day. I do my makeup whether I’m going to class or to the grocery store or to the nearest vending machine because I need a chaser for my whiskey. Other women often tell me “there’s no way I would wake up early enough for that! I need my sleep!” But it doesn’t actually take me that long—twenty minutes tops—because I started wearing makeup on the daily when I was 10 years old, so I’m well-practiced. Still, there are days when I ignore my alarm clock for too long and I have no choice but to forgo my morning ritual and venture out into the world barefaced.
These days are always duller than the others.
I feel more vulnerable without my makeup. I speak less and walk with my head down because I don’t want anyone to look at me. I stare at my notebook instead of my professors because I don’t want them to think that I don’t have myself together. I cancel plans because I don’t want anyone to see that I look subpar.
Recently, I read a piece about how masks and face paint cause people to act more boldly than they would otherwise because they’re able to hide who they are and become who they want to be. I think this is what makeup does for me.
When I remember my elementary school self, I remember a girl who was too afraid to speak, who would often go entire weeks without making a peep, who would burst into tears anytime someone just looked at her expectantly. Today, I still have to force myself to interact with others and fight back my ever-present fear of socializing, but no one would ever know it. I’ve become fairly decent at acting like a social creature who’s comfortable around others. Every day, I play this part in order to make people see me as I want to be seen. But when I’m barefaced, it’s difficult to get into character.
I believe that makeup is just a part of my costume which helps me to become who I want to be.
I get it, Kacy. (Even though I still think your skin is beautiful without make-up too!)
DeleteI am 22 years old.
ReplyDeleteThe Prime of my life.
Over the past month I have had a realization about my age, that does not call for a mid life crisis, but it is sort of depressing. I have come face to face with the realization that I am no longer my younger self anymore.
It started with a trip to Get Air, a trampoline park. I remember when I was in middle school my whole life revolved around my trampoline in my backyard. Whenever I had a single moment of free time I would be on that trampoline in my backyard listening to the Jonas Brothers and gossipping with my friends. I would spend the night on the trampoline laying under the desert stars and could spend hours just jumping up and down.
Well on my recent trip to a trampoline park, I realized I was no longer my middle school self. I could barely jump for ten minutes straight without getting out of breath. Two hours felt like years jumping on the trampoline and I am ashamed to admit this, but I woke up the next morning sore like I had gone through some intensive boot camp the previous day.
My second realization came from the roller skating rink. As a child I remember the roller skating rink being the greatest, most fun place to go with your friends. I remember countless birthday parties and spending hours skating in circle with friends singing along to whatever hit song was playing. These fond memories led a friend of mine and me recently to a skating rink. We showed up, laced up our skates, and headed out onto the floor where after a few circles disappointment overcame me. Going in circles with my friend did not hold the greatness it once had. Towering over all the little children who zoomed past me doing tricks did not help and the thought that in a year I could be a teacher to a child just like them made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. It was the first time I felt like I did not belong because I was too old.
It was a strange few experiences to actually understand why adults are rarely skating at the skating rink and when they complain about being in pain from an activity they could do when they were younger. I believe activities that were fun as a child, are no longer fun at 22.
Dude. I've been having similar experiences recently and it's so fucking disappointing. How do we even process that we'll never feel certain feelings again? ðŸ˜
DeleteIt is Saturday afternoon. I’m so hungover it's completely out of the picture to be productive. This past week was insane. Other than trying to get my brain to work again after spring break, I had so many different other problems that I had to deal with. Even though I knew I needed to be productive I could't find it in me to actually do it. So I took this hangover as a opportunity. I could finally just rest. I had the day to be lazy and just relax and actually enjoy my life. I needed a little easy watching, nothing too serious and nothing to sad, something to boost my morale. I started watching Nailed it, and within minutes I knew that it would be exactly what I needed. The show is a baking competition for normal humans that are average bakers. Their challenge is to recreate a dessert that other great bakers have made previously. Needless to say, no one is ever able to actually make it look like the original cake, and a lot of the time they fail horribly.
ReplyDeleteFor an odd reason, humans think its funny when other people fail. In a way, this action seems pretty sadistic that we enjoy others failures so much that it is an entire classification of entertainment. So, here I am watching this show, and as a continues to watch the people fail at baking it gets funnier and funnier. Continuously there something new that comes up and makes me lose it. No joke, my roommates heard me laughing so much they had to know what I was doing. Ultimately I had to stop laughing as much because my stomach started to cramp from laughing. Within the moments I was not laughing I thought to myself why do I actually find this so funny? These contestants are actually really trying to bake so I should feel bad for them because they are doing such a bad job, but instead, I just laugh at them. As the final challenge ended and the contestants' cakes were being tasted, I realized that failures should be recognized, enjoyed and most of all humorous. We are creatures designed to make mistakes, failure is a necessary part of life.
I BELIEVE I’M BITTER TODAY AND HERE ARE SOME IMPULSIVE THOUGHTS I HAVE TO FIGHT THAT MY FATHER TAUGHT ME
ReplyDeleteI believe it is every man for himself.
I believe it comes down to dollars.
I believe sometimes you just have to break it down.
I believe the world doesn’t bend toward justice.
I believe you have to learn how to suck it up.
I believe there is a limit to my sympathy/empathy.
I believe your feelings aren’t my responsibility.
I believe you are either for me or against me.
I believe you have an expiration date and it is the day you stop working.
I believe excuses are useless.
I believe I don’t want to hear your story.
I believe if you’ve heard one then you’ve heard them all.
I believe God doesn’t exist.
I believe I’ll stomp you if you get in my way.
I believe you are wrong if you don’t see what I see.
I believe innocence is ignorance.
I believe everyone has blood on their hands.
I believe it's not my job to clean up someone else's mess.
I believe in using as many fucking plastic straws as I want.
I believe people who recycle are pretentious.
I believe the world sucks.
ReplyDeleteIn thinking about failure, I began to think about my fear of failure and all of the fears that have crowded my mind since I began college. What follows is a list of these fears:
1. I will never get my term papers finished, which means that
2. I’ll get a grade that’s lower than an “A.”
3. They say that you’re freshman year dictates the rest of your college career. If I get a grade lower than an A, I’ll probably end up failing college.
4. I will never be good at art, which means that
5. Pursuing an art major is probably useless.
6. I’m not trying hard enough to be social.
7. I’m trying too hard.
8. Either way, nobody likes me.
9. My faith, something so integral to my identity, will fall away the more I study religion in an academic setting, which probably means
10. Pursuing a minor or major in religions will destroy who I am.
11. I put my foot in my mouth all the time, and probably offend everybody with what I say. Also, I complain too much. Nobody wants to be around someone who complains too much. I should probably be quiet.
12. I am not expressing myself and am just holding everything in.
13. I’m going to pop because
14. I’m failing to be the best version of myself everyday.
15. My worth is determined by my success, or, more accurately, how few mistakes I make. I’m making too many mistakes.
16. I never eat enough food, and will be too skinny, like in high school.
17. The food I do eat is unhealthy. I’ll probably become fat and revert to the ten-year-old who was made fun of because of his weight.
18. I’m not smart. I have a hard time following conversations with my friends.
19. All I seem to do is rant when I go home on the weekends. My parents are probably getting tired of it.
20. I’m wasting my parents’ money because I can’t pay attention in class anymore.
21. College is making me something I don’t want to be.
Postscript: Some of these fears are simply feelings. Some are things I believe. It is a struggle to get up every day right now and work in spite of this negative self-talk, but I am trying to be more positive.
Even though I say this, I realize that what I’ve written is very negative.
But simply trying to counteract the negative thoughts won’t help. That’s the same as just ignoring them. My purpose in writing them down is to get them out and clear up room in my mind for better things.
9. My faith, something so integral to my identity, will fall away the more I study religion in an academic setting, which probably means
Delete10. Pursuing a minor or major in religions will destroy who I am.
I was scared of the same thing after Intro to Religion! I didn't end up majoring or minoring but did still take religion courses for my Area 4s. Now, I feel like my faith was made stronger after being examined through a critical lens!
I believe in bacteria, at least I believe in rubbing hand-sanitizer in my armpits each morning after showering and on my bare feet and ankles each time before hiking or sitting by a campfire as a good way to kill bacteria. Bacteria create scents that—when coming from my feet—are natural attractant for mosquitos and—when coming from my armpits—are a natural repellant for humans.
ReplyDeleteI believe in bacteria, at least I believe in fostering its growth on my insides (where no people or mosquitos can smell it) by eating kimchee and popping pro-biotics before travelling to foreign lands where vegetables, water, and if-you-believe-my-doctor oxygen will cause gastro-intestinal distress with a single goal—to keep me on the toilet.
I believe in bacteria and I know it will kill me when my tooth abscesses and I wake in the middle of the night in pain bad enough to cause me—a person generally reticent to take pills for any reason, even when prescribed—to take double the recommended dosage of 2 different pain killers at the same time. The pain never stopped. The drugs I had were not strong enough. I didn’t know anyone with an addiction to oxycontin but found myself wishing I did, knowing I would drive to their house and wake them at 4 in the morning to give me—or sell me—one pill.
Unexpectedly, I made it to the morning. The pain never decreased and in spite of being chronically under slept and suffering from narcolepsy, I never slept after trying to numb the pain with nearly enough over-the-counter pain killers to cast myself in a feature role on a Dateline episode about unexpected suicide from Tylenol and Ibuprofen. By 9 am, I was in a chair with needles and drills in my mouth and because I am still alive to tell this story and because I have not extracted all my teeth myself with pliers in my basement, I have to declare simply that I believe in Oral Surgeons.
You always have that one class that gets you at the end of the semester. Well hell, that class has gotten me for both semesters. Yes, I am back on the macroeconomics topic again. I fucking hate that dumbass class and I hate all the teachers as well. My first semester teacher doesn’t even know his right foot from his left and then proceeds to tell you that he’ll come back to you and you will never get the real reason on why he doesn’t know his right foot from his left because he doesn’t even know himself. My current professor just wants to constantly embarrass people. “What’s the current Federal Reserve Chairman?” His number one star student answers…”Janet Yellen”, you dumb fuck no it is not her anymore because the sexist bigot came into office and voted her out of that position faster than she could pop a piece of gum in her mouth. So no one else knew the answer, so I kindly raised my hand and said, “Powell”. He then proceeds and says, “What’s his first name?” Like does that shit even matter, I was the only one that knew his name and I guess that was not enough. He tries to embarass me so much in class and I am just like...I don't get embarrassed bitch because my mother taught me better than to just let a male who only likes his blonde headed white students or douchebag economic majors to ever make a mockery out of me and I be offended. Then, I turn around and get my exam back today and I got a big fat 46/F. Yes, I knew I was going to get a F...because the shit is hard to study and I can’t memorize any form of school work that is not interesting to me. What pissed me off more is when he was handing out the test to everyone and when he got to me he had the nerve to say…”Again, these two test so far is worth 60% of your grade.” So basically I just felt like you called me out in class. Then as a student asks a question he goes, no I am not explaining that right now you have to come to my office...I mean some of your classmates have gotten 40’s. I felt like saying in my most ghetto voice, “you p**** ass n***a, you a b**** ass n***a” for saying that”. I absolutely despise this man because he is a rude egomaniac that wants to embarrass everyone that doesn't fit his “star student model”. All I’m trying to do is get my D so I can graduate and get the hell out of this damn school and class. Now I have to get a 72 or above on my next exam to get a D in the class but unfortunately it is cumulative and he stated, “this is the hardest exam”. I fucking hate this dumb fuck and everyone in the department. Everyone should get fired in that department. Yes that is a strong statement. But to make it even stronger, THE WHOLE DAMN DEPARTMENT SHOULD BE FIRED AND NEVER ALLOWED TO TEACH AGAIN AT ANY UNIVERSITY! Rant is over now. I believe in calling out a whole department on their ignorance.
ReplyDeleteIt’s a well known fact that depression sucks.
ReplyDeleteLike, A LOT.
What they don’t tell you is that it’s gonna make overcoming the procrastination monster about ten thousand times harder. That depression effects motivation. Negatively.
As in takes it away. Like, 95% of it.
And that is why I’m sitting here, writing my this I believe essay at 2:30 in the morning instead of finishing my take home exam that I got an extension for, and so was technically due LAST Thursday.
F.
M.
L.
I’ve been working my BUTT off to get through college, to graduate from THIS college. It’s been SIX YEARS, for pity sake.
And it’s being put in jeopardy because my subconscious says, “Yeah, that’s too stressful and hard, let’s not.”
EXCUSE ME?!
I have not been putting myself through hell for you to quit cooperating with me again NOW.
SURE, we’ve had a crap ton of set backs, and you like to push me around, but you’re STUCK. INSIDE. MY SKULL!
WORK WITH ME HERE!
If you had a face that wasn’t mine, I’d REALLY want to punch it.
STOP BEING SCARED. YOU GOT THIS.
Yeah, I know, I’m tired, too.
…..but CAN you wake up early?
It’s almost three AM!
You’re not making any progress.
WHY DID YOU WASTE YOUR WEEKEND. WHY.
No. Don’t answer me. I already know.
Because all we want to do is sleep and relax because we haven’t gotten to do that for more than a day or two in a row in probably over two years, now, if not longer.
But our therapist told us the only way past this stupid wall you put up is brute force!
So can you just…. NOT?
I miss sleeping.
I WANT to BE PRODUCTIVE, DAMMIT.
.
.
.
.
.
This isn’t working.
It’s 2:55
You HAVE to sleep if you don’t want to die driving.
Just send your professor an e-mail and admit defeat for tonight
You’ll finish it for Wednesday for sure.
You have failed tonight’s mission.
Surrender to bed.
You’ll thank me later, self
I believe that knowing when to give up is a strength.
TW: 2017 Attack at Transy
ReplyDeleteLast April, I was present during an attack on Transylvania’s campus. While I have mostly recovered from the trauma inflicted on me and the campus community eleven months ago (thanks to counselors, incredible friends, and the gift of time), I don’t often share publicly about my experience. It’s uncomfortable; it upsets me; and it often falls upon the ears of those who are unprepared to support me. Today, I am choosing to break that silence in solidarity with students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School and their counterparts all over the country who have witnessed unimaginable violence in their schools. The fact is, not a day goes by that I don’t think about the horrific scene I witnessed last spring. On days that the news is filled with stories of survivors of violence (and of those who were not so lucky) on other schools’ campuses, I feel this trauma in new ways.
When I hear of children being gunned down in their schools, chills rush over my body as my mind transports me back to Jazzman’s Café the morning of April 28th. I situate myself with my blueberry muffin and banana in a booth with some classmates who are working with me on a group project. When I see the door open to my right, I glance up, hoping to see a familiar face. The face that looks back at me beneath an American flag bandana is that of Mitchell Adkins, a familiar face, indeed. It takes all of three seconds for my mind to register that the fact that Mitchell (who had left Transy the year before) is carrying a duffel bag means bad news for all fifty people in the coffee shop that day. My mind running a mile a minute, I glance up at him as I try to covertly dial 911 on my cell phone. Then, as he begins to loudly demand everyone’s attention, he reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a hatchet and a machete. Though I know I must still escape this situation, a peculiar sense of relief washes over me.
Almost a year later, this sense of relief disturbs me. I recognize it now for its alarming reality: in the midst of my terror, I was relieved that the man threatening me and my classmates was ONLY brandishing massive blades instead of the assault rifle I had come to expect. In a split second, my brain instinctively calculated the possible carnage this man and his weapons were capable of, and told me that I would probably be safe. Thankfully, my instincts were right; and I survived with only psychological scarring.
However, as many people chose to point out to me in the aftermath, if Mitchell had been carrying an assault rifle that morning like I thought he was, I would most likely be gone. In recent weeks, I have caught myself wondering why in the hell he wasn’t carrying an assault rifle. Absolutely nothing (aside from, perhaps, finances) was preventing this 19-year-old, notoriously aggressive political extremist from stopping off and buying an AR-15 on his way to campus that morning. Nothing but the grace of God, or luck, or random chance stands between me and the victims of countless school shootings across the US. This fact keeps me awake at night.
Last weekend, I chose to take part in the March for Our Lives to advocate for stricter gun control laws to make it more difficult for criminals who intend to launch an attack (like the one that has deeply affected my life, and the lives of many in this community) to attain deadly assault rifles. In no way do I support a government entity coming to take anyone’s hunting rifles away, but I do believe that common sense gun laws are a non-partisan issue. I must commend the students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School for so quickly turning their trauma into action. May the rest of us follow their lead. Enough is enough.
My parents didn’t have an amicable divorce. That may be why I know no details of their divorce. What I do know is that my mother never had anything good to say about my father, with two exceptions: she always acknowledged his love for books and she said he took good care of his mother, even when, late in her life, my grandmother’s mind was claimed by Alzheimer’s and she saw thieves prowling around everywhere.
ReplyDeleteMy father’s love for books was prodigious and obvious. Though he was raised in a culture that rewarded men for lack of emotions, he surrendered himself to books with abandon. No matter where he lived, my father had bookcases overflowing with volumes of various sizes and intellectual rigor. He read the Russian classics with the same passion he devoured manuals on how to improve one’s circulation through higher intake of raw fruit and vegetables. He left books on the kitchen table, on his bedroom floor, and next to the toilet. He told everyone about the latest book he was reading, sharing unsolicited nuggets of wisdom.
Though my parents separated when I was 2, too young to remember my father’s affection for books, I somehow inherited his passion for reading. Growing up, I loved spending summer days on a thick branch of the walnut tree next to our village house. I spent hours reading long novels, surrounded by green leaves and speckled sunshine. In the winter, our city apartment was transformed by characters I barely understood as a child. But that was not the point. I needed books like my father needed them. I read even when the eye dr. dilated my pupils for 3 days and told me to not read anything so she could get adequate measurements of my eyes.
Much to my mother’s annoyance, when I was young I was always told I was my father’s spitting image. I don’t know if my mother would have been more accepting if it was my studiousness that was connected to my dad’s passion for books. My mother couldn’t deny a passion for reading was a gift.
I believe my father gave me a lasting gift when I was a child.