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November 4, 2013 • A POSITIVE PRESS PUBLICATION • VOL. 4, ISSUE 5
Red Like Them
written by third-year, Melanie Kent
Our tour group straggled up the stairs behind our peppy guide. We nervously trailed past the Jittery Joe’s. Our discomfort, masked by an effort to fabricate poise, resulted in semi-vacant expressions on our faces as we turned the corner and met the sun. Here – here, the guide announced, was…The Stadium.
Like a shrine. Like a palace. Like a monument to greatness. All I saw was cement. I grew up without a TV, in a place very different from the South, so my very first game day was confusing. I woke up to two policemen standing below my window watching the quad, in which five stereos were blasting five different genres. Red masses milled around, and people of all ages and backgrounds seemed to be universally appreciative of the cacophony they ordinarily would sue over. |
I walked through the crowds from the Arch to the stadium and back, infected by the excitement, thrilled to see the families, wondering at the drunk, noticing the growing piles of garbage, drinking in the faces and the emotions.
The booming voice-over of the pre-game video filled the stadium with the seriousness of a gladiator competition. I was mesmerized. Then I laughed because the action-adventure music seemed so out of place for these rows of regular people watching their classmates play a game. The phrases and emotions spoke of agony and ecstasy. I knew I was missing something. They ran out onto the field and lined up. They did the strangest things. Run to the right – run to the left. Stretch and lunge. Like a troupe of my aunts doing aerobics. And then, for a total of five seconds, they trotted in place at an enormous speed. Finally came the time for them to wait in rows, then run into each other, and repeat, ad infinitum. Alone, I stood surrounded on all sides, and watched the cheerleaders, and watched the crowd, and cheered at the wrong times, and wondered about all these things. Across from me, forty thousand voices roared "Georgia." With chills I felt the forty thousand around me swell and unleash their sound: "Bulldogs." And I understood. This was not the game, the cement, or the colors. This was belonging. Walking past on Saturdays I hear the happy roar, the dull roar, see the gorgeous sky and smell the vomit, feel the motherly smiles and the uncertain distrust, and enjoy what seems comical to me. I’m confused by the world of football. But the essence of it I get: I’m red like them. |
PALS brings creativity to Athens community
written by second-year, Allison Cape
Every Monday and Thursday, third year fashion merchandising student Kaitlyn Randolph spends three hours in at the Rocksprings Community Center where sewing machines whir, soul music quietly floats in the background, and the hearty belly laughs of six women fill the room. Randolph is part of an independent study with Professor Emily Blalock that leads PALS of Athens Musicians. Partnering Ambassadors for Life and Service, or PALS, is a local organization that reaches out to women in communities across Athens and provides them with classes such as computer training, entrepreneurship, and GED certification.
PALS of Athens Musicians is a more specialized branch, however. Women who show motivation and interest can participate in sewing classes that meet twice a week and are led by mentors like Randolph. The program is sponsored by several local musicians such as Patterson Hood from Drive-By Truckers and Michael Stipe from R.E.M. Currently, they are making pillows with drawings of these musicians on them. The pillows are handmade; Randolph estimates that one pillow can take up to three and a half |
hours to make. But to her, it’s worth it because 100% of the proceeds support the women's classes at PALS. All the cloth, beading, and sewing machines are donated. However, one of their biggest focuses is assuring the fine quality level of the pillows.
“We focus heavily on quality control and efficiency. Many women know how to sew already but we help them refine their skills,” says Randolph. She describes the environment as relaxed. They play soul music and talk, yet they focus heavily on quality and efficiency. PALS of Athens Musicians allows the women in the program to be creative while still learning to be self-sufficient. “I feel like so many people are hindered by |
their own predetermined stereotypes, but the people who are trying to make their lives better are truly a light there,” says Randolph. “That’s why I love them. Everyone has an incredible story.”
And she’s right. One member, Wanda, is a vibrant woman who at any moment will burst into song. She loves buttons and they have become her signature. Milly, another PALS member, is a woman whose daughter is trying to transferring to UGA. Randolph reports that Milly not only loves to sew but also loves to practice her English by talking to everyone. “Getting to spend time with an entirely different generation of women has been incredible. Not only do I get to hear their stories but we talk about soul food and music and cooking,” Randolph says. “They are so much cooler than me.” These six women may be changing their lives stitch by stitch, but Randolph’s perspective is changing with every minute spent at PALS. “It’s challenging,” she says. “But it’s so incredible.” |
Who Runs The World? Me.
written by by second-year, Nneka Ewulonu
I am Beyoncé, always. At least that’s what I tell myself when it’s 2 a.m. and I’m in the shower belting “Diva” as if it’s my debut at the Lincoln Center. Much to the chagrin of my parents, roommate, or whoever was trying to sleep at the time, I let my dulcet tones fill the space I’m in without shame or regret. Or when I’m in the car driving with friends, I ensure that my shrill rendition of Katy Perry’s “Roar” cuts through my plebian friend’s attempts.
Let’s go back a few years to high school. Instead of Beyoncé, I was more like a broken chihuahua trying to make it through life. I’d always loved to sing, I just wasn’t very good at it. My attempts were reserved to days when no one was home. I’d sit in my room and quietly hum along to the radio or, if I was feeling brave, let a few notes ring out. This is just a testament to how truly uncomfortable I was with both myself and my abilities. As everyone seemed to be growing out of their awkward middle school phase, gaining confidence, and making friends, I was stuck. I couldn’t do anything that made me happy because I was too afraid of being judged. I couldn’t make friends easily because I feared the judgment. I couldn’t be myself in my own room because I was afraid of judging myself. |
I was expressing my jealousy of my musical friends one day when one such friend said two simple words to me: “Join chorus.” I hastened to tell her that I couldn’t sing, but she ignored me and kept insisting. At first I was terrified. I mean, I’d have to audition. I’d have to sing in front of the chorus teacher. What if he laughed in my face? I had nightmares of getting into the chorus room, singing a scale, and then Simon Cowell appearing and saying, “It’s a ‘no’ from me.”
Despite my fears, I auditioned and ended up being a part of the women’s chorus of my school. For the first semester, I never sang. I would mouth the words and show as many emotions as I could, but I never made a noise. Being in chorus gave me some confirmation that I could sing, but I was too afraid that the choral veterans in my class would hear me and judge. Even though I was doing something I’d always wanted to do, I hated it. As I started the second semester, I continued in the same way. But one day I realised: I was making myself miserable in this class. What was I so afraid of? If I missed a note, so be it. If I sang the wrong rhythm, so be it. No one is perfect, and no one should be afraid to do what they enjoy. |
So I started singing. And then this crazy thing happened: I stopped being afraid in other aspects of my life. I became more outgoing, I talked to people, and I started doing other things I’d been too afraid to try. Even in aspects where I wasn’t comfortable, I faked it until I made it. I pretended to be a bubbly, confident person until I actually became who I wanted to be. Joining chorus, and the realisation that came from it, revolutionized my life. At this point, I may not be Beyoncé (I know, I know, you’re shocked. You thought you were reading Beyoncé’s fabulous autobiography). But I’m still the best person I can be. I believe in myself and my abilities and because of that, nothing can stand in my way.
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The Dissolve
written third- year, Taylor Tokarz
I think of you
As a puzzle,
Pieces of smoke and I
Hurriedly, messily hold you
Together before you dissolve
And I’m left staring into the chasm
Of who you are.
It’s exhausting.
Let’s try again.
As a puzzle,
Pieces of smoke and I
Hurriedly, messily hold you
Together before you dissolve
And I’m left staring into the chasm
Of who you are.
It’s exhausting.
Let’s try again.
Dancing Leaves
written by third-year, Anna Wilson
The freshly fallen leaves dance along the cement. They enchant me as they twirl about, mimicking a Waltz, or perhaps a Cha Cha. I witness this magical act unfold before me. The same breeze gently tugs at me as I grasp my jacket a little tighter. I am also here with these freshly fallen leaves that dance along the ground. I think for a moment I can see this mysterious, magical force. The leaves wave meticulously, and I am hypnotized by the complexity in such simplicity. I am scarcely aware as the breeze dwindles, and the leaves settle peacefully on the ground. They remain in place as I continue walking along the concrete to wherever I was going before I became lost in the moment.
On a different day, I hurriedly walk along the sidewalk. I briefly glance up and note more leaves have accumulated since the time I last walked by.I am hardly conscious of my surroundings; I am preoccupied in my mental to-do list of what must be accomplished in the next hour, day, week. I rapidly walk to my destination. I fail to notice that the wind has awakened the fallen leaves into a dance along the concrete. It hardly matters though; my mind is elsewhere. |
This morning I find myself wandering outside into the wind and the falling leaves. My mind reverts to lines from my favorite poem by Mark Strand called “The Story of Our Lives:” “We are reading the story of our lives as though we were in it, as though we had written it.” The freshly fallen leaves dance beside me. I note their beauty as I bundle deeper into my jacket. I have already seen myself do this many times before. This time, I fixate on the leaves as they perform a flawless routine before settling calmly on the cement. I walk along and come to a stop. A chill goes through the air and hits my spine. I smile and walk forward. I am no longer reading the story; I am writing it. I am writing myself into a mysterious and magical moment. I am no longer lost, but for the first time fully in the present.
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Loving These Things
written by second-year, Megan Robertson
On my first birthday, I received a red teddy bear who was promptly (and brilliantly) dubbed Redbear. He turned one when I turned two, and many moons later, he turned eighteen when I turned nineteen. Because I still have him. At this point, Redbear’s fur has rubbed away in several spots, there are holes that reveal his stuffing, his little sweater is worse for wear, and he’s been sewn back together in more than one emergency operation. My family fondly refers to him as “Threadbear.”
Over the years, regardless of how many scars he has acquired, his ability to bring me comfort and peace has not diminished in the slightest. He helps me sleep at night. He has been my constant companion for almost nineteen years now. One night this past summer, I dropped into bed around four in the morning, exhausted and worn down. I picked up my dilapidated stuffed animal, hugged him tightly, and immediately felt better. |
It occurred to me then the strangeness of an object could calm me by its mere virtue of being soft. But, of course, Redbear is much more than a fluffy thing to me. My mom’s always-thwarted attempts to get rid of him have proven that much.
I think we put love into these non-human things because we have put some of our consciousness into them. It’s a side effect of empathizing with and seeking consolation from them. Although he hardly qualifies as a necessity for my day-to-day survival, I can’t imagine losing him. It would be like losing a part of my history and myself. However small, there is a piece of my mind and certainly of my heart that I have quartered off as Redbear’s. This idea is the root of why we get so attached to the things in our lives. And I don’t mean the materialistic ardor we sometimes reserve for our laptops, smart phones, or clothes. I mean the things we feel for, the things we put pieces of ourselves into—our teddies, our pets, our blankies. Loving these things is like loving ourselves. That’s why it feels so good. |
Self-love is hard sometimes, especially on the nights where you get home at four in the morning and the world has ground you down into a temporarily smaller version of yourself. We have to trick ourselves into it on occasion, by bouncing some good feelings off of much-loved things, and that’s okay. It works. It’s what they’re here for.
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