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The Scholar April 2011 Edition

Table of Contents Important Dates ................................................................................................................................................ 2 Heading the Call of Support - Trey Drinkard ......................................................................................... 3 The Bowl Cut - Amber Watson..................................................................................................................... 3 An Article Review - Elyse Murrell ............................................................................................................... 4 Irony and Stoicism in the Convergence of Twain Centuries - Sarah Appleton .......................... 5 Snowflakes - Will Crosby................................................................................................................................ 6 Speechless - Katie Pigg ................................................................................................................................... 6 Dream - Mary Layne Harrell......................................................................................................................... 6 When Butterflies Die - Danielle Cavender ............................................................................................... 7 I Hear America Singing - Brittni Brewer .............................................................................................. 10 Peace - Chelsea Boyd .................................................................................................................................... 10 Life is Like a Hat - Allison Sprague.......................................................................................................... 11 Oh, University Scholars‌ What to say? - Chad Holmes.................................................................... 12 What I Learned This Semester - Savannah Smith .............................................................................. 13 The Exchanges of a Life at UTM - Luke Sprague ................................................................................ 13

Editors: Paige Mason Erin Creech Payton Mink Charles Busby Bethany Castleberry

The University of Tennessee at Martin‘s University Scholars Organization

Disclaimer: Any views or opinions herein expressed are not representative of the University Scholars Organization as a whole

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The Scholar April 2011 Edition

Important Dates Summer Semester 2011 

Monday, June 6: Classes begin, first and full term

Friday, July 8: Classes end, first term

Tuesday, July 12: Classes begin, second term.

Scholars and Soon-to-Be Scholars:

Tuesday, July 12: Classes begin, second term

Friday, August 12: Classes end, second and full

Thursday, April 28: Mandatory banquet for our

term

scholarship donors in UC 206. Sunday, May 1: Optional Scholars retreat at Dr.

Soar 2011 (Summer Orientation and Registration)

Crews‘ house at 5:00 p.m. (There will be pizza!)

Saturday, April 30

Monday, May 2: Classes end

Thursday, June 9 – Friday, June 10

Tuesday May 3: Wednesday, May 4: Study days

Thursday, June 23 – Friday, June 24

Thursday, May 5 - Wednesday, May 11:Final

Monday, July 25 – Tuesday, July 26

exams to be held as scheduled

Fall Semester 2011

Saturday, May 14: Spring Commencement

Monday, August 22: Classes begin

Thursday, August 18 – Sunday, August 21:

Tuesday, August 16 & Friday, August 26:

PURGE DAYS

First Year Initiative Maymester 2011 

For more Fall info, check out http://www.utm.edu/

Monday, April 4 - Tuesday, May 17: Registra-

departments/registrar/documents/Fall%202011%

tion (you can also register for Summer and Fall

20Schedule%20Information.pdf

terms starting April 4) 

Monday, May 16:Classes begin,

Friday, June 3: Classes end

Monday, July 4: Independence Day

“Education is all a matter of building bridges.‖ - Ralph Ellison

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Heading the Call of Support Trey Drinkard I‘m sure that unless you‘ve been completely walled up in your apartment or dorm that you have heard of the recent disaster in Japan. The Japanese people have had to endure an earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear problems all wrapped into one. Fortunately when disasters such as these happen, rarely is a country left on its own. Tennessee, showing its volunteer spirit, has especially stepped up to raise money to help out. Simply put, there have been a number of fundraisers and charities popping up everywhere from right here in Martin to Nashville. I‘m sure those students who have walked though the main hallway of the University Center on their way to lunch or the game room have seen the Origami booth set up with its colorful display of carefully folded paper creations. This idea stemmed from the Japanese club as a nod to the legend of a thousand origami cranes. The legend states that anyone who manages to actually fold one thousand origami cranes would be granted a wish from a crane, such as long life or recovery from sickness. The Japanese club set out to collect over one thousand dollars to donate to either the Japanese Red Cross or the Tomodachi fund (Tomodachi means friend in Japanese). The booth sold paper cranes, frogs, bunnies, dragons, and nuns, as well as buttons and t-shirts that displayed the slogan ―Have Hope.‖ What started out as an optimistic hope for one thousand dollars became almost one-thousand six hundred. (And yes, over 1000 paper cranes were folded.) In Nashville, the annual Sakura, cherry blossom, Festival that plans to plant one hundred sakura trees per year until they have reached one thousand has also stepped forward. The festival that has taken place every year in April since 2009 changed programs to set up a full scale charity collection on little more than half a month‘s notice. Even vendors set aside portions of their profits to the relief fund. The festival consisted of performances by Ebiken, a ShowTime performer at the Apollo, ―Rattlesnake Annie‖, a Grammy award winner, and several more. During the entire festival, people were free to peruse many interesting booths, including Taste of Japan, Jpop, and Japanese martial arts exhibits. From, this cultural event raised over fifty-five thousand dollars during the one day festival. Even though the money raised by the two events mentioned above won‘t even come close to fixing the damage occurred in March, it will at least give comfort in the form of relief, supplies, and the knowledge that Japan is not alone. As the next few years go by, hopefully the damage will start to fade but not Tennessee‘s support.

The Bowl Cut Amber Watson My mom comes to the door. She has on my favorite dress of hers. A big smile on her face and a bowl in her hand tells me that it‘s that time once again. I sit in the chair, Try not to fidget. She‘s even using my favorite character bowl this time. Why does Batman have to fail me like this? This could turn lumber jacks into sniffling little boys, Could turn panthers into pathetic tiny kittens. My reward for being so good and patient Is a fresh lipstick stain my cheek. I have to wonder if, one day, I will laugh about these experiences. Or will I end up Oprah‘s show to talk about my trauma from ―The Bowl Cut‖

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An Article Review Elyse Murrell As part of my Scholars project, I have reviewed several articles concerning intersexuality. One such article addresses cultural factors that are paramount in understanding societal constructs of gender and gender roles. I have included my review of the article in order to open discussion concerning non-Western views of alternative gender categories. Lang, C., & Kuhnle, U.(2008). Intersexuality and the Alternative Gender Categories in Non-Western Cultures. Hormone Research, 69, 240-250. doi:10.1159/000113025. The purpose of the article is to bring attention to the various approaches to intersexuality, homosexuality, transsexuality, etc. in different non-Western societies. It is noted that even the definition and use of such words is a Western concept, indicating that the relationships between gender identity, gender status, and gender roles are also Westernized concepts that may be very different in cultures where another gender category exists. The authors propose the idea of a third gender that would be neither-male-nor-female, and how the presence of such a group in these societies changes the way sexually ―deviant‖ people are treated. There is still debate on whether these differences are more flexible or more restrictive because they still group those persons into one category and expect them to follow particular ascribed roles. The purpose is not to debate the effectiveness or ineffectiveness of a third gender category, but to simply bring attention to its presence in non-Western cultures. The authors discuss several countries that have differing ideas on the treatment of the intersexed individuals in the community. The authors do not develop a theory on which is better or worse, but simply present these differences in a sociological context. As stated, debates still exist on whether or not these differences are more liberal or conservative in their functions. The need for some third gender category, though, does seem to be a prevalent issue and perhaps more research and discussion is needed on the topic in Western communities, particularly with a focus on the functionality and social acceptance or nonacceptance of these individuals as opposed to medical diagnoses. No intervention was exercised by the researchers; they only performed exploratory research on third gender categories in non-Western cultures. They simply wanted to find out how this issue was handled, not how to solve an existing problem. Exploratory research, although often considered less prestigious, is of paramount importance when dealing with issues so under-addressed in a given society. Western culture has yet to make room for a third gender category, so it is key to understand how this category forms and determine if it is successful The discussion focused on a literature review of anthropological texts of the last 100 years describing individuals that do not fit in to the traditional male or female roles. This allows for a deeper understanding of how culture impacts gender roles, status, and identity in varying degrees. This article attempts to cover a vast amount of information in very condensed article. Although being informative and a good base to begin understanding intersexuality or gender ambiguity from a non-Western standpoint, the article only provides limited insight to the various cultures. This sort of work is a good starting point for understanding sociological factors in the understanding of sexually acceptable and unacceptable behaviors.

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Irony and Stoicism in the Convergence of Twain Centuries Sarah Appleton The literature of Thomas Hardy is exemplary of the transition from the Victorian to the modern era. His writings are fraught with tragic irony and a stoic resolution to endure life‘s destiny. Hardy uses diction and imagery carefully to illustrate this concept of fate in ―The Convergence of the Twain,‖ which commemorates and offers perspective on the sinking of the Titanic in 1912. Beginning in the first stanza, Hardy juxtaposes the man-made grandeur of the Titanic and the natural setting—―a solitude of the sea,‖ which is ―deep from human vanity‖—that becomes her final resting place: ―stilly couches she‖ (1-3). In these lines, he illustrates the irony of the ship‘s fate. It was planned carefully by people who were driven by vanity and pride, yet, because of forces beyond human control, the ship now rests in solitude deep below the ocean. Hardy continues to contrast the man-made and natural throughout the poem, especially in stanzas two through five. ―Steel chambers‖ are distinctly synthetic, but their ―salamandrine fires‖ have been extinguished by the sea‘s ―cold currents‖ (Hardy 4-6). Hardy‘s use of the word ―salamandrine‖ reiterates the vanity of the ship‘s makers, who believed their creation was indestructible, just as a mythical salamander is impervious to fire. A ―sea-worm crawls‖ across mirrors intended for the reflections of ―opulent‖ passengers, beautiful gemstones have had their ―sparkles bleared,‖ and fish wonder how such ―vaingloriousness‖ came to lie on the ocean floor (Hardy 7-15). The answer to their query is found in stanzas six through eleven. The ship‘s fate was decided by ―The Immanent Will,‖ an unnamed force of destiny (Hardy 18). Even while man ―was fashioning / This creature of cleaving wing,‖ as Hardy refers to the Titanic, this ―Immanent Will‖ was preparing an iceberg to be her ―sinister mate‖ (16-21). When he uses the term ―cleaving wing‖ in reference to the ship, he makes a connection between the Titanic and the iceberg, as the iceberg is destined to cleave the side of the ship. Besides this foreshadowing in line seventeen and Hardy‘s use of the word ―mate‖ in line nineteen, there are several other depictions of the ship and iceberg as partners made for each other. In stanzas eight and nine he speaks of the two as if they were soul mates. He says that as the ship was built, or ―grew,‖ the iceberg was also growing and was waiting for their meeting, which Hardy refers to here as an ―intimate welding‖ (22-27). In stanza ten he refers to them as not just related, but two parts of a whole: ―twin halves of one august event‖ (Hardy 30). In the final stanza, Hardy describes the moment of collision between the Titanic and the iceberg. It is ordered by the ―Spinner of the Years,‖ the same force of destiny previously referred to as ―The Immanent Will‖ (Hardy 31). Upon the Spinner‘s order of ―Now!‖ the ship and iceberg obey, and so ―consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres‖ (32-33). They do not question it or hesitate it, for it is their fate. In Hardy‘s poem, no one person is at fault for the sinking of the Titanic. If blame is to be placed at all, it could only be ascribed to human vanity. But Hardy would prefer not to place blame, choosing instead to remain detached from the situation and resigned to the will of fate. It is this pessimism and sense of irony that makes Hardy a key figure in the transition from the Victorian to the modern eras of literature. Works Cited Hardy, Thomas. ―The Convergence of the Twain.‖ The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Greenblatt, Stephen, and M.H. Abrams. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2006. 18781879. Print.

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Dream Mary Layne Harrell I need a dream to let the light in, A spark that glows through the morning.

Snowflakes Will Crosby Snowflakes. None are the same, But all have 6 sides– Something in common. All are fragile, Fleeting, Lifetimes in a moment.

The mystery of the future glowing Through the stellar light of evening, My heart beating its synchronistic harmony Leaving my ears, my eyes, my soul ringing. The sunshine crashing down with its steely flames Upon my face, upon this song of dreaming, So irrepressible, so difficult to feel this fully, A paradox so caustic, so gentle, so pivotal. The frothy darkness surrounds, so encompassing, Alighting upon the distant dream. As dawn approaches, its sirens sing, Guiding and deliberate, alluring to the heart.

Speechless Katie Pigg When life leaves you speechless or takes your breath away, when words are not enough or are far too much. . . When your favorite song is playing on the radio and your only goal in life is to rock out. . . When you realize that your best friend of ten years is still the only one who makes you laugh until you cry. . . When one wicked curveball or one perfect swing of the bat decides your fate as the hero or the loser of the game. . . When you view God's majesty displayed in the world, through nature or through the kind deed of a random stranger. . . When you find that one special person, your other half, with whom you know you will endlessly share life and love. . . When you witness the innocence of a newborn child or hold the hand of a loved one as inevitable Death steals his last breath. . . When logical thought seems trivial in comparison to our overwhelming emotion, it is best to let the silence say it all.

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When Butterflies Die Danielle Cavender The simple town of Hawthorne, Colorado, appeared as if its collective structures occupied a ghost town. The vacated homes, unaware of the sudden absence of their owners, sat lonely amongst themselves, settling into their foundations from heavy boredom. Cars rested in driveways, in parking lots, and on the sides of the usually busy roads of Hawthorne‘s downtown, but no one drove through the streets, and every business sported a closed sign on its door. The wind blew east, searching every crack, every alley, and every open building for human life. It whistled its solemn call as it swirled through the city, upturning fallen leaves and littered garbage as though expecting a person to be hiding beneath the debris. The wind, disappointed, continued east, not knowing it traveled in the wrong direction. All roads to Hawthorne but one were cordoned off by unmanned, camouflaged tanks. At that sole artery of the town conglomerated the hundreds of missing Hawthorne citizens who excitedly anticipated the approaching parade and its special guest. On the sidewalks, the people clotted together as closely as they could, pressing awkwardly shoulder to shoulder, abdomen to spine, like cells in a tumor. The barricade threateningly bulged with bodies and groaned with each eager individual who stepped onto the barrier and stretched his neck out into the road, craning it south for the first glimpse of the procession. Uniformed officers menacingly approached those who pushed out too far, and no one challenged their force. The armored men simply displayed the many methods of pain at their disposal, and the crowd would unanimously abandon their endeavors and back away. A balding, fat woman, who had the fortune of claiming the best view of the highway‘s horizon, hysterically shouted at the appearance of marching soldiers. Her cry rippled through the audience like a sonic wave, and within seconds, every man, woman, and child was matching her ferocity with a thousand screaming lungs. The meshed arrangement of humans swooped into the edges of the barricade, again threatening to topple its borders. The officers waved their tasers and groped at their shouldered weapons, but not even the officers‘ threats could deter the crowd‘s excitement. The spectacle would become the second, public execution in America and Hawthorne‘s first. A historic day indeed. Nestled at the center of the caravan, an armored car surrounded by dozens of fortified soldiers crept along at minimal speed. In the car was a forty-three year old man, who, despite his age, was nonetheless distinguished in his looks. His name was Dr. Element H. Harper, the condemned and infamous cargo, and he sat contemplatively in the back seat. He could not see his chauffeur or the front-seat passenger through the tinted polycarbonate window separating him from them, but he knew there were two men. They had been the ones who shoved him into the vehicle and painfully applied the restraints to his neck, ankles, and wrists with little care for his comfort. Four months. Four months was all it had taken for him to transition from a contented American to the most notorious infidel since Dr. Devo Swartz, the first publicly executed criminal. It was all a joke. A huge, unbelievable joke that tickled no funny bones yet enticed society for more blood. He had read The Crucible, studied the Inquisition, and even taught about the deaths that rapidly occurred after revolution, but nothing predicts the death of a writer. The car slowed from its negligible movement, and without the violent jerk of brakes, stopped. ―Prisoner EH23045,‖ boomed an amplified, baritone voice Dr. Harper looked up and around the cabin. Confused, he stared at his solemn reflection on

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the black glass. ―Are you responsive?‖ asked the male voice. It didn‘t even sound electronic or distorted, but the voice reverberated loudly. ―Yes,‖ answered Dr. Harper. ―Are you restrained?‖ ―I believe so,‖ Dr. Harper muttered. ―Yes or no,‖ the voice demanded succinctly. ―Yes,‖ Harper sighed. Swiftly, the back-seat‘s left door unclipped and slid open, and bright sunshine accompanied with the background noise of roaring citizens flooded Harper‘s senses momentarily. Then a tall man in ceremonial robes and boots blocked out the sun and entered the car, taking a seat next to Harper. The door shut, completely obliterating the light again. The man rubbed the collar of his robe with his thumb, effectively disconnecting the miniscule microphone. ―Are you ready to compliantly follow me to the stage and testify your guilt before a nation?‖ questioned the man, his smooth authoritative voice now deflated to normal vocals. ―I will not act problematically,‖ stated Harper. The man exited the car, allowing a few more precious seconds of sunshine, and then the driver and his partner began roughly unlocking Harper from his seat. Slouched in their grip, Harper was pulled from the car and bombarded by hundreds of amalgamated shouts, shrill applauds, and thunderous boos like vicious winds in a hurricane. Camera flashes exploded incessantly like celebratory fireworks, and journalists swarmed so closely to Harper he could smell their baited breath. He smiled and thought about waving to the audience, but his escort noticed the smile and shook Harper firmly. Harper bowed his head and allowed himself to be led up the stairs to the stage. The escorts plopped him in a chair and chained his ankles to the seat‘s legs. Across from Harper was an empty chair, and a podium stood off to the right. The robed, tall man walked gracefully by Harper and approached the podium. At the man‘s appearance, he received a more cohesive cheer of welcome than Harper. He introduced himself as Mr. Halley Roberts, the Director of the Committee of Unsanctioned and Radical Beliefs (CURB) and explained how the execution would play out. Harper had hardly seen the outside in four months, so his sudden re-introduction to sun light made him dizzy and nauseous. All his senses reacted slowly and dully and interpreted the world in much the same manner. Images flowed about like Van Gogh art, and his heartbeat filtered sound into a murmur. Abruptly, a stroke of violet brushed by and Mr. Roberts sat in the chair across from Harper. He spoke to Harper resolutely. ―Prisoner EH23045, civilly known as Dr. Element H. Harper, you have been condemned for your heretical and dysfunctional beliefs and brought here to die peacefully. Before this audience, you shall confess to your unsophisticated actions and apologize to any offense you may have warded. It has been proven by the Institution of Positive Thinking and Sanity that you are competent enough to deliver careful and well-thought out phrases. Do you, Dr. Element H. Harper, admit to denying the righteousness of the government and its ordainment by God?‖ ―I wrote--‖ Harper‘s voice echoed to his witnesses. Startled, he paused and examined his collar. A tiny black speck--a microphone--had been pinned to him during his disorientation. He collected himself and continued. ―I wrote my thoughts, assuming they were innocent.‖ ―Did you write the novel The Rose Garden?‖ Roberts inquired. ―Yes,‖ Harper said proudly. ―And did you knowingly concoct the heterodox history of the revolution and its subsequent union of church and state?‖ ―I wrote about the death of a butterfly and how it changed the world.‖

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―Was that butterfly‘s death not a metaphor for the replacement of the Constitution for the Sacrament?‖ ―If you interpret it that way, then you have a better imagination than me.‖ ―Do you understand that mocking confession will not make this situation easier for you?‖ ―Could it make my situation worse?‖ Chuckles trickled through the crowd. One man applauded. Roberts‘ lips stretched into a thin, straight line, and he glared at Harper with his piercing, beady eyes. More sharply, he asked, ―Is it true you read the book The Rose Garden to your students at Flint University in Michigan?‖ ―Yes, I read an excerpt to my graduate students in World Literature.‖ ―After it was black-listed?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―Why?‖ ―Because the majority of them asked to hear it before it was completely banned.‖ ―Even though it was illegal, and several students reported you afterwards?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―You have been condemned for conspiracy to corrupt the youth; propagation of illegal content; intent to profit from illegal content; passing judgment reserved for authorized personnel; insults to religion, the people, and the government; disorderly conduct; irresponsible use of your occupation; and heresy. Your punishment is death by lethal injection and for your death to be publicized to the world. Do you have any last words?‖ ―Did my wife get my messages?‖ ―To my knowledge, she did two days ago. Any more words?‖ ―Even a butterfly cannot change that it is an insect.‖ ~ Dr. Element H. Harper died on November 4 at noon. That night 350 million civilians, roughly 62 percent of the population of the United States, searched the words, ―Even a butterfly cannot change that it is an insect,‖ and discovered the webpage that Willow Harper had built at 12pm on November 4 at the secret request of her convicted husband. The web pages displayed the only remaining contents of The Rose Garden. In those contents, Dr. Harper wrote: ―A butterfly is the universal example of metamorphosis. It changes from immaturity to maturity through patience. It goes from its lethargic larva state to its gracefully free adult being. It grows legs to walk on and wings with which it soars. Instead of consuming and destroying as it did as a caterpillar, it returns life to flowers and paints beauty in the world. But a butterfly is still an insect—small, fragile, and taken for granted. It gifts the world with God‘s colors, yet presumptuously, we dismiss its wonderful assistance to the world until it no longer exists. When a butterfly dies, the entire world knows of the traumatic effects to come. Even a butterfly cannot change that it is an insect, but when it dies, the whole world mourns its passing.‖ Five years later, another revolution occurred that reinstated the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. A university was founded under the names of Dr. and Mrs. Harper, and the institution erected a statue in memory of Dr. Harper‘s last words. On that statue, a marble butterfly sits pleasantly on Harper‘s shoulder.

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Peace Chelsea Boyd Peace, oh how we strive for you. You are the target of our lives, Whether we realize it or not. Peace, you are different to everyone. Some find you in the quiet of nature, Others in the rigors of day-to-day tasks. Peace, you are the goal of many, Yet few ever fully attain you. Our brief grasps increase our desire for you. Peace, you thrive in the simple moments. We can find you in a warm spring rain, On the shores of an endless ocean.

I Hear America Singing Brittni Brewer I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of waiters, each one singing his as it should be, blithe and carefree,

The breeze ruffling the grass lightly, The sun kissing our backs gently, Hitting the winning homerun, Feeling the joy of running. Peace, you are in it all. In everyday sights and activities, You are in it all.

The nurse singing his as he bandages his patient, The teacher singing his as he leads a class in debate, The optometrist singing what belongs to him in his office , the receptionist singing at the office desk, The cab driver singing as he sits in his car, the preacher singing as he stands,

“Education is a better safeguard of liberty than a standing army.” Edward Everett

The lawyers song, the case is to be ended at morning, noon, or at night, The delightful singing of the single mom, or the students in class, or the children selling lemonade, The party of college students, drunk, rambunctious, overfriendly, Singing with open mouths, their strong melodious songs. Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else.

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Life is Like a Hat Allison Sprague Life is like buying a hat. That‘s what Margaret‘s father had always said and that was the motto she lived by. She never understood quite what he had meant, but one thing she knew for surebuying a hat was serious business, which is why she now found herself in Bloomington‘s, the largest hat shop in all of Georgia, for the third consecutive hour. The college-aged salesgirl assisting her had lost her patience precisely seventeen hats ago and had been trying to pawn the fanatical customer off on someone else ever since. Unfortunately for Susan the salesgirl, no one else wanted to deal with the eccentric old woman either. Margaret took her time perusing through every aisle, row and corner of the store before she selected a hat to try on. Never mind that she had already walked through the store countless times. Each hat she finally did select to try seemed a momentous occasion. Giving herself a drum roll, she would use both hands to thrust the hat far above her head, then dramatically bring it down until it rested comfortably upon her cranium. A plethora of adjustments and situations were sure to follow. A small spin here, a tip forward there were certain to make each hat perfect. This assured Susan as the minutes ticked further and further past her scheduled lunch break, but each time Margaret would pull the corners of her lips down slightly and crinkle up her nose. ―It‘s just not quite right,‖ she said. Margaret had a different reason for why each hat was off. This one was too tight across her forehead. That one was so large it came down over her eyes. The cream-colored bonnet reminded her too much of her mother, and the top hat made her feel too masculine. The baseball cap could only be worn to sporting events, and she felt and the beanie was unnecessary in this climate. A sequined, 1920‘s flapper style cap came close, but she worried what the ladies from her prayer group would say. The straw Fedora with the plaid band was also a tempting option, but really it wouldn‘t match any of her clothes. Then, she saw it. From across the room, Margaret laid eyes on what she had been looking for all along and couldn‘t believe she hadn‘t seen it before. The deep purple beret was everything she wanted in a hat. It was beautiful, unique, and the perfect touch to add flair to any outfit. Settling the hat down on her head, Margaret knew she had found the one. It fit as though it was made for her, and Susan affirmed that she had never seen anyone look quite so charming in a beret as Margaret did. Quickly purchasing the hat without even taking it off her head, Margaret strode into the street with a confidence in her step that had not been there before. The way everyone stared as she passed by, she knew she looked fetching and that her father would be proud. If life was like buying a hat, she had high hopes for her future.

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Oh, University Scholars… What to say? A Graduating Senior Submission Chad Holmes I remember a thing or two about my experience here. Jessup and I roomed together at Prospect weekend. Being anxious about college and the scholarship program, my IBS decided that this weekend was perfect to go to work. So, let me just tell you, Jessup was thrilled to be my roommate. Interestingly enough neither of us knew how to tie a tie. We stayed up all night engineering ways to make a tie look respectable. We stood in front of our mirror in Browning saying things in our deep man voices like, ―Hey man, I think I got it! I think I got it! How does this look?‖ Upon viewing the other‘s expression, we knew we had failed miserably, and so we started the process all over. Just before 3AM, a knot was born around my neck that was so perfect and so brilliant that I knew we could finally rest… until, of course, Jessup reminded me of our pact. ―When one knot is complete, its maker was responsible for showing the other ‗how it‘s done.‘‖ I have no idea how I made this stupid thing. So… Jessup and I put our nerd faces on, laid the tie under a surgical lamp, and slowly began to reverse engineer my latest creation. As the sun rose, we placed both pre-tied ties on our desks, high fived, and tried to take a quick nap in our super comfortable dorm beds. Talk about a great night. Although our dashing formal wear was the reason we didn‘t sleep, it was also most likely the reason we were accepted into the Scholars program, because dang, we looked good. Happier times with Scholars include waking Dr. Dan up with a wad of paper during my World Builders presentation, all-nighters, Spam-a-lot, all-nighters, and all-nighters. My favorite night of each year, however, is undoubtedly the Thanksgiving dinner. We have some amazing cooks in this program, and I love it. I make it my personal mission every year to leave with visibly tighter pants than when I arrived. I am going to miss the University Scholars Organization. I have made a lot of friends these past four years and hope to still see them on occasion. I am confident in the newly organized leadership of the program and trust they will take Scholars to new heights. Thank you to those who enhanced my four years here at Martin. Thank you to the professors for taking time away from your families in order to help the program. Thank you to those who became my friends. Thank you to those who didn‘t. I didn‘t want you anyway. Oh, and thanks to whomever gave me $20,000 over four years. I owe ya one!

"I think everyone should go to college and get a degree and then spend six months as a bartender and six months as a cabdriver. Then they would really be educated.” - Al McGuire

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The Scholar April 2011 Edition

What I Learned This Semester Savannah Smith Recently I have realized a truth that nearly all college students are told on the first day of orientation. This truth is common knowledge, but has eluded me since the days of high school until recently. Apprehending it involved learning a difficult lesson, one that I am still not sure has stuck in my mind, and making many mistakes. The lesson I am talking about is condensed in the most irritating phrase to a college student‘s ears: time management. I have always participated in all the activities I could possibly could. This meant filling up my schedule — leaving little mealtime, and zero down time. This worked through my first two and a half years of college. This semester, though, I finally realized that too much is simply that — too much. I enrolled in 20 hours of class, worked 20 hours a week, performed research, and participated in several organizations. This meant meetings, community service, and accommodating any other requirements to continue being a member. Soon my solid mostly ―A‖ average was taking a nose dive. My midterms came in at least one or two letter grades below what I usually make. I never had time to eat, sleep, or socialize. I almost had forgotten what my family looked like because it had been so long since I had found time to go home. I have now reduced the amount of things I do, but I still have little time for myself. This semester, I have received a lot of advice from professors, friends, co-workers, and classmates telling me what to do to fix this problem; but ultimately, I have to look at myself, examine my life, and take my own advice. Simply put, I need to learn that I am not invincible – that I can‘t do it all. The only advice I can give to others is that you will make mistakes. That‘s the point of life. Just remember that you should always learn something from them. This is advice that I am still working on accepting myself! The Exchanges of a Life at UTM A Graduating Senior Submission Luke Sprague College life at UTM involves making many exchanges. When I first came here, I lost old friends, but I have gained new friendships that will last a lifetime. When I first came here, I gave up many choices of food and restaurants as well as home cooked meals in exchange for the cafeteria food. I gave up a house for a dorm room, and now I have given up the dorm for an apartment. I came in with a career plan, but here at UTM I was forced to see that I needed to exchange that plan for another. I have given up money for classes. I have worked diligently in those classes to have a chance to gain that money back. I have given up some of my free time to become a Scholar and gained the friendships and other benefits of becoming one. I gave up some sleep to make memories that I hope will never fade. I moved away from the constant care and love of my family, but I have gained my own family. I have given away my heart and received a love I could never have imagined in return. I have given up the possibilities of four years spent elsewhere, and in return, I have received the best four years I could have asked for. There have been hardships, and there have been times that were not so happy; I have lost many things, but I have gained so much more in return. In the end, what really matters is that I would be willing to do all of this again. I have loved my life here at UTM, and I hope that anyone [senior Scholar] who reads this will also realize just what they have gained by being here instead of only focusing on what they have lost.

The University of Tennessee at Martin‘s University Scholars Organization

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The Scholar: April 2011 Edition  

Newsletter for the University Scholars Organization

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