Hill Magazine 2020 e-Edition

University of Arkansas’ Student-Run Magazine | Fall 2020

The Dignity Issue

“Whoever debases others is debasing himself.”— James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time.

Editor’s Note Welcome to Hill.

2020 has been quite the year. In the midst of a pandemic, a racial and social awakening for many Americans, a presidential election and everything in between, there has been much to learn, and there is still more to keep learning.

A big part of learning happens when we listen to each other.

This magazine is a collection of experiences, curiosities and discoveries told and shown from the distinct perspectives of many different students at the University of Arkansas.

Though the views and opinions in these pieces do not reflect those of the magazine as a whole, it is an honor to get to provide space for students to express, share and publish their unique voices.

To be human means to possess inherent dignity. This is not something gained based on actions, status, education, background or skin color. Human dignity and value is not up for debate, and should simply come with being human. Unfortunately, in the broken world we live in, this is not the case. Systems have been put in place where one must work to attain honor and respect; these systems, which are not always, or ever, fair to all. These systems have favored only a small percentage and told the others they are unseen, forgotten and unloved.

Maybe you’re reading this and you’ve had the hardest year. Maybe you’re reading this and you’re doing just fine. Maybe you even picked this up while waiting for something else.

Whatever it may be, it is my wholehearted desire that the work in this issue reminds you that you are worthy. You deserve to be honored—no matter where you’ve been, no matter how you’re feeling, no matter who tells you differently. By reading and exposing ourselves to voices outside of our own circles, hopefully we can develop a greater understanding and appreciation for the diversity of voices present on this planet and in our communities.

I must extend a big thank you to the many contributors of this magazine. Thank you to all the writers, artists, poets, photographers and designers who worked diligently (and often remotely) in bringing this issue to life. I would like to specifically thank our assistant editor, Mary Katherine Shapiro, for always being there to encourage, support and help in this process. A special thank you also to our senior designer, Kerri Holt, for knowing exactly what we were looking for and translating that from our thoughts to these pages. Thank you to the many professors, like Professor Bret Schulte, Professor Gina Shelton and Professor Gerald Jordan, who have given me opportunities and endless support in chasing my academic and vocational goals. Thank you to the University of Arkansas for being willing to listen to our voices. Lastly, a big thanks to all of you who continue to support student journalism by reading this magazine.

We hope you enjoy Hill.

hillmag.uark.edu

@uahillmag

@uahillmag

@hillmagazine

Editor Natalie Demaree Assistant Editor Mary Katherine Shapiro Senior Designer Kerri Holt WRITERS Beth Dedman Natalie Demaree Emily Franks Jewell Parnell Mary Katherine Shapiro Teagan Shockley PHOTOGRAPHERS Heidi Kirk Jack Williams Kerri Holt ILLUSTRATOR Kerri Holt FACULTY ADVISOR Bret Schulte DIRECTOR OF STUDENT MEDIA Robyn Starling Ledbetter Hill Magazine is published

by Student Media, Division of Student Affairs at the Universiy of Arkansas, 203 Kimple Hall, Fayetteville, AR 72701.

P: 479-575-3408.

All content decisions are made by the student staff of Hill. Views and opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of the University of Arkansas faculty, staff or administration.

Contents © 2020.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States by Magna IV.

Design by Kat Harris, as a part of a series.

7

CONTENTS

13 17 22 23 26 32 37 39

Game Day, Meet God Little People Deserve Better Representation The Noted Invalid In Search of Light #BlackatUARK The Day Our Screens Went Black We’re Still Dreaming No More Euphemisms, Hear Our Demands As the City Slept

Game Day Meet God

by Emi

y,

ily Franks

Superfan Canaan Sandy’s unconditional love through faith and fandom

I

couldn’t miss Canaan Sandy when I walked into Sassy’s Red House in Fayetteville. No one could. The barstool he sat on was swiveled 180°—back to the bar, directly facing the restaurant’s entrance. Lifted like a pedestal, he swung his legs and watched the front door.

I had never met Canaan before, but I recognized him instantly. He wore black pants, an “Eric Musselman Live at Sassy’s” shirt, and a giddy grin. His face crinkled like someone who had been smiling for 37 years straight. His mom, Ginger, sat to his right, assuming her role as Canaan’s assistant greeter.

Everyone who stepped out of the February darkness into the warm glow of Sassy’s had two things in common. The first was that they were all there for Eric Musselman’s Monday night radio show to hear the University of Arkansas’s head basketball coach discuss all things Razorback with Chuck Barrett. The second was that they all knew the red-headed superfan on the barstool.

Canaan called each newcomer by name, greeting them with a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. He returned every “how are you?” with “better now—I missed you so much.” He told me that he missed me when I introduced myself to him, even though we had never met. Strangely enough, I felt like I had missed him too.

Canaan was born in the summer of 1982 with a hole in his heart, intestinal blockage, and no hearing. Two

Canaan on the court of Bud Walton Arena before the game against Auburn on February 4, 2020. This customized shirt was a gift from a fan. Photo by Emily Franks.

days later, his parents were told that he might have Down syndrome, or as Ginger prefers, be forever young.

“That was kind of earth shattering until almost immediately he started having health issues,” Ginger said. “Pretty soon all of that worrying about being forever young went away, and we just wanted him tolive. Nothing else seemed to make any difference.”

Canaan has since defeated health problems and disability stigmas, not only surviving, but surviving to create a life that few would pity. The Cave City native is a Razorback superfan who, over several years, has developed a fan base all his own. His unwavering support of Razorback athletics has charmed players, coaches, and fans alike, and he has become a leader within Razorback nation.

As a through-and-through Razorback fan myself, I’ve known of Canaan for years. I don’t remember when I first heard of him, but just like the running Razorback logo or a celebratory Hog call, Canaan has been there over the course of my life as a fixture of Razorback fandom.

Over his life, Canaan has become many things to many people. He is a follower of Christ, a devout Razorback fan, and a friend to all he meets. Canaan is charming, and he gives world-class hugs. His green eyes sparkle with the wonder of a child and hold the wisdom of Solomon. Though his body is aging, his spirit is not.

As the room at Sassy’s filled with Razorback fans and the smell of fresh barbecue, Canaan was giddy, quietly calling the Hogs to himself. The freckles on his fingers blurred as he wiggled them in the air, scanning the room to recruit imitation.

When Canaan was asked to lead the Hog call before the show started, Ginger leaned over to me and said, “he pretty much rules the roost wherever he is.”

Canaan’s giddiness might lead one to assume that this was a rare and special opportunity for Canaan. And though it was special, because it’s always special to Canaan, stealing the show at Razorback events is just part of his regularly scheduled programming.

Regardless of the Razorbacks’ success, Canaan is used to winning. He wins people over. He wins the room he’s in. But instead of abusing this attention to get his way, Canaan recruits.

Canaan’s passion recruits high school athletes to take notice of Razorback nation. Canaan’s passion recruits dejected fans to keep cheering until the final buzzer of what feels like a hopeless 4th quarter. Canaan’s passion recruits members of his church to stay after lunch for a second worship service. Canaan’s passion is unwavering and infectious. From football to faith, Canaan’s passion recruits people to buy into what Canaan has bought into. Though Canaan’s fame is a first for the Sandy family, he’s not the first to bleed Razorback red. The multi-generational family fandom all started with Ginger’s mother, Clara Cossey, a die-hard Razorback fan who raised her family to be Hog wild.

They were born into a Razorback-loving family, going the extra mile—or 200—to support the Hogs in person every weekend is a tradition unique to Ginger and Canaan.

After the radio show ended, Ginger laughed with

10 Assistant Coach Corey Williams, who played on the Chicago Bulls with Michael Jordan, about how she and Canaan were at the game when Arkansas beat MJ. “Canaan was only about this big,” she said as she used her hands to measure out about a foot. “I almost threw him on the court!”

The superfan said goodbye to everyone with a hug and a “Go Hogs! Beat Auburn!” The Sandys were among the last to leave. The smile that was on Canaan’s face when I first spotted him hadn’t budged.

When I arrived at Bud Walton Arena several hours before the game started on Tuesday, Canaan was already on the court hyping up the team. Every player, coach, referee, security guard, and newscaster called him by name.

After the student section started to fill up, he jumped in front to lead them in a Hog call.

Canaan loved calculating what the teams’ records would be after the Hogs won the game. He loved how touched I was when he gave me a Razorback necklace. He loved passing out high fives, hugs, and “Go Hogs” to everyone who walked by. He loved singing “I’m a Believer” by the Monkees, and he loved telling me that “all referees are not created equal.” He also loved seeing the cheerleaders, who he called his “dates.” Canaan loved it all. And how much Canaan loved it made me love it.

“They play for me,” Canaan said. “I know it in my heart.”

Canaan Sandy with Razorback basketball star Mason Jones at Sassy’s Red House on February 3, 2020. Canaan and Mason bonded over their passions for theater and Razorback athletics. Photo When we finished singing the last note

by Emily Franks. of the national anthem, Canaan looked up at me, beaming, and said, “It’s awesome, right?” Until then, I had forgotten how awesome it was.

The two-lane highway that weaves through the rolling hills of northeast Arkansas toward Independence County is sprinkled with Baptist churches, campaign slogans, and for sale signs advertising acreage.

If you hang a right 12 miles north of Batesville, you’ll find the Sandys’ house at the end of the gravel. And by the time you’ve climbed the winding dirt driveway to the top of the hill, your new best friend will be waving from the front porch.

Canaan lives with his parents on their family farm in Cave City—self-proclaimed home of the world’s sweetest watermelons and the Razorbacks’ #1 fan.

One of the reasons I wanted to get to know Canaan better was because his competitiveness intrigued me.

Not because it was big or bold or intense—which it was—but because it was different. It felt cleaner, purer.

Even in the face of hostility and aggression, he was gracious and compassionate.

Canaan loved the Razorbacks with a love that I had never seen in sports before.

His fandom was

delivered like a home

cooked meal—served

warm, made with

love, and expected no recognition.

Friday nights are warm up for Canaan and Ginger.

When they’re not watching Canaan’s nephews play in Cave City, they travel to Friday night high school games to cheer on prospective Razorbacks. They’ve been to Mississippi, Alabama, Texas, and every corner of Arkansas following recruits.

Saturdays are game days. Wherever the Razorbacks crowd stand up and call the Hogs before he even got are competing is where Canaan and Ginger are headed on stage. Ginger said she was amazed by how much to on Saturday morning. Canaan likes to be there when ESPN employees respected Arkansas, and Canaan the doors open so he can tell the players good luck. He cried when he thanked everyone during his speech. also likes to walk around the stadium to welcome the opposing fans. He doesn’t want them to win, but he’ll never pass up the opportunity to wish them luck.

The Sandys arrive early and stay late. On their In 2003, Canaan was the first forever young to graduate frequent day trips to Fayetteville, they drive 200 miles from Cave City High School. home after the game, often racing the sun to Cave City.

It’s never easy to be the first. There were lots of Canaan has had his fair share of memorable growing pains associated with paving the way for Razorback moments over the years. However, no Hog future forever young students in the school’s special wild memory can come close to rivaling his touchdown education department. The student body accepted, during the Red-White game. encouraged, and challenged him.

Bret Bielema, the Razorbacks’ head football coach Superintendent from 2013Steven Green, who 2017, had a Ginger says is the special place president of Canaan’s in his heart for fan club, remembers Canaan and Canaan’s years at became close Cave City High friends with the School as some of Sandys. After the best years in the inviting the school’s history. family to the “He’s just always football team’s been one of those Red-White young people who is spring game in adored by everyone,” 2014, Coach Steven said. “He Bielema let was the same then Ginger in on his as he is now. Just plan of letting has a servant’s heart, Canaan score always wanting to a two-point lift people up, always conversion. kind, always loving.”

Canaan cheering on the Razorbacks during their warmup. He and his mother Ginger always arrive at least an However, toward the hour early to the game so they can get a head start on cheering on the players. Photo by Emily Franks. end of the third quarter, Ginger remembers an assistant running toward them saying, “Coach wants more!” Players and coaches whisked Canaan away.

The last thing that Ginger heard the athletic director say was, “Canaan Sandy, don’t you dare drop that ball In January of 2018, Ginger heard Canaan call for help in front of 30,000 people!” from his room. As soon as she laid him down on the Canaan ran onto the field, took the handoff from couch, he quit breathing. His wandering green eyes Brandon Allen, and ran the football 50 yards to the locked as his skin turned red and then blue. end zone, putting the Red Team up 54-22.

Several chest compressions later, she saw Canaan’s The players, coaches, and administrators huddled eyes start to light up. He took his first breath in what around Canaan in celebration. When the whooping Ginger said felt like minutes. “I’ve got to get you to the and hollering started to die down, Canaan asked hospital,” Ginger told him before darting off to grab if they could pray. Everyone gathered up and said a her phone and keys. When she came back out, Canaan prayer, but before they closed it, the athletic director was gone. said, “Oh, and by the way Lord—please let us beat “He had gotten up and walked to the car by himself,” Alabama.” Of course, everyone yelled “Amen!”

Ginger said. “He knew he needed help.” When they Canaan’s relentless dedication to the Razorbacks arrived at the University of Arkansas for Medical is what inspired Ginger and Krista, his older sister, Sciences in Little Rock, they found out that Canaan to nominate him for the ESPN Fan Hall of Fame in had an internal mass of stones that had released, 2013. Out of thousands of entries, Canaan was chosen causing a sharp pain so intense that it threw Canaan as a top-10 finalist and elected in December. After into shock.

Following multiple procedures, including nearly 32 years of pouring his heart and soul into the a gallbladder removal, Canaan stayed in the intensive Razorbacks, Canaan was recognized as a Hall of Fame care unit for 11 days.

Fan. Canaan’s health stabilized until the next spring when ESPN flew Canaan, Ginger, a UA Sports Information he had his first stroke. After a few nights in the hospital, Director, and UA’s mascot Big Red to New York City, the Sandys returned home on Saturday. Around 11 where they explored for a few days before a limousine p.m. on Sunday, Ginger heard Canaan say, “Momma, took them to ESPN Studios in Bristol, Connecticut.

I want my eyes back.” She and Danny knew he was The first night, they dined with ESPN executives before having another seizure—the second of what would retiring to their hotel rooms. become a series of five strokes.

At the Fan Hall of Fame ceremony, Canaan had the

12 10 The morning after the second stroke, Lieutenant Governor Tim Griffin coincidentally called to check in on his friend Canaan. After Ginger filled him in, Griffin told her to get Canaan to Little Rock as quickly as she could.

When the Sandys arrived at the Arkansas Heart Hospital, a cardiologist, neurologist, and surgeon were waiting on them. The team of doctors found a massive hole in Canaan’s heart. Miraculously, they were able to mend it with a disc, avoiding open heart surgery.

Canaan still battles chest pains, heat flashes, digestive complications, and sleepless nights. He spends a lot of time at doctor appointments in Little Rock, where Ginger feels lucky to have so many people like Griffin who support Canaan.

The Lieutenant Governor connecting the Sandys with specialists at the heart hospital is just one of a million examples of people with a lot on their plates taking time to look out for Canaan. Griffin said he thinks that people across the state rallying around Canaan speaks to the tight knit community of Arkansas.

“We’re really like one big family, you know?” he said.

Ginger said she doesn’t worry about Canaan’s future.

When she said that that was something she leaves to God, I took her word for it. But when I heard her play “‘Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus” for the opening hymn, I believed her.

Right when I thought that all known civilization had ended 20 miles back, I rounded a bend and spotted Cedar Grove Missionary Baptist Church at the top of the approaching hill. The gravel lot had six cars—all backed into spots—and no phone service.

Canaan picked me up at the front door, his hand on his hip waiting to escort me. “Welcome to my church,” he said. “You’re family now.”

He ushered me through the sanctuary, where the preacher was sharing a Sunday school lesson with the adults. The youth Sunday school class, which was made up of six teenagers and Canaan, was led by Ginger at a round table in the dining room. Canaan and I joined the group’s discussion about the promises God makes in the Bible.

“God keeps his promises because He is perfect,” Ginger said. “If there wasn’t a God, there would be no right or wrong.”

At 11 a.m., a prayer dismissed everyone at the round table to join the adults in the sanctuary for church.

“Few in number but hopefully high in spirits this morning,” Brother Eddie Lee said to the 35-person crowd.

The congregation voiced prayer requests, offered updates, and announced that lunch would be potluck again next Sunday. Canaan sang “He Set Me Free” with Jack Sanders while Ginger played the piano, and Brother Lee delivered a sermon about accepting Jesus Christ as your savior.

“When you have genuinely been saved,” he said, “you will learn to love the things that God loves, like the church.”

The Sandys love the church. Even though they spend most Saturday evenings in a different corner of the state, they drive home four and a half hours through the night so they can be in Cave City for church.

“We would give up the Hogs for the Lord,” Ginger

said, “but if we stay tough and be diligent, we can do both. We can make those Saturday games and still be back in time for church on Sunday morning.”

A member of the congregation strummed his guitar as he sang “The Little Mountain Church House.” I couldn’t help but watch Ginger while the guitarist sang “looking back now, that little mountain church house has become my life’s cornerstone.”

Brother’s Lee’s words lingered in my mind as I made the drive back to Fayetteville—the same drive that the Sandys make nearly every weekend.

“People don’t care how much you know; they care how much you love.”

During hour three, I pulled off the highway for gas and lunch. I couldn’t help but think about how tiring this drive must get. I tried to calculate the yearly miles, gas money, travel time, and every other measurable sacrifice that the Sandys make to support the Hogs.

I couldn’t help but think of the Sandys on the open road in the wee hours of the night—humming through the stillness as the world resets. Canaan reliving the 3rd quarter alley-oop and Ginger planning her Sunday school lesson.

I couldn’t help but think of 1 a.m. with 100 miles to go and the fluid movement between Saturday and Sunday.

When did game day fade into the Lord’s day? Was it midnight? Was it when they reached the end of the winding driveway? Was it when their alarm went off for church?

Somewhere between 10 p.m. in Fayetteville and 2:30 a.m. in Cave City, the line between game day and Holy day becomes blurred.

Maybe Canaan’s devotion to the Hogs is lined with grace—a grace that is found on the open road in the midnight darkness when Saturday bleeds into Sunday.

Canaan is a cheerleader and a bridge-builder. He prays during free throws, wears Razorback gear to church, and loves unconditionally. He was born into a Christian home that loved the Arkansas Razorbacks, but Canaan became the superfan he is in the wee hours on the highway in between.

Read Emily’s full article about Canaan Sandy on the Hill Magazine Website.

Little People Deserve Better Representation Fayetteville mom educates community about dwarfism by Mary Katherine Shapiro

14

K elly Stuckey was walking through the airport when she noticed the Kentucky Derby playing on television

in a restaurant near her gate. She stopped to sit and watch the horse races. Two older men she had never met sat beside her, talking loudly. They were joking about some of the people at the derby being short and calling them midgets.

“They thought they were being funny,” Stuckey said.

She didn’t want to make them uncomfortable, but she knew she had to say something. She interrupted and said, “my son is a little person.”

The men started asking questions like, “how do you know he won’t grow out of it?” She explained that “midget” is a derogatory word, and that dwarfism is a bone growth disorder that people don’t grow out of.

Stuckey said it turned into a great conversation.

The two men even started to cry. She said that most of the time when people say things like that they are uneducated and just don’t understand.

Dwarfism affects about one in 15,000 to one in 40,000 people, according to MedlinePlus. It causes people to have shorter arms and legs in relation to their torso and an enlarged head. Because of the rarity of dwarfism, it has become kind of taboo, Stuckey said.

A lack of knowledge

and a

lack of representation

in the

media has led to a stigma

surrounding little

people. The

media has told a single story

about little people for

a long time.

In P.T. Barnum’s circus, he hired little people to perform for entertainment. Little people play Oompa Loompas in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”

They play munchkins in the “Wizard of Oz.” These are minor roles depicting mythical creatures. As a result of this unrealistic representation, people don’t know how to treat little people with the respect they deserve.

Another offensive form of representation is “midget wrestling.” When a venue hosts “midget wrestling,” they are reinforcing stereotypes that portray little people as objects of entertainment, according to The Little People of America website.

Last February, a nine-year-old from Australia with dwarfism received national attention after his mom shared a video of him. In the heartbreaking video, he was in distress over being bullied, a reporter from CNN said.

When people are only represented one way in film and television, they can start to think that they are limited to that one narrative.

“You don’t see little people that often in movies, but when you do see them they are cast to be a joke or a mythical creature,” Stuckey said. “I get it, it’s a small percentage, but I would love to see a few movies cast little people where there is no joke, but they’re just an average person.”

Stuckey is trying to prevent her child, Everett, from being hurt by these stereotypes. Four-year-old Everett Stuckey lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas, with his mom.

He goes to preschool four days a week. Stuckey said he’s smart for his age. He loves board games and playing Super Mario on his Nintendo. He gets excited for play-dates with his friends. His favorite foods are pizza and chicken nuggets. Like most four-year-olds, he is headstrong and likes to do things his own way.

Stuckey is passionate about educating people on what dwarfism is and how it impacts everyday life. She has used social media to help Everett meet other people with dwarfism, like their friend John-Michael who lives in Birmingham, Alabama. One way she advocates is by sharing her and Everett’s experiences on her social media page. (@hellokellystuckey) She shares pictures of her and Everett to try to help people see dwarfism not as a myth or a joke, but as a regular part of life.

In the mornings, she drinks coffee and Everett drinks chocolate milk. Kelly has passed on her love of music to her son. Sometimes Stuckey plays the piano while Everett sits in her lap. They love to dance. Everett chooses the song and his mom holds him as they dance around the living room.

There are lots of challenges in their everyday life too. Everett doesn’t have the freedom to go outside and play like most kids his age can. He can’t reach the doorknob, so Stuckey has to go with him.

It was difficult for him to learn how to eat because he also has a facial palsy, which causes weakness in the facial muscles and appears to make half of the face droop, according to the Mayo Clinic website. He still eats slowly, and that frustrates him. Stuckey worries about Everett going to middle school and high school.

She worries about the classrooms being far apart because it takes Everett twice as long to walk from one place to another.

Every year, Stuckey sends out a letter to the parents and teachers in Everett’s preschool class. She said she wants to educate parents to have the conversation at home before they go out in public with their kids and something hurtful is said.

“But if you are out in public and something is said, don’t shush them,” she said. “It is okay that they notice things are different. Use that as an opportunity to educate them instead of just sweeping it under the rug,” she said.

She understands people’s confusion because she didn’t know about dwarfism either until Everett was born.

People with dwarfism can be born to parents of average stature. Eighty percent of little people are born to average-sized parents, according to the Understanding Dwarfism website.

It is difficult to detect on an ultrasound, so Stuckey and her husband, Zac Stuckey, had no idea that Everett was a little person. Stuckey had a routine pregnancy, but after 46 hours of labor, the doctor knew something was wrong. People with dwarfism often have enlarged heads which can cause complications in childbirth.

Because of this, Stuckey had to have an emergency C-section.

After Everett was born, everything seemed fine. The day they were discharged from the hospital, a nurse asked the Stuckeys, “Have you noticed that your son is pretty unusual looking?” They were shocked and

overwhelmed.

The nurse started using these big medical terms and suggested Everett might have achondroplasia, a kind of dwarfism, Stuckey said. She suggested this because of Everett’s enlarged head.

They thought she was wrong at first. They went to see a pediatrician, and Everett had bloodwork done at five days old.

While waiting for an official diagnosis, the Stuckeys decided they would not do any research on dwarfism.

They tried to take things one step at a time and not panic. They spent a lot of time in prayer and learning how to care for their son.

“To me he is perfect and he’s beautiful and in a way, I’m glad I didn’t know about the diagnosis until after he was born,” she said.

Stuckey was at home in the nursery trying to feed Everett when the doctor called. The test results came back and confirmed that he did have dwarfism. She said her first thought was, how is the world going to treat him? She imagined the hurtful things people would say and she started to cry.

“I want to make sure he knows he can be what he wants to be and that he’s not limited to certain roles or jobs because of this,” Stuckey said.

Peggy O’Neill, 64, was told that people would never hire her because she is a little person. Now she is an author and professional speaker who travels to schools and corporations to give speeches on inclusion and empowerment. She lives in a small town near Santa Barbara, California.

People need to be respected, she said. They desire to see a reflection of themselves in movies and television because that gives them a sense of belonging.

“Representation of little people is terrible,” O’Neill said, in a phone interview. Her ex-husband, who is also a little person, was an actor.

“The roles he got offered were very limited,” O’Neill said. He played elves in Christmas commercials. He was a child stand-in who stood on the set while the producers fixed the lighting for a child actor. There were multiple times he was asked to show up to an audition in diapers to play the role of a baby.

O’Neill wants to see little people in roles where they speak, interact with other characters and have relationships.

She wants to see more accurate depictions of little people.

The biggest challenge of being a little person is adapting to a world made for average-sized people, O’Neill said. Things like telephone booths, cars, light switches and furniture are all hard for her to use.

The way people respond to her makes life even harder. She said people assume that because she is a little person, she has little intelligence.

“Everywhere you go there’s a reaction. There’s a reaction when you go to school, when you go to work and when you get up on stage to speak,” O’Neill said.

“People think, “Oh my gosh, this person is so different than me, and they go into a state of shock and fear.”

Everett is getting to the age where he is starting to notice these reactions. He has started to notice that he is different, so Stuckey has started pointing out differences in nature to try to teach him that differences are a good thing.

“Everett, look at how many different kinds of trees there are,” she says. Stuckey said she believes that every person is created in the image of God.

We should celebrate that we are not all the same, she said.

Stuckey wants Everett to have confidence that God made him and loves him and he has a purpose, she said.

She hopes that he will find his identity in Christ rather than a diagnosis. Stuckey leans heavily on her faith, especially now that she is parenting Everett alone. Her husband died in a motorcycle crash in July 2019.

Stuckey said she worries about not having her husband to help her with big decisions, like where Everett will go to school in a few years. She worries about Everett having confidence, growing up without a strong father figure.

“It breaks my heart that his dad won’t be here,” she said.

She wishes her husband were here to help Everett with hygiene, she said. Some little people’s arms are not long enough to wash their hair properly. Even going to the bathroom can be challenging.

“Zac was always the really light-hearted and fun one, and I have always been more serious. I worried really early on if I would be able to make life fun for Everett.”

She said that she has male friends and family members who will help fill in the gaps, but it will never be the same without Zac. She wrote on Instagram in September 2019 , “God’s Word tells me that he who began a good work in me will be faithful to complete it (Phil 1:6). That the Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). So many promises and God has been SO NEAR & FAITHFUL. I can’t deny His presence and guidance any more than I could deny this pain. He is supplying supernatural strength to get up, show up, and bring fun and joy into Everett’s life. One day at a time.”

Stuckey has Bible verses all around her home. Her faith is an incredibly important aspect of her everyday life.

Even with this hope, Stuckey said that grief has made her brain feel broken. She and Everett have both been going to counseling. She had a friend come over to help her sort through their house. She is putting together a scrapbook and saving things that belonged to Zac to give to Everett when he’s older to help him feel connected to his dad.

Stuckey said she has been telling herself to “just show up.” Adjusting to life without Zac has been hard, but she keeps showing up. She shows up to her job. She shows up to be a mom. She shows up to meet with friends. She shows up to share her story and continue fighting for better representation of little people like Everett.

While Everett may be well represented on Stuckey’s Instagram page, there is still a lack of good representation of little people in the media. When the media we consume is exclusive, people who don’t look like the majority are marginalized, stereotyped and ignored.

There needs to be better and more frequent representation of people with dwarfism. Little people deserve to be included, both in life and on the screen.

16

The Noted Invalid

b Tegan Shockle

Medical bills and failing health don’t stop a 29-year-old from advocating for disability rights.

by ey

T he cat seems to know when Kati McFarland is emotional. It rubs its head against McFarland, who prefers gender neutral pronouns

and is a wheelchair user, as they contemplate the different ways they could die: starvation, a cardiac episode or dying from exposure if they become homeless again. McFarland thinks their death could easily be avoided, but in the United States, the combination of their disability and financial burden just might kill them.

Looking at McFarland, 29, you can’t tell anything is wrong.

You can’t see the IV port in McFarland’s chest. You can’t see the feeding tube that connects to McFarland’s small intestine and not their stomach, which is paralyzed. You don’t know the constant pain McFarland deals with or that stairs aren’t really an issue, but endurance is.

McFarland has an incurable disease called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. It is a group of genetic disorders that affect a person’s tissues and can cause overly flexible joints and stretchy or fragile skin. The average life expectancy for someone with EDS is 48 years, according to the National Institutes of Health. McFarland was diagnosed in 2015 when they were 24 years old.

Arriving at McFarland’s apartment, it’s surprising to learn that they live on the second story of a white brick building. McFarland can get around by leaning on the narrow walls in their apartment, but they have to use a wheelchair for longer distances because their bones and muscles are weak.

The rickety front door would come to be symbolic of the person living behind it: fragile but still standing.

On multiple occasions, McFarland has advocated for disability rights. They have spoken at rallies, gone to Washington D.C. to protest and even tried to run for local office before their health declined. One goal is to go back to school to help make a difference. McFarland fights for their community not as if their life depends on it but because it does.

For a couple moments in their life, McFarland’s activism has led to fleeting fame. With almost $1,700 a month in expenses, which mainly goes to rent for an upstairs apartment and a $450 treatment for chronic pain, McFarland turned to fundraising.

“When your parents are dead, you’re disabled, you can’t work, you have no prospects, you get kind of desperate,” McFarland said. “I finally had to put together a Go Fund Me … and I raised $50,000 (in 2017).”

Although $50,000 seems like a lot of money, it lasted a little over a year. It was only possible because McFarland confronted Tom Cotton, a Republican Arkansas senator, at a town hall meeting in February 2017 about the Affordable Care Act. They went viral.

McFarland said without coverage through the ACA, they would die. McFarland continued to grill Cotton with questions that he continued to answer vaguely, despite loud boos from the crowd. McFarland’s vulnerability and the nation’s atmosphere in 2017 made the video popular. News stations reached out to McFarland, who ended up doing an interview with CNN’s Don Lemon.

During the start of shutdowns for Covid-19, McFarland again went viral via Twitter. Their pinned tweet posted March 14 has 9.2 thousand likes, outlining their conditions. “I turned 29 2 weeks ago. I’m #HighRiskCovid19 & deserve to see 30.”

McFarland has been outspoken on social media about the election and issues in society like LGBTQ rights.

McFarland made sure to vote Biden this year with a mail-in ballot.

McFarland’s activism does not stop at one town hall meeting in Arkansas or their presence on Twitter. They went to Washington D.C. 12 times in 2017 to protest the ACA repeal, which was not passed, with the Center for Popular Democracy. Dozens of attempts were made to repeal it, but officials couldn’t come to an agreement. President Trump has carved away at the ACA and healthcare through executive orders since then.

In non-violent acts, McFarland and other volunteer protesters confronted Congress members to voice their concerns. Despite the possibility of arrest, people would chant in hallways outside offices and demand meetings with representatives. McFarland was arrested seven times.

During one arrest, McFarland was transferred to the hospital because police didn’t know what to do with their feeding tube.

“I was handcuffed to an ER bed,” McFarland said.

“They were like, ‘Well, we don’t want to deal with a disabled person, so we’re going to pawn you off onto the hospital.’”

Cameron Smith, a student at the University of Kansas, also protested with the CPD in 2017. Smith thought it would be one of her only chances to fight for something she believed in at the capitol, so she took the red-eye to D.C. where she eventually met McFarland.

McFarland was sitting on their phone in a hotel lobby when Smith approached and asked why they were there. Smith wanted to connect with McFarland because they were one of the only people around her age. Three hours later, both of them were handcuffed.

“We were banging on walls, we were chanting, ‘Kill the bill! Don’t kill us,’ Smith said. “It circled around one common goal of stopping the bill from passing because everyone there knew how detrimental that tax reform would be to people surviving off of Medicaid.”

Because Smith works for the government as a legislative assistant, she gets to see advocacy from a different perspective. Once, she overheard democratic office members say they were happy and proud to see CPD people protesting at the senate.

“I immediately thought of Kati and all the other key members from 2017, and I was like, ‘That’s the crew,’” Smith said. “Kati mobilized the challenges of her life to make her a prominent figure in politics and advocacy.”

Smith thinks McFarland is inspirational on multiple levels, from makeup skills to advocacy.

Although they’ve struggled to stay in contact since D.C., they stay up-to-date on social media.

“I still am supporting her every day from afar, supporting her love of ice hockey and supporting her love of protesting,” Smith said.

“She’s a living, breathing example of what everyone should strive to be.”

Photo courtesy of Kati McFarland. They have been arrested seven times while protesting against the repeal of the Affordable Care Act in Washington D.C.

McFarland chose to spend energy when they could be an activist, yet they can’t work a normal job. Because of their condition, they have depended entirely on disability checks for income.

In the U.S., there are two programs that provide

20 benefits for people who the government determines are disabled: Social Security Disability Insurance and Supplemental Security Income. McFarland thinks the system could be better, especially because the income is barely enough to survive.

There is more to McFarland than their disability however. The herbs and mint leaves that line their windows tell you they like plants. Scrolling through Twitter you can see how much they enjoy the Korean boys band BTS. Their love for animals is evident too. One of McFarland’s four cats curls up on the wheelchair, which has a broken motor, as Red the rescue Greyhound gets cozy on his bed. But pain is also a huge part of McFarland’s life.

“If you suddenly inflicted the level of pain that chronic patients feel on an able-body person, they would be completely incapacitated,” McFarland said. “Humans have a great knack for adaptation, but that doesn’t mean I’m functional. I’m still pretty much bed-bound.”

McFarland grew up in Missouri. They lived in the Springfield area and started to share memories, like the 2007 ice storm that kept people inside for two weeks.

McFarland is an only child, and both of their parents have passed away.

McFarland’s mom, who had Type I diabetes, died from cancer when they were 10, so Kati was used to the medical arena before getting diagnosed with EDS. By 4-years-old, McFarland knew how to call 911, and by the time they were six they knew how to inject insulin (via fruit practice). Their dad died from a stroke in 2016 while McFarland attempted CPR. McFarland is alone, so they depend on friends.

“Without family, that really compounds things,” they said. “So my circumstances, because my family is either uncaring or dead, fucks me over extremely.”

In the small room at St. Martin’s Episcopal Center at the University of Arkansas, McFarland and Kristen McIntosh talk about their recent trip to the store.

McIntosh sews a vest while McFarland goes through old Instagram posts on their laptop. It’s late, but this is where they like to hang out. McIntosh is more reserved and doesn’t always catch McFarland’s dark-humored sarcasm.

McIntosh, a student at Northwest Arkansas Community College, met McFarland at St. Martin’s.

They share similar experiences of a deceased parent, mental health issues and being part of the LGBTQIA+ community. They are also connected because McIntosh cares about wheelchair access, and they joke about being broke.

McIntosh wants to start a ramp building ministry in Northwest Arkansas. McIntosh’s inspiration stems from her father, who was a double-amputee, and McFarland, who is also a wheelchair user. It’s difficult to begin because she doesn’t have enough money.

“The only reason (my dad) could get to our house was because our church built a ramp,” McIntosh said.

“I have a binder (of ideas) and I’m trying to figure out how to start one … because it’s something that I care a lot about.”

On a good day, McFarland spends time on Twitter and takes Red on a walk. Because they don’t have a car, McFarland can’t go anywhere on their own. (Their wheelchair, which costs about $12,000, also needs repairs.) McFarland depends on friends to take them to the community center or to get groceries. McIntosh doesn’t see McFarland’s friendship as a burden, so anytime she’s going to the store she’ll reach out to McFarland.

“We usually go shopping together because if you get overstimulated, if you’re me or them, sometimes having

another person there is really helpful,” McIntosh said.

McFarland’s health is linked to money. When insurance and disability checks are in order, they can focus more on their physical well-being and hobbies like hockey or photography. When McFarland lost their health insurance in 2018, they quickly became homeless. After staying with a friend for a short time, McFarland moved to their aunt’s home in Joplin, Missouri, in November of that year.

But things got worse. Without their social security check, McFarland couldn’t afford to replace their feeding tube. This forced them to take medication by mouth, leading to a bleeding ulcer that nearly killed them in January 2019.

“I woke up at 4 a.m. vomiting blood,” McFarland said. “Well, I couldn’t even tell if it was blood because it looked purple and the walls looked green even though they were white … I kind of had an innate sense of ‘I am dying.’”

McFarland remembers the atmosphere quickly shifted when the blood tests came back. In a blur, McFarland was rushed to surgery and stayed in the Intensive Care Unit for four days at Mercy Hospital in Joplin.

Even though their new health insurance started Jan. 1, payments went wrong while McFarland was in the ICU and their car was later repossessed.

“My (conditions) are not inherently fatal, but I still sort of live on this knife’s edge,” McFarland said.

“Without the kindness of strangers’ fundraising … I would either starve to death or, without my medication, I would eventually pass out more, hit my head and die that way.”

McFarland has made new friends at the center that is right across UA’s campus, which she used to attend.

They were getting a degree in violin performance and business, but McFarland had to drop out again because of their declining health and financial drain. The first time McFarland went to college was at Missouri State University in 2009. McFarland feels like it’s one blow after another that keeps them from fully moving forward in life.

“I just want to finish my degree like anyone,” McFarland said. “I just want to finish my degree, and then go onto the next degree, finish that, get a job, do some good in the world, have a family and just have a good life.”

The next time McFarland can go to school, they want to become a doctor. I was surprised when they said this, but I realize it’s my own ignorance. McFarland knows medical professionals who have EDS, and they have inspired McFarland to pursue this career. McFarland feels like doctors and nurses don’t really listen to them, and if they were a doctor, they could make the field better.

“For some reason people just don’t seem to listen to or think of disabled people as humans,” McFarland said. “I make a lot of very careful choices about how I present myself. You can’t look to put together or they think you’re a faker, but you can’t be too sloppy because then they will dismiss you even more.”

McFarland’s persevering character must constantly battle the physical state they are in. Unless it’s an errand day with the help of friends like McIntosh, McFarland is typically bed or couch bound. Sometimes they skip basic daily activities like showering or brushing their teeth because they don’t have the energy. Days can be filled with calls to providers and debilitating migraines.

McFarland tries to have a sense of normalcy by staying online, but what is a 29-year-old faced with the real possibility of death supposed to do?

McFarland chooses to fight, advocate and survive.

Photo illustration by Kerri Holt

22

In Search of Light Let us commit to create light in darkness.

But do you understand?

I mean let us first look inward to the suffocation of prejudice ramming against the walls of our ribcages and barreling to the roofs of our mouths.

Let us dissect the parasite and dismantle every pinched nerve, twisted muscle, and crooked bone until we are free from its threats.

Upon thorough examination, let us restore what has been broken.

Mending the narrative that we know to be wrong.

Do you understand?

Only through confrontation of evil can we expect to find virtue.

Pockets of light to scatter and share and suppose that we will be better soon.

Let us labor beyond the dark cover of ignorance in hopes of unified understanding. And if not understanding, perhaps just recognition.

Then we will remember to find one another and listen to the places our hearts have traveled, now emerging into curative light.

—Morgan Walker

#Blacka

atUAR K

10 24 10

It’s intimidating for any freshman to walk on to the University of Arkansas’ campus for the first time. For Black students in the 1960s, it was even more intimidating because the University was just beginning to desegregate its campus.

Professor Gerald Jordan felt overwhelmed as a Black student at UA in 1966. There were more students in his freshman biology class than at his high school, and most of the students were white.

Jordan lived in Humphreys Hall, which was an all-male dorm at the time. The residence halls would have social events where men from Humphries would be paired up with women from Hotz. The organizers of these events kept students separated by race and never paired a Black student with a white student.

“When there were no other African American women to be paired with, we were just left out,” he said.

Jordan said some parents wouldn’t allow their children to be roommates with a Black student. If they were assigned a Black roommate, sometimes they would demand to switch rooms, he said.

White students didn’t just avoid Black students in the dorms. “If you sat at one of the long tables at Brough and there were white kids at the other end, they would get up and leave,” Jordan said.

Professor Jordan went on to graduate school for journalism at Northwestern, served in the military and now he is back at his alma mater teaching journalism. He said he has seen a lot of changes on campus since he was a student.

“No one is bashful about using the terms diversity, equity and inclusion,” he said. “The question is how effective are they at implementing that.”

This past summer, many Black students shared stories of being excluded at UA using the Twitter hashtag #BlackAtUark. The following Tweets are documentation of some of the conversations that happened by using this hashtag. These conversations show that racism is still a problem on campus today.

It is time to go beyond having conversations about diversity and inclusion and take action to make campus a safer space for Black students.

­—Mary Katherine Shapiro

Illustration by Kerri Holt

The Day Our Screens Went Black Social media’s influence in the Black Lives Matter Movement and George Floyd Protests

by Natalie Demaree

The world was heavy—mournful—on June 2,

2020 as we watched our screens turn black.

On that day, the loud and seemingly infinite stream of information and self promotion regularly seen on social media came to a stop, leaving but one voice to be heard. This voice was not a new voice, rather, it was one as old as America. A voice that had been belittled and silenced for decades erupted all over social media bringing about a rude, but necessary, awakening for many Americans.

Just eight days before, on May 25, George Floyd, a Black man, was murdered by white police officers in Minneapolis. This event was caught on video and disseminated quickly throughout the quarantined country.

According to a Times analysis of a timestamped video taken at the scene, former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin pinned Floyd on the ground keeping his knee on Floyd’s neck for at least eight minutes and fifteen seconds.

Eight minutes and fifteen seconds.

Floyd lost consciousness, and Chauvin did not remove his knee, according to the analysis.

Paramedics arrived at the scene and for a full minute and twenty seconds after, Chauvin kept his knee on Floyd’s neck.

As the video circulated, viewers were left devastated and confused by the callous actions of the police officer. It was this video which galvanized protests in cities across the country, bringing many individuals out of their homes after living remotely for three months because of stay-at-home orders enacted due to the coronavirus pandemic.

The George Floyd protests soon gathered steam as it was broadcast all over the media.

26

Activism was not

only flourishing on

the streets,

but on the streams of

social media, now

leaving a record of

images and videos recounting

the tumultuous cry of protesters.

These images revealed that people weren’t just demanding justice for George Floyd, but for the many fatal shootings of unarmed Black individuals by police officers.

Black men are 2.5 times more likely than white men to be killed by police during their lifetime, a 2019 study done by the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America found. According to Statista, a German statistics company, 157 Black people have been fatally shot by police this year alone as of Oct. 30, 2020.

Blackout Tuesday, on June 2, 2020, came about as a response to these events. It was a collective gesture of solidarity with the protests against the police

Several people gathered on June 2, 2020 for the Black Lives Matter protest on the Fayetteville square. Photo by Heidi Kirk.

killings of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and so many other Black citizens. This initiative was started by two Black women, Jamila Thomas and Brianna Agyemang, by using the hashtag “#TheShowMustBePaused” according to The Show Must Be Paused website. Though it originated in the music industry, this hashtag eventually spread to all forms of social media.

“We are tired and can’t change things alone. In the meantime, to our Black friends and family: please take the time for you and your mental health,” Thomas and Agyemang said on their website. “To our allies, the time is now to have difficult conversations with family, friends and colleagues.”

The voice of the Black community was the only voice left to be heard on that day, and it marked a consequential point in a movement toward a widespread re-education in America and sparked a national discourse about race, police brutality and policy.

I remember feeling confused as I scrolled through my Instagram feed early that summer morning, before knowing anything about the initiative. As I saw a few acquaintances posting black squares, I thought to myself: What’s up with these black squares? Are people getting hacked?

I exited out of the app, thinking when I looked at it again later that day there would be something more

28

riveting for me to see. After brunch with my family, I opened Instagram again shocked to find that my entire feed was made up of black squares.

What the heck is going on? I thought, perplexed that my regularly scheduled Instafeed had been disrupted.

I paid particular attention to who had posted these black squares—this time, my friends had posted, businesses I follow had posted, public figures had posted. I couldn’t help but to read through a few captions. Though the black squares said nothing, the multitude of them was provocative enough to capture my attention.

The captions that accompanied the black squares posted that day were unforgettable, to me. The words were obviously written out with a weighty, sorrowful sentiment. Some were enraged at the events that had happened over the last few days. Some captions stated bible verses like Isaiah 1:16-17 which says, “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean. Remove the evil of your deeds from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression.” Some captions were simply left blank, as if no words could possibly mend the current situation we were in.

Black-Owned Northwest Arkansas, an Instagram account meant to serve as a guide to Black-owned businesses in Northwest Arkansas, wrote in their caption, “‘#blackouttuesday’ the movement is more than a hashtag check your heart and intentions before engaging. Do you really want change or is it for show?

Black people have to be about that life everyday. Will you still be around when the cameras stop rolling?”

I realized what was happening.

The posts were an acknowledgement of the broken racial climate in America.

On Jan. 4, 2020, a few months before Blackout Tuesday, I sat at the front of a nearly empty classroom dumbfounded about the new information being taught in my Black Movements and Messiahs intersession course at the University of Arkansas.

I had signed up to try to get ahead in course credits, and the class counted as a history credit, which I needed. It looked interesting enough, and I had high hopes that it would be an easy class, especially since it

was offered during winter break.

Over the next week and a half, Caree Banton, who has a doctorate in history, led our class of about 12 people in a deep expedition back in time and through the history of Black people, from their perspective.

The class was packed with new content, and on top of being in class for about four hours a day with only a short break in between for a week and a half straight, we were also assigned two book reports and a group project to work on outside of class—not an easy A. I think I learned more in that class than any other class I had ever taken. Incredibly humbled by the experience, I went and added African and African American Studies as a minor as soon as I finished the class.

Part of me was infuriated that in all my years of being in school, no one had ever taught me the history of Black people in America, from their perspective. In 14 years of being a student and being asked to “think critically” I had never even questioned if there was another side of history.

“This is systematic, you know. From the textbooks that you’re reading in middle school and high school all the way up to how the curriculum is arranged in college that some people never get to take those classes,” Banton said.

I can’t even begin to imagine how Black people must feel having their historical records left out of academic narratives. What kind of an education system is this?

Favoring and exclusively teaching one perspective and ignoring the many other perspectives that are foundational to not only society, but to the human experience!

We have got to re-evaluate.

I took a screenshot of a black square and went to post. I couldn’t think of a caption. Right before I started typing #blackouttuesday, I deleted my draft of the post. The situation was delicate, and I wanted more time to reflect before posting.

I set down my phone and picked up my copy of Nelson Mandela’s autobiography that I had been reading. On the TV, I pulled up Spotify to enjoy some background music.

Oh my gosh. Spotify is participating in Blackout Tuesday too.

The covers for playlists in the “browse” section were blacked out. Some of the artists I was following also had changed their profile photos to a black picture. I couldn’t believe it.

This is awesome. This is a cross-media movement; this is a global movement.

I turned on my favorite artist, Chance The Rapper, and exchanged my book for my phone. Out of curiosity, I opened up Pinterest, my second most used social media app besides Instagram. It was there too.

Pinterest had changed its profile picture to match the Blackout Tuesday initiative.

As incredible as I thought it all was, there was a skeptical thought that lingered in my mind: If the goal is to elevate Black voices, how is choosing to post a black square actually helping?

Wouldn’t it be better if I just didn’t post on social media at all?

I questioned if my motivation to post at first had been performative.

If I was going to show that I stood in solidarity with the Black community, shouldn’t I be doing something else besides just posting something on social media? But what could I do?

I refrained from posting that day.

Not because I don’t care about Black people, and I wasn’t mad that other people were posting their black squares either. I just didn’t understand and couldn’t justify how my post would help elevate the voices of Black people around me. I didn’t want to post out of pressure to make a statement, and I certainly didn’t want to post on Blackout Tuesday and forget the sentiment behind that post the next Tuesday. I was silent.

A July 2020 survey reports that 23 percent of social media users in the U.S. and 17 percent of adults overall say that social media has led to a change in their views about a political or social issue, many citing the Black Lives Matter Movement, according to Pew Research Center, a non-partisan think tank based in Washington, D.C. On Twitter alone, the “#BlackLivesMatter” hashtag was used roughly 3.7 million times per day from May 26 to June 7, according to Pew. Social media is a tool that has been used to propel movements recognizing People of Color. However,

when used incorrectly or without proper knowledge, social media has also been used to cause more damage to those people groups.

At about lunch time on Blackout Tuesday, people began removing their posts. There was a graphic circulating calling for people to delete their black square posts. Black-Owned Northwest Arkansas posted a follow up–“If you’ve posted a black square with #blacklivesmatter please consider deleting. You’re silencing valuable resources and information within the movement. We need our voices to be amplified, not silenced. #blackouttuesday #blacklivesmatter” While the initiative began with good intentions, because of a lack of information, it ended up doing more harm than good. By adding the hashtag #blacklivesmatter to the posts from the Blackout Tuesday initiative, it was burying crucial information, especially relating to protests that were happening at the time that were being shared within the Black Lives Matter Movement under that hashtag.

Jasmine Hudson and J’Aaron Merchant, who run the Black-Owned Northwest Arkansas account, are concerned that intentions in posting a black square may not have all been pure.

“You have to engage in what’s popular, right. So, take an influencer and they have a diverse fan base, and even if they really don’t believe in everything that the Blackout stance stood for, they have to post it or else they’re gonna get called out, and the last thing you need in today’s cancel culture is to be cancelled,” Hudson said.

Hudson said that on one end, the initiative served in bringing an overall awareness to the genuine belief that Black lives really do matter, but overall the movement was more detrimental in her opinion. A major concern Hudson, Merchant and others shared that day is what would happen after. If there would be any tangible change as a result from the initiative.

“With big corporate businesses, they posted their black square and their white text and kept it moving,” Merchant said.

The Blackout Tuesday social media initiative, in a

30

sense, reflected the way our culture mourns the losses of innocent Black lives non-virtually. People take time to sympathize with the Black community and then go back on living their normal lives.

“It happens after every single shooting. There’s always a Town Hall, a discussion, someone may even put together like a plan, but it doesn’t, nothing actually really happens to really impact change,” Hudson said.

This shouldn’t be the case. If America ever wants to move forward as a non-racist country, policy change must happen proportionately to the dialogue about racism and inequality. We need something tangible.

As I watched my screen go black, I was bewildered at how rapidly the initiative spread across all platforms of social media. As I watched people take down their posts or change their captions, I was alarmed at how much of an effect cancel culture has on what people do on social media. I was alarmed at how quickly misinformation could travel.

I felt helpless as I remembered what I had learned in my January intersession class.

The threads of prejudice,

racism, favoritism and

inequality were

woven into the

foundations of

our country. And though

it is a hard recognition,

it is those

threads that

hold together

the most valuable

systems that

make up what

we call a democracy.

And how could I, a single individual, help without causing more hurt? Can all American citizens ever

truly experience freedom and security within the land of liberty?

The lyrics of “America the Beautiful” rang in my head.

America! America!

God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law!

I prayed that Jesus would come back soon. That he would bring justice and restoration so that people would stop considering good and evil on their own terms—so that I would stop considering good and evil on my own terms.

The day our screens went black marked a historic day for so many reasons. It showcased a collective voice broadly while allowing different routes of looking into individual voices—all which yearned and pleaded equality for every citizen, no matter their background.

For me, Blackout Tuesday was an internal scope, an opportunity to contemplate my own implicit biases and a promise to keep unlearning history as it was taught, and to re-learn history, incorporating everyone’s perspectives.

The day helped me to diversify my social media feed, so that I can listen to people outside of my own circle.

It taught me about being intentional with where I invest my time and money.

I think a lot of people learned some of the same lessons I did because of Blackout Tuesday. Though at the time the situation was confusing, and misinformation was traveling like crazy, I believe this day was purposeful in catching the attention of many Americans.

I am thankful for the patience and grace given to me by my Black friends, professors and acquaintances.

Though I know you’re tired, and though I know things like this shouldn’t keep happening—thank you for continuing to fight, and for continuing to lead us in learning to love earnestly and to love all.

May we remember this historic day, and assimilate the honest sentiments behind it into how we think and the choices we make daily. And may this lead us past a conversation, to tangible policy change that upholds the inherent value of all people.

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!

We’re Still Dreaming story by Jewell Parnell photos by Jack Williams

Illustration by Kerri Holt

32

Several valuable conversations are taking place at

this point in history. Whether these conversations happen in a professional setting or with loved ones, they are happening for good reason.

At the forefront of these conversations are the topics of race, diversity, discrimination and inclusion. People are engaged in a revolution of not just thought, but practice. Great minds like Martin Luther King Jr. have dreamed of a world where our nation’s creed would be upheld—that all men are created equal. A world where justice is no longer accepted as bankrupt and cannot continue to overlook the urgency of a moment.

Still, here we stand over 50 years later. Everyone knows there is still work to be done to ensure justice, and people are having conversations— hard ones, uncomfortable ones, unifying ones. The work begins by recognizing diversity, understanding what inclusion looks like, and talking about it.

At the University of Arkansas, 79.2 percent of students are white while only to only 9.2 percent of students make up the Hispanic/Latino population; 4.5 percent are Black or African American, 2.7 percent are Asian, 0.8 percent are Native American or Alaska Native and 0.1 percent are Native Hawaiin or other Pacific Islander, according to UA’s Fall 2020 enrollment report.

The majority is obvious, yet this campus falls right above the national average of diversity on college campuses in terms of age, ethnicity and gender. So what does diversity actually look like on American campuses? What does it feel like, other than numbers?

The following stories are from four different UA students who are not just doing the work, but living it. By describing their experiences on campus, these students offer insight and perspectives to be considered when thinking about our own interactions on campus.

Let them be our guides into the age where we love and understand not just our classmates, but the rest of humanity, and respect one another’s plight that is so very different from our own.

Jissel Esparza

Obed Lamy

10 34 One day in March 2019 as I was packing my bags to head off to America for my master’s program, a friend who has lived in the country for years called me and said, “You’re going to Arkansas? It’s a very racist state!” Like other advice I was provided upon taking my Fulbright adventure, that conversation I assume, was well-intentioned to make me more cautious about approaching life in unknown terrain.

Indeed, when first I arrived in Fayetteville, everything was new to me; yet, it has never felt strange or unwelcoming. From classrooms to churches to restaurants, the spaces I have found myself share a common denominator: only a few Black people, if not only me, are present there. In itself, that has not troubled me much. Maybe my excitement to discover the magnificence of this country impaired my curiosity to capture the human stories behind some statistics, but less than 5 out of 100 students at UA are Black, according to UA’s fall 2020 enrollment report.

In the summer there was a flood of testimonies under the hashtag “#BlackatUark” on Twitter, opening many eyes to discriminatory behaviors Black students have faced on campus. I don’t think I have ever been through similar experiences.

But I started to pay more attention to these dynamics of race relations a bit earlier when I undertook a documentary in fall 2019 on how an African-American student managed to navigate this predominantly white university.

In normal times, the campus has a cosmopolitan atmosphere populated by students of all nationalities. However, beneath the facade of multiculturalism lies sometimes a reality where individuals tend to confine themselves within small circles of friends who look like them, with hardly any desire for interchange with outside communities. I have seen different public events hosted by Black students on campus, with very few attendees from other ethnic groups. The opposite could be observed, as well.

It was interesting to see many more Black faces on ZOOM meetings about systemic racism, held both in and outside of the University, during the heat of racial protests sparked by the killing of George Floyd last summer.

The same thing usually happens in class when discussing minority issues; students who are seemingly less affected by these problems are more inclined to remain silent. If education is a social equalizer, then schools should be a good place to engage in the conversation about inequality.

Fortunately, my work has brought me around many leaders who successfully champion the cause of creating a more diverse and inclusive campus at UA. Still, I am concerned that the restrictions of social distance and remote learning imposed by the pandemic undermine for a long time the possibility of interaction between different groups, which is crucial to sustaining diversity and mutual understanding. How can we make sure that the “invisible groups” don’t remain literally in the shadow on the ZOOM screens and feel they belong to the community? That’s a serious question the University authorities should seek to address.

As a child, I never thought I would go to college. I didn’t know anyone that had hair like mine or skin like me, that went to college. It was a distant thing that only the white people I knew did.

Looking back, the best decision I’ve ever made was to attend the University of Arkansas. I’ve had the opportunity to partake in Latinx cultural events and learning opportunities. I’ve been able to attend seminars and learn more about my own culture and background, an opportunity that I never really had in high school. All of the knowledge of my Mexican culture, I had to learn from the Internet before coming to Arkansas. The Latinx student community on campus is there to lend a hand when you need it. No matter what. We all share this deep bond and friendship. I’ve been able to become friends with Latinx students from all over Latin America, and not just those of Mexican descent, like me. That is not to say that UA doesn’t have places to improve.

As a first generation college student, at my Freshmen Orientation, I was filled with questions. Unlike my friends, I couldn’t really turn to my parents for help, even though I really wanted to. During my sophomore year, I served as an orientation mentor, and I saw this so many other Latinx students experience the same thing. I wish the UA would recreate Spanish resources for the parents of Latinx students. That way, just like native English speaking parents, they are able to understand what UA is all about. I also wish the Latinx population percentage was higher. I believe that this could happen if the University created initiatives to attract Latinx students throughout the state of Arkansas. The Latinx population percentage in the state should be reflective at the University. I do applaud the state of Arkansas for allowing Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals recipients to receive in-state tuition. I know this has impacted a significant amount of Latinx students on campus, and in future years, will increase the amount of Latinx students. This is not something a lot of states offer, especially in the South. On a more personal level, I am honored that I get to serve as the Student Body Treasurer and represent the Latinx population in a way that we normally don’t see.

Kolten Long

Shalu Jivan

36

In my three years at the University of Arkansas, I have been involved in countless organizations in order to find my place at this institution. I have participated in programs such as Razorback Food Recovery and Passionate About Learning with the Volunteer Action Center, Associated Member Program, as a member and staff, Office of Financial Affairs for Associated Student Government, Indian Cultural Association and Leadership Walton. I am also currently working as a Resident Assistant on campus. Having been a part of so many different organizations, I have learned how to love UA. I have wanted to do more to improve my home here at UA, but I have realized that I have to work significantly harder than many of my friends and peers due to being a part of the minority as an Indian American. Though there are many resources such as the Multicultural Center and the Office of Diversity and Inclusion on campus, there is still a lack of connection between students representing the University and the demographic breakdown of the actual student population.

I have seen this lack of representation in most of the organizations I have been involved in except my job as an RA. The majority of the campus RA’s have hometowns in various parts of the country and even the world and have extremely diverse backgrounds and majors. Being an RA has made me feel the most included, filling me with a sense of pride to be working for my University. There have been many pushes to increase representation across many organizations, and I have seen success in most of them. The need for diversity is not simply to show representation but also to inform other students that people with similar backgrounds are being included in these organizations and to encourage more to join.

The important issues that surround both equity and inclusion are definitely not the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about the state of Arkansas. As an out gay man that has grown up in the South, sadly, it is so easy to find moments of discrimination and microagressions that occur almost on a daily basis.

Coming to the University of Arkansas just a few months after coming out to my family and friends, I was absolutely filled with anxiety as to how I would find people that I felt both safe and comfortable around while completing my undergraduate degree. Being any type of different in the current world climate is already challenging, so starting an entire new chapter of my life proved to be a daunting task.

As a cisgender white gay male, I am one of the most privileged members of the LGBTQIA+ community. I know of numerous people that live in the Northwest Arkansas area that have faced various forms of discrmination in the short time that I have attended UA. During my freshman year at the University, I spent much of my time trying new experiences on campus to find where I felt most comfortable. Luckily, I found the Volunteer Action Center, a group of service minded individuals where I felt both accepted and supported to be who I am. However, this is not the case for everyone that attends UA. Although the city of Fayetteville prides itself on being an inclusive community and the University has taken steps to increase awareness of these issues, it seems that UA has much room for improvement in the equity and inclusion area in order to make all students feel like they belong here.

No More Euphem Hear Our Dema

Anti-racism policy change at the University of Arkansas as a result of student initiatives by Natalie Demaree

S

tudent initiatives demanding inclusivity and antiracism are catching the attention of administrators at the University of Arkansas.

According to UA enrollment reports for Fall 2020, 4.5 percent of students are Black or African American.

“There’s a lot of conversation that’s been happening, a lot of special committees that have been developed to look at things,” said Valandra, former director of African and African American Studies at UA, who has a doctorate in social work.

Chancellor Steinmetz penned a letter to the campus community June 17, 2020 in response to the hashtag #BlackatUARK promising stronger diversity, equity and inclusion. Many students and faculty members are wondering what is being done to not only keep this commitment but set the precedent for the future of the campus community.

“I have been reading #blackatUARK and I hear you.

Your experiences are powerful, painful testaments to the vital work we need to do to make our campus equitable and inclusive,” Steinmetz said in a tweet.

“These hard, real discussions are an important step to affect change together. #UARK” As a direct response to the #BlackatUARK tweets, the Chancellor announced in a press release that he was meeting weekly with an advisory group of Black student leaders. Soon after, UA also began a session series called “Transforming U of A: Combatting Racism to Build a More Inclusive Campus,” facilitated by the Office for Diversity and Inclusion. The goal of this series was to inform a campus action plan in order to develop a more inclusive campus climate, according to a UA press release.

The Black Student Caucus at UA, which is not a registered student organization, also retweeted many #BlackatUARK tweets and posted a list of 15 demands

for policy reforms on campus.

“Black Student Caucus endeavors to reclaim like ‘diversity and inclusivity.’ Oftentimes, diversity and inclusivity are cloaked, skeletal terms that never truly result in tranquility and happiness for the very group it is supposed to be including,” the Black Student Caucus said July 6 in a media statement.

Included in the list, is a call for more Black staff in both the Pat Walker Health Center and the Office of Student Standards and Conduct, the removal of two statues on campus and the renaming of the dining hall, a redefinition of the hate speech policy in the handbook and more funding for Black students.

“We seek happiness, wholeness, and fulfillment for Black students at the University of Arkansas,” the Caucus said in the statement.

Valandra said that one of the problems in addressing issues on campus is euphemism in speech surrounding topics on race and inequality.

“We are talking about structural issues of disparity

38

misms, nds that have been around for centuries,” Valandra said.

The office of equal opportunity and compliance has developed an initiative called “We Are Committed to ACT.” Valandra said she thinks this issue is unique because the program addresses the term civility, along with the terms diversity and inclusion.

“It’s one of the first times that I have heard that word used in relationship to the University,” she said.

Including civility in the initiative means that addressing formal politeness and courtesies will be involved, adding a whole new dimension to the conversation.

The three letters of this initiative stand for aiding in stopping the acts or incidents of discrimination, and sexual misconduct, championing inclusive excellence and telling someone who can take action about your concerns, according to the ACT website.

The action plan focuses on four focus areas including communication, which focuses on branding the initiative, programming and collaboration both shortterm and long-term, reinforcement and guidance on policy and procedures and identifying resources to help the initiative remain.

“We must emphasize this commitment to inclusion so diversity, access, equity and civility become part of the fabric of our institution,” the ACT website states.

Though the initiative is still in the data-gathering stage, Valandra said she thinks new policies will be developed through it.

Steven Caldwell, who has a doctorate in musical arts and serves as the chair of the faculty senate, said they took up and passed about two proposals, with several more underway, as a result of some of the discussions that took place over the summer and into the beginning of the semester.

“The process through which policy is changed on the University—it’s not a slow process, but it’s an involved process, and it goes through many steps,” Caldwell said.

The week of August 22, just before classes started, the faculty senate approved an update to the language

surrounding the definition of harassment in the student policy handbook which now includes more platforms, such as social media, through which students are harassed, he said. This was a response to changes recommended as a result of the #BlackatUARK tweets, Caldwell said.

He said another policy proposal, recommended by Dean Koski, that recently passed nearly unanimously, recommended a change to the membership of the UA’s Committee on Courses and Programming. The new language now requires there to be an undergraduate student member selected by the Office for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion and one graduate student member selected by the Black Graduate Student Association.

“We usually do not have students of color on the curricular review portion of this committee,” Caldwell said. “So the change was, can we make it more intentional so that we reserve a seat that is specific for Black students, so that they have greater agency over curricular changes here at the University.”

Along with those changes, there are also committees, one of which he is on, that are re-examining the names of Fulbright college, the statue outside of the building and the name of Brough on Brough commons, he said.

Those committees are also still in the “listening” stage, meaning that they have not yet had any debate on the issue, but are hearing from several different members of the community including members of the Associated Student Government, Black and white students and Black and white alumni, Caldwell stated.

“I cannot in any real, meaningful way even try to predict how that committee might rule because we have not discussed it,” Caldwell said. “Now the listening period is finishing up, or is now completely finished. We’re about to go into the discussion period of the charge. But right now I cannot predict how the committee may or may not rule.”

Caldwell said he expects that with time there will be more discussions on the floor of the faculty senate as a result of student movements.

As The Cit Slept by Beth Dedman

y

Life in the abandoned epicenter of Covid-19

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EW YORK CITY—The smell of urine lingered in my mask as I emerged from the filthy subway station onto 42nd street. For all of the promises of sanitized trains, the A Train [B1] [B2] that carried me up from Brooklyn was littered with trash from the night before and the stench of human waste. I climbed the steps and was greeted by cool fresh air…and silence.

A month earlier I had stood in that exact spot, at the intersection aside Carlo’s Bakery and the New York Times, and it had been a bustling hub of tourists and commuters all scurrying to whatever attraction or destination awaited them. Now, I spied a solitary sanitation worker emptying the public waste bins into a cart and no one else. Times Square was empty.

Gov. Andrew Cuomo had issued a stay-at-home order to New Yorkers March 15 as the Coronavirus swept through the state. New York became the epicenter of the pandemic in the U.S. through April and May and has experienced nearly 534,000 cases and 33,314 deaths since lockdown began. I sat alone in my apartment in Brooklyn as it felt like the world was ending around me.

My flight landed in La Guardia Airport on Jan. 16, 2020 and could not have been more excited. I had waited the entire winter break to find out if I had received a scholarship to participate in a partnership program between UA and The King’s College, a private school operating just off of Wall Street. I found out I received the money, packed up my house in Fayetteville, moved everything back to my parents’ house in Texas and moved up to Brooklyn in the span of about a week. The month-long anxiety had been worth it and I was getting to live out my dream of practicing journalism in the greatest city in the world.

I was assigned three roommates to share a twobedroom apartment in the heart of Downtown Brooklyn. Cora, Amalia and Carole. My friend Grant, who also worked in the newsroom at UA, also participated in the program.

I spent the next two weeks just trying to orient myself around the city. My roommates, Grant and I all had the same morning and evenings classes every day, so we often tried to ride the train together. We had one class we had to go to every night for two weeks, and it was during a train ride to this evening class that my mother sent me a text

message with an infographic about the effects of a virus I had never heard of before.

“Have you heard anything about this?” I asked Cora.

“I’ve seen this graphic before, but I don’t know what it’s about.”

“I think there’s some kind of virus that’s been sweeping through China,” she said. “It’s supposed to be pretty bad. I don’t think there have been any cases here though.”

“Weird.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, not giving it any more thought. I don’t know if Cora was technically wrong at the time, but the first confirmed case in the U.S. was reported Jan. 20.

About a week later, I invited Cora to grab some coffee with me before we headed to class. I have always had a very poor sense of distance and I accidentally wound up all the way in Chinatown.

I remember making a point not to tell my mom that the tea shop was in Chinatown. This trip was in January, but I had already begun to hear more concerns about the Coronavirus coming to New York and how people had been taking rather racist measures to protect themselves. There hadn’t been any confirmed cases in NYC yet, but people were already avoiding Chinatown to the extent that the Mayor had to plea with the public to attend the Chinese New Year parade.

It’s not going to get that bad here, I remember thinking.

As a part of the program, we were all set up at internships at different publications around the city. Grant and I were both assigned to work at amNewYork Metro, which operated out of the Schneps Media newsroom in Brooklyn—about a seven-minute walk from our apartment building.

Our professors had advised us to have pitches prepared for our editors on our first day of work, and I had come up with the idea to write a story about how Coronavirus concerns might wind up negatively affecting businesses in Chinatown because of people’s racist perception that all Chinese people might have it.

I never got the chance to pitch it. From the moment I walked in, Robert Pozarycki, the overworked and frazzled editor-in-chief of not only amNewYork but several other publications as well, immediately assigned me to do the Manhattan Happenings calendar, which advertised affordable events for people to do around the city. I spent my first day on the job googling events for six hours. In the meantime, I overhead another

42 King’s student getting assigned my exact pitch for one of the other outlets. It was validating that my idea had been good, but it let the wind out of my sails.

I eventually found joy in my routine in New York.

Grant and I would get drinks on Tuesday nights, come in and work together on Wednesdays and would join my roommates and Mickey, who was also in our program, in our apartment for wine night on Fridays. It may or may not have been against the rules to have alcohol in our apartments, but breaking the rules and feeling like a dumb college kids felt good and normal.

I would either sleep all day on Saturday or I would go exploring with the girls. Cora and I went to church together on Sundays at Apostles Church Brooklyn, which held service inside of Public School No. 133.

Eventually we even started going to small groups on Wednesday nights.

I loved the routine I created for myself. I loved spending time with my friends, and I loved getting to do it all in the most exciting city in the world.

We were making New York our town.

Professor Bret Schulte, who is the advisor for Hill Magazine, connected me with his friend Alex Kingsbury, who just so happens to run the Opinion Section for The New York Times.

Kingsbury agreed to meet me and talk with me about his career on the Friday of Feb. 28. He invited me to come to his office at the New York Times Building, just off of Times Square.

Getting to see the editors at work within the newsroom was getting to see the Greek gods of Olympus.

I took the rest of that day to explore Times Square by myself and revel in the city. I explored the Square, got a cannoli from Carlo’s Bakery (as seen on TV), visited the New York Public Library and did a little shopping. It was at this point that I realized I had been living in New York long enough to be annoyed by tourists who walked too slow and took up the entire sidewalk.

As an extrovert, I thrive on people’s energy. The hustle and bustle of the square made me feel alive. I was a New Yorker. And I was loving every second of it.

I didn’t know that’d be the last time I’d see the Square so alive with people.

I also didn’t know how much my luck was about to run out.

The first case of the coronavirus in New York City was confirmed March 1, according to the New York Times. The first death in the U.S. occurred just the day before in Seattle.

From that point, more and more people were wearing gloves on the subway. I noticed that the first people to start wearing face masks regularly were people from the Chinatown community, but as March went on, more and more people were covering their faces. At one point while I was sitting at the window at work, I saw a man with a gas mask walking down the street.

They started using disposable communion cups at Apostles Brooklyn and the pastor began centering his sermons on how Christians should approach handling dark times. He hinted at moving to online streaming for services and people stopped shaking hands before the service.

My roommates and I tried to go grocery shopping, only to be met with a long line to get into Trader Joe’s and an even longer line to try to check out.

The cold and flu section of Target was completely picked over. I don’t know what people thought Emergen-C or Airborne was going to do for them against the coronavirus, but all of it was gone.

People started being quieter on trains. There was one morning our train was delayed because someone was “sick.” I’m sure it wasn’t in a coronavirusrelated way, but I know that’s what was on all of our minds.

It became even more stressful trying not to touch anyone during the early-morning commute.

Gov. Cuomo announced the State of Emergency March 7. A shelter-in-place order loomed over us as we reconsidered Spring Break plans. I was going to fly home for spring break, but now I was suddenly worried that I wouldn’t be able to come back to New York. Cora began to get really nervous about being able to fly home to California for the break. I kept assuring her that it was going to be okay. Surely, things wouldn’t get that bad here.

Everyone in Brooklyn seemed to think it would. In an attempt to get some basic supplies like rice and bread from Trader Joe’s, Cora and I were met with a completely empty store. The entire freezer section was empty, there were hardly any vegetables on the shelves except for Asparagus and Artichokes, there was no rice and the only meat

they had in the store was corned beef, which was pre-packaged for St. Patrick’s Day. It’s not like it’s the end of the world, I thought.

The last normal day I had in New York was March 11.

Our editor assigned me and Grant to go to all of the Irish pubs along the parade route of the St. Patrick’s Day parade and ask them how their businesses would be affected if the parade were canceled. At that point, the cities of Boston and Dublin had already canceled their parades and New Yorkers were wondering when DeBlasio would admit that he needed to cancel ours too.

But there was no guarantee that was going to happen.

Grant and I stopped at every Irish pub along 5th Avenue and interviewed some of the most colorful characters I had ever met. There was Fergal Titley, who had fire red hair and a very small frame. There was Pauline, a hostess from Megan’s Bar + Kitchen, who insisted the parade wouldn’t be canceled because the community had a spirit of Irish pride that wouldn’t be pacified.

There was Simon Conway, Owen Cleary and Shane McSorley, all of whom were wonderful people, concerned about making a living if the coronavirus got too close to home.

While we typed up our story back in the Schneps office, Halie texted me and informed me that she no longer thought it was safe for her and our other friends to visit us during the break. She would hate to get it and spread it to someone in Arkansas who was vulnerable. I admitted to her that I was beginning to wonder when I would need to call her and tell her not to come.

We had just put the finishing touches on our story and were about to send it to Robb when he walked up to our desk and announced that the governor had just canceled the parade. We rushed to adjust the tenses of the story to make it fit with the update and then sent it to Robb.

The next day I ran into a friend I had made in my politics class, and she asked if I was going home for the break. I told her how that had been the original plan, but now I was going to stay in the city.

“You better reconsider that,” she said. “If you stay you might not be able to leave.”

The parade cancellation was the final seal that needed to break before all hell broke loose. The

Beth Dedman in front of Times Square in New York City.

next day, I woke up to a text from Grant announcing that we were to be working from home from then on.

The next day UA announced that they were going to transition to online classes for the rest of the semester. King’s College announced that they were going to do the same. Amalia’s parents announced that they wanted her to move everything home permanently and that she would probably not be able to come back.

Cora’s parents had come to New York, and they had decided they were going to pack up everything she had and move her home, just in case she would not be able to come back. If she could come back, she absolutely would. But just in case…

I was beginning to get stressed. All of these things were small problems on their own. But together, they were beginning to add up. And I had already cancelled my flight back to Texas.

I needed a break. I had already been cooped up in the house for three days at that point.

Looking back on it, I think it’s really funny that being inside for only three days was already causing me to be stir crazy.

Grant and I decided to go to Central Park. He hadn’t been yet, and it was supposed to be a warm, spring day. I had a feeling this would be our last

44 also usually had indoor seating. Their front door was barricaded.

The same somber silence that had followed us from the train and Times Square found us as we waited in the line for the pizza. It lingered over everything.

It was almost like people were afraid

that the virus would

find them if they spoke

too loudly.

opportunity.

The train to the park was silent. It’s not like many people were overly chatty on the train anyway, but the quiet had never had such weight before. It was somber. And unsettling.

It was a beautiful day in the park. I know I should have been more upset that more people weren’t social distancing, but it was nice to see such a normal scene after constant notifications about how everything was awful and scary.

Afterward, we walked on towards Times Square. By this time, the sun was starting to go down.

We walked along, and only saw brief handfuls of people, and even then, only for a moment. A man accidentally brushed against my arm and I let out an involuntary yelp. Then, I laughed about it because, come on, Beth, it wasn’t that bad. Right?

I was about to step into a crosswalk when Grant put a hand on my arm.

“Right then? That was almost a moment of complete silence.”

We both froze in our tracks.

I think Grant recognized that this would be our last outing for a while, so he suggested that we stop off at Scar’s pizza and grab a slice for dinner. I think the restaurant, which was just outside of Chinatown, was used to window service, but they

As we rode in another silent train home, we saw a man carrying a pack of toilet paper, and smiled to ourselves about hoarders.

A couple days later, Cora left and I was alone in the apartment.

It wasn’t that bad at first. Just quiet. But I hooked my phone up to the apartment speakers and fixed that. I hadn’t had the apartment to myself all semester, so I was embracing the opportunity to blast my music, instead of the constant replays of Don’t Stop Me Now that Amalia would listen to while taking a shower.

When they issued the shelter-in-place order, it didn’t faze me very much. It wasn’t like they could do anything more to me after condemning me to my apartment. “At least it can’t get any worse.” I went through the motions of my day. I wrote the stories the editors from AM assigned me. I texted friends. I scrolled through Twitter. I watched Netflix. Honestly, things were not so bad at first.

I sent out a group message to all of the friends Grant and I had left behind in Arkansas, and I coordinated a time that we could surprise him with a ZOOM call on his birthday.

I left him instructions to be at my apartment at 7:35 p.m. (No Earlier. No Later.) He knocked on my door. I opened it. He laughed at the hideous cake.

He smiled through the absolute worst rendition of Happy Birthday I have heard in my entire life as we all attempted to harmonize through the ZOOM call. We talked to our friends for hours. After we hung up, some of his roommate’s friends invited us to hang out in their

apartment, where we shared some drinks and cigarettes. I like to hope that, despite it not being what he had originally hoped for, it wound up being a good birthday for him.

His roommate’s friends informed us that we were some of the very few people left in the whole building.

Things started getting hard after that first week.

I already had a proclivity for getting depressed but the isolation, compounded with what I discovered later to be a hormone imbalance and iron deficiency, led to some pretty unsavory mood swings. And because, apparently, I haven’t learned anything from college, I thought alcohol would help. It most certainly did not.

Over the course of my time in quarantine, I spent a rather unfortunate amount of time sitting in the tub. Usually I would just sit in it fully-clothed, both with water and without. Not one of my prouder coping mechanisms but it felt better to be alone in a room that is designed for privacy, as opposed to one designed for company.

My sleep schedule went to hell. At the worst of it all, I wasn’t falling asleep until 5:30 a.m. and then wouldn’t be able to wake up until 1 p.m. at the earliest. I couldn’t think clearly, and I certainly couldn’t motivate myself to get any work done. Assignments and stories began to pile up.

Group ZOOM calls began becoming a regular thing among our friends, which helped to see and talk to familiar faces. I think it was dumb that it took a literal pandemic for all of us to try to reach out to our friends. But I think it made us all realize how much we mattered to each other.

It’s easy to take people for granted when they are readily available to you. I hope that after this is all over, we will all value each other a little more and be more present when we are in each other’s company.

That didn’t keep me from attempting to dye my hair purple though. Or from watching Tiger King. Or from sitting in the bathtub drunk. Or from the random fits of crying. But it did help.

I cannot express how grateful I was that Grant was there. Having an excuse to see him and find some company amidst all of this chaos helped to ground me the most. All we would do was watch dumb YouTube videos together and talk, but that made all of the difference, just being in another human being’s presence. I honestly probably would have had a much worse time if Grant had gone home.

After one night of hanging out, I went back to my apartment and could not, for the life of me, fall asleep. I laid in bed for hours trying. Eventually, I gave up and went and took a bath. I was in there for so long that by the time I got out, I decided to just get ready for the next day and put on a fresh set of clothes and did my hair and makeup. I figured, if I was going to be up that early anyway, I might as well go get some photos of the sunrise. So, I grabbed my camera and headed to the roof.

Unfortunately, much of Brooklyn is covered in a fog first thing in the morning, so I didn’t get any particularly fantastic shots. That’s when I got a really bad idea. I went downstairs and put on a hoodie, jean jacket, face mask and some rubber gloves that Grant’s parents had sent us. I loaded up my camera bag and headed to the elevator.

I was careful to touch as little as possible while I was out, despite the gloves. At first, I was going to get on the R train, but, over the loudspeaker, an announcement said: “TRAIN SERVICE IS FOR ESSENTIAL EMPLOYEES ONLY. PLEASE STAY HOME.” That was enough to make me second guess myself and abandon that track. I worked my way through the station and came to an A train stop, which would take me all the way to 42nd Street.

I was alone on my platform, but on the other side of the tracks, I could see a bunch of people, clad in face masks and gloves, waiting for the train to take them to work. The somber silence weighed on the scene like a heavy blanket.

When my train arrived, I was alarmed to see it covered in trash, with a pervasive smell permeating the air. After seeing so many articles about how the MTA was doing its best to try to sanitize the trains, this sight freaked me out. The stench was almost overwhelming and clung to my facemask long after I disembarked from the car.

It was a relief to emerge from the station to the fresh air of Times Square. It was a chilly morning, but the sharpness of the air was dulled by my mask. I did see a couple of people at first, but the further I walked into the heart of the Square, the more desolate it became. It had unsettled me when Grant and I had experienced that moment of silence a few weeks before, but now the silence ruled the square.

I had reached the Coca-Cola sign, which now was emblazoned with a warning to stay home and

46 social distance from others as opposed to its regular soda logo, when somebody actually tried to talk to me. Not only was I alarmed to interact with a stranger but he had the nerve to get within six feet of me and ask me if I smoke in the middle of a pandemic that affects the respiratory system.

I walked away from him.

I passed a group of four cops standing near their cars, a couple of sanitation employees and the occasional jogger. But aside from that, the entire street was still.

I walked the reverse of the same path Grant and I had taken when we had come from the park to Times Square last time. I walked past the Brooklyn Diner, now closed, and crossed empty street after empty street. The Cherry Blossoms were white on the trees, and cast a heavenly aura on the park. I stopped to take photos. I noticed a shocking number of people in the park. I couldn’t exactly look down on them for it, I mean, I was there too. But there were a lot.

At one point during my walk through the park, a jogger who wasn’t wearing a mask gave me a weird look. I’m not the weird one for wearing a mask, pal..

I wanted to circle back to the Square to take some photos using my polaroid camera, which my strange encounter made me forget I’d brought with me. Coming back from the other way, I realized that more and more of the advertisements that light up the square were replaced by CDC cartoon warnings about keeping apart and staying home. It was almost beginning to feel like a cyberpunk film, or the precursor to the abandoned wasteland that would be featured in a Fallout video game.

When I was finally satisfied with my photos of the Square, I turned back to the subway station and rode it down to Fulton Street. I had been in the Fulton Street station quite a few times, but when I got off the train, and heard a Frank Sinatra track echoing off of its chrome floors and ceilings, I felt like I had stepped into the moment before a dream turned bad. At any moment, I was expecting a zombie or one of those monsters from Cloverfield to do a jump scare and eat me.

At this point, it had been about a month since I had walked this much. I had loved walking around in New York because of the amount of exercise I was getting. Since quarantine had

begun, and the gym in the apartment building had closed, I had been getting absolutely no exercise. This journey was a lot to ask of my body and my left hip started to rebel against me.

After I snapped a few shots of the abandoned street, I headed to the nearest station and took the train back to Brooklyn.

I had left my apartment at about 7 a.m. and flopped down on my couch again at about 10 a.m. I was pretty happy with the photos I took and glad I had gotten some exercise, even if my hip was going to give me grief for a couple of days. I stretched out on the couch and watched some YouTube videos while I waited for the Apostles Church livestream service to begin at 11 a.m. I remember the beginning of the service, but I definitely lost consciousness for most of the preaching. I don’t remember much about the rest of that day. I was too tired to remember.

After the excursion to take photos, much of April is just kind of a blur. Every day felt exactly like the day before. I made sure to at least tune into my ZOOM classes, but a lot of the time I just

fell asleep or scrolled on my phone. I got to a point with my internship that I just desperately tried to do as little as possible. I was sleeping through most of the hours I was technically supposed to be working. Not that I didn’t try to wake up and do the work. I just couldn’t get myself to do anything.

Grant and I started taking care of each other in small ways. If I needed something from the store while he was there, he would grab it for me. He needed bitters to make a proper old fashioned, so on one run to the liquor store, I grabbed some for him.

When I had an allergic reaction to some ciders I bought, he traded with me for some beers. I’d let him borrow my cheese grater. He’d let me borrow his broom. He brought me Ibuprofen one night when I had a migraine so bad I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.

The closer it got to the end of the semester, the more dread I began to feel. I really wanted to start out my career in New York. I fell in love with the comradery of New Yorkers in the face of the pandemic. Almost every story that I wrote for amNewYork after the quarantine began was about organizations and individuals donating food, masks, money and volunteers to help their community. It was amazing.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a job that would allow me to stay in the city and amNewYork wasn’t hiring. My lease ran up.

My mom flew into the city to help me pack May 6.

Grant had extended his stay in New York for the rest of the summer, and I hated that I would be leaving him even more alone than we both were before. As much as I wanted to stay, I had no more willpower to fight the ways of the universe. New York had been my dream, which had turned into a nightmare. It was time to give up.

I landed in Dallas May 8. I couldn’t explain the stress I was feeling, but once I stepped onto the porch at my parents’ home in Denton, I burst into tears. I spent several days constantly on the verge of tears. I laid in my bed, unable to do much of anything.

While my mom had expressed relief that I was finally home, it wasn’t in the way I expected.

New York had become the epicenter and its shutdown was the strictest of all of the states. Texas, on the other hand, had not experienced nearly as much devastation and many people treated the shutdowns as an overreaction. I arrived in Texas just as it was reopening, which only added to my stress. My parents’ lives hadn’t changed from the

shutdowns, as they are both retired. My best friend from high school never lost her job, neither did her boyfriend, neither did my brother.

My sister-in-law had to work from home, but she was really the only one who had been affected in any way. Nobody understood why I was so upset and stressed.

The city that never

sleeps had been anesthetized.

While I count myself fortunate to be one of the only people who may ever witness such an event, I think it may haunt me forever. New York City was supposed to be a dream come true. I was supposed to start my career there. I was supposed to make it there (and therefore, make it anywhere), but it felt like the entire universe had conspired against me to make sure that I did not make it there. I had fallen in love with the city. Now, those memories haunt me.

On the morning of Nov. 7, New Yorkers took to the streets to celebrate the election results. From my bedroom in Denton, Texas, I saw videos of people dancing, cheering, singing and holding their loved ones tightly in jubilee. I watched as they filled the streets of Brooklyn, the Lower East Side and even Times Square. I felt some of the cracks that my trip to the Square had left in my heart begin to mend. Seeing the Square alive once again helped something in me to heal.

Maybe the city was finally waking back up.

But, despite that healing, I think a part of me will always be haunted by that empty square.

However, I think there is such a thing as being a healthy amount of haunted. Americans should be haunted by the 238,023 lives that have been lost to this disease. We should make sure that things do not go back to the way they were before, because the way things were before led us to this devastation. We need to do better. We need our leaders to do better. We must hold our leaders accountable, regardless of what political party they represent. And if they do anything less than what we elected them to do, we need to vote them out.

We owe it to those that we’ve lost.

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CONTRIBUTO Natalie Demaree Editor in Chief

Natalie Demaree is a senior from Bentonville, AR studying Journalism and Political Science with a minor in African American Studies. Before College she lived in France for six months!

Mary Katherine Shapiro Assistant Editor

Mary Katherine is a senior from McKinney, TX. Her favorite movie is You’ve Got Mail!

Emily Franks

Beth Dedman

Writer

Writer

Jack Williams

Heidi Kirk

Photographer

Photographer

Emily Franks graduated in May 2020 with a BA in English/Journalism and a minor in African and African American Studies. She is from Little Rock, Arkansas and has studied abroad in Cape Town, South Africa and Copenhagen, Denmark!

Jack Williams is a freshman studying Broadcast Journalism from Springdale, AR. One time he hit MC Ride in the chest with a Waffle House visor at a Death Grips concert.

Beth Dedman graduated in July 2020 with a BA in English and Journalism. She is well know for driving a bright-yellow truck!

Heidi Kirk is a senior studying Broadcast Journalism from Eureka Springs, AR. She is also an anchor for UATV!

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ORS Kerri Holt Senior Designer

Kerri is a 4th year Graphic Design student. She is from Rogers, AR. She once won a talent show where she whistled an ensemble of popular music including Old Town Road and Baby Shark.

Jewell Parnel

Teagan Shockley

Writer

Writer

Jewell Parnell is a Junior from Anderson, MO studying Journalism.

She’s been a dancer since she was 3 years old, and she still teaches and choreographs dances today!

Tegan Shockley is a senior from Camdenton, MO studying Journalism.

Last summer, she traveled to Bolivia and went on a Jeep tour in the Andes Mountains!

Kat Harris

Morgan Walker

Artist

Poet

Kat Harris is a 5th year graphic design student. Her work is part of a series from one of the forums UA held this summer to combat racism.

After graduation, she plans on moving to London!

Morgan Walker is a senior studying English/Creative Writing from Prarie Grove, AR. She considers Jump In! starring Corbin Bleu to be one of the best movies of our generation.