Hill Mag Fall 2024 Issue: Revision of Youth

WELCOME TO HILL MAGAZINE

Since my sophomore year of college, I have dreamed of being the Hill Magazine editor-in-chief. As a staff writer for the magazine that year and with articles featured in the last two spring prints, I always looked forward to the print issues, with hopes that one day I could play a bigger role in its creation. And while I have been so lucky to make that dream a reality, I never expected how truly fulfilling and also taxing this job would be.

When I got the position, I was immediately thrown into the job, planning this year’s fall print over the summer. Looking through the articles I received from Prof. Schulte’s magazine writing class, I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement. The stories were spectacular. And as these stories feature strong themes of overcoming, pivoting during hardship and finding what works for you, the word “revision” stuck with me until it was time to choose the theme name. I liked the idea of Revision of Youth for many reasons, but I enjoyed how it reconfigured the idea of “starting new.” Often, a part of growing up, as much as the idea of a fresh start sounds enticing, it is important to learn from our hardships and revise how we handle them, finding the best solutions. Revision is a part of growth. And what better time to grow than during college?

Much of creating this magazine was a testament to revision. If one thing didn’t go exactly to plan ---we’d pivot. I would have never been able to do this job without such an amazing staff of editors, those in their second year in their position teaching me the ropes as I go. Lainey, our assistant editor, helped keep me level-headed and picked up work when I couldn’t. Erika, our design editor, brought my wildest ideas to life and eased my worry when the timing seemed against us. Lindsey, our online content editor, was a backbone in supporting this team and our decisions along the way. And Marshall, our visuals editor, brought beautiful imagery, laughter and joy to this job all while navigating what the new visuals editor position would look like. I also would feel way more in over my head if I didn’t have Victoria Hernandez, the former editor-in-chief, as a friend and colleague.

I can’t express my gratitude for this team enough, especially our advisor Prof. Schulte, whose mentorship and continuous push for his students’ success fueled the stunning stories that grace the following pages. As you flip through the 2024 fall print, I hope you feel equally as inspired as we did. And don’t forget about us too soon because spring print is just around the corner :)

Natalie Murphy is a senior journalism major from Dallas, Texas. Natalie loves her cat Dot, thrifting vintage jewelry, making Spotify playlists and spending time with her friends!

Lainey Richardson is a senior advertising/public relations major with a minor in journalism, and is from Dallas, Texas. Lainey enjoys hanging out with friends and family, watching movies, trying new foods and crafting.

Lindsey West is a senior advertising/public relations and journalism major from Houston, Texas. Lindsey loves cooking, hanging out with friends, good books and bad television.

Erika Fredricks is a senior graphic design major with a minor in art history from central Arkansas. When she’s not in her studio Erika adores trying new recipes, chilling with her bunny Bean, and unwinding outdoors!

EDITORS & WRITERS

UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS

Marshall Deree is a junior journalism major from Fayetteville, Arkansas. Marshall enjoys taking long road trips and stopping in every small town flea market along the way.

Stella Hufhines is a senior journalism major from Fayetteville, Arkansas. In her free time, she enjoys thrifting and experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen.

HILL MAGAZINE

Edward McKinnon is from Fayetteville and plans to graduate in December with a Bachelor’s degree in journalism. In Edwards free time, he enjoys rewatching “The Wire” and “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” an unhealthy amount.

FALL 2024

Maggie Green graduated the UofA with an editorial journalism degree spring 2024. With her sights set on working for National Geographic, she enjoys wildlife photography and being outdoors with her dog, Kenobi.

Isabella Larue is a senior multimedia journalism major from Little Rock who loves creative writing and drawing. A fun fact about her is that the 2005 movie “King Kong” inspired her to be a writer.

Nora Grant is a sophomore studying English and English education. She is originally from Lansing, Michigan, and is loving living in Northwest Arkansas. Her favorite book is “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Siena Lamb, a freshman from Tulsa, Oklahoma, is pursuing a major in multimedia and storytelling journalism with a minor in English. She is also an aspiring author working on a young adult realistic fiction novel.

Emery Summers is a freshman majoring in psychology with a minor in journalism. She is from Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas and is always passing out smiley face stickers to brighten peoples day :)

PHOTOGRAPHERS

HILL MAGAZINE

Nadeshka Melo is a sophomore majoring in supply chain management from Panama. She dreams of becoming a wildlife photographer and traveling the world to capture nature’s beauty through her lens.

Caitlyn Swopes is a freshman from Farmington, Arkansas. She is an interior architecture and design major and enjoys crocheting in her free time.

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS’

Keely Loney is a freshman from Lenexa, Kansas, and a photographer for Hill Magazine as well as the men’s rugby club. She has been doing photography for three years and her favorite style is sports photography.

Evan Meyers is a junior computer science major with minors in Spanish and math. He combines his love for technology with a deep passion for photography — a pursuit he began in his hometown of Hot Springs.

Mackyna Parsons is a junior studying multimedia storytelling and production as a journalism major. She was raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He Would Love First and Camp War Eagle.

Megan Killen is a freshman from Springdale, Arkansas, studying communications. Her favorite movie of all time is “Almost Famous!” Over this past summer, she wrote and directed her second short film titled “Over Here, Over There.”

Abigail Harmon is a junior majoring in psychology and philosophy. Writing has been a passion of Abigail’s for a long time because it feels like the clearest medium for making art about the things she feels.

Skye Harris is a multimedia artist and photographer born and raised in Northwest Arkansas. She is currently a senior pursuing her BFA at the UofA with a concentration in photography.

& CONTRIBUTORS

STUDENT RUN MAGAZINE

Harper Haynes is a senior Earth science major trapped in the Gearhart basement. She is a poet and collage artist from Maumelle, Arkansas.

FALL 2024

Fiona Scoggan is a senior studio art major with a concentration in drawing They were born in Dallas, Texas, but have lived in Fayetteville, Arkansas, for 14 years. Fiona’s favorite film from the “Twilight Saga” is “New Moon.”

Anne Elise Tidwell is a senior multimedia, storytelling and production major with a minor in history. Recently, she has been really enjoying cranberry muffins, horchata lattes and taking photos of her cats, Muffy and Angel.

Dot is the cat son of Natalie Murphy. He loves to sleep, eat, chase bugs and shadows, and bite his mom when he wants to play. He is also very cute.

Carrie Jenkins’ music therapy studio is a small cube hidden inside your run-of-the-mill beige suburban strip mall. In the corner, where she sits talking about her profession and what she might do with a client throughout a therapy session, she is framed by a keyboard to her left and a television monitor to her right. Across the room, there is another keyboard. Right beside it, there is a beautiful ocean-blue guitar next to a bookcase featuring music literature, her college diploma and her certificate from the Certification Board for Music Therapists.

An otherwise tight space feels much fuller and more vibrant thanks to the bright green colored walls, collection of musical instruments, and of course, Jenkins herself. In this space, she works mostly with children with various developmental disabilities such as

autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and Down syndrome. She also travels to schools to hold group sessions as well as senior care facilities where she can work with Alzheimer’s and dementia patients. During a session, she has clients work on tasks that usually involve her or them playing songs.

Typical sessions unfold similar to other types of therapy, but Jenkins incorporates musical elements to help clients. With many clients, she has them sing greeting and departure songs to signal the beginning and end of a session. From there, she must learn to improvise and adapt to any client’s need. Sometimes, clients will develop new lyrics for familiar songs to express their feelings. She has a guitar, keyboard and ukulele handy that she can use to perform songs. If a patient already has baseline musical skills, she

will incorporate their skills into the session. For example, with her long-time client Daniel LeBlanc she used all of these elements in their meetings, enabling him to play the trumpet or write lyrics depending on the situation.

“They’re learning musical aspects,” Jenkins said, “but it’s not focused solely on musical properties. It’s figuring out how to read, how to focus, how to finish a task before moving to the next one.”

Jenkins has run Music Therapy of Northwest Arkansas under the Cardinal Care Center in Farmington since 2012. During more than 10 years on the job, music therapy globally has grown significantly in popularity, especially during COVID-19. ASD diagnoses have tripled in children ages 8 or younger in the last 20 years, with the CDC reporting 1 in 54 children in the age range diagnosed in 2016. Music therapy has proven very effective in helping children with ASD, among other similar groups, and is only becoming more popular.

Jenkins has experienced this demand to the point where she has to waitlist some prospective clients or groups. While national interest in music therapy continues to grow, she remains the only practicing music therapist in Northwest Arkansas. Statewide, she is only in contact with one other music therapist, Andrew Ghrayeb, who works at Arkansas Children’s Hospital in Little Rock. Even if she is on an island of sorts, Jenkins takes solace in the fact that her work makes a noticeable difference. It is her dream job, she said. She has always loved music, lived around the medical field her whole life and has an inclination to help others. Music therapy is the perfect outlet.

Jenkins grew up in Farmington, attending high school down the road from her office at the Cardinal Care Center. Her dad is a retired pharmacist who loves music and initially wanted to be a music major, and her mother is a nurse. As a

Music therapist Carrie Jenkins with her guitar. Photograph by Keely Loney

kid, she took piano lessons and taught herself guitar. This created an ideal development environment for an aspiring music therapist, but Jenkins did not always know she would do this kind of work. In her own words, it was all a fluke.

“I was working at an MRI clinic as a file clerk, and the guy that would come in and service our MRI machine to make sure it was working properly found out I was helping with music at my church … And he was like, ‘You know, I think you have the personality — you should look at music therapy.’”

Ironically, Jenkins nearly shrugged off the idea of music therapy as a calling with the same confusion a skeptic might direct toward her today. However, she was interested enough to research the topic, and she discovered that Drury University in Springfield, Missouri, offered a music therapy program. After visiting and talking to professors, she realized this

profession was her ideal landing place.

After earning her bachelor’sdegree, she partook in a six-month internship at the STAR Center in Jackson, Tennessee, and then decided to pursue her master’s degree.

Shortly after Jenkins completed her master’s program at Drury, Cardinal Care Center opened. Sherri Gansz, the owner, wanted to offer a variety of services to address mental health, and Jenkins’ expertise fit that goal, making her a mainstay at Cardinal Care.

“Due to the specialized therapy Carrie offers, we are known in the area for her talents,” Gansz said. “Her population is specific. None of us have the experience or training.”

Before even getting settled with Cardinal Care, Emily LeBlanc, the mother of Jenkins’ would-be-first individual client, contacted her. She

found out about Jenkins online after searching out possible music therapy options in the region for her late-teenage son, Daniel, but did not realize Jenkins was still completing her degree. After Jenkins graduated and settled in Farmington, Emily reached out again. She had taken her son to other talk therapists before discovering Jenkins, but it was not as effective as music therapy.

“Singing about it was what he needed to do to fully express what he was feeling,” Emily said while sitting beside her son on Zoom.

Growing up with autism, Emily said her son Daniel was unhappy in public school and in search of

Photograph by Keely Loney ; Polaroid by Marshall Deree

an outlet to express his feelings constructively. “It was sad,” he said.

“It was sad,” Emily said, echoing her son’s sentiment. “(His struggle in school) was actually pretty normal for someone with autism. Having somebody else working on it was very helpful. Carrie would have him sing about different emotions. There were songs for greeting and for leaving, and in between, she would have different goals, such as keeping rhythm with her to help him link up to another person.”

Much of what they worked on during therapy sessions emphasized mirror neurons, which

are linked to brain activity in social interactions and expressing empathy. People with autism have mirror neurons and do feel empathy but cannot tell what others are feeling at a specific moment as easily.

Emily said Carrie was having him work on his mirror neurons musically by trying to match beats and play music. One task he worked on was playing Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D minor,” one of his favorite pieces.

After nearly 12 years of practicing professionally, Jenkins has refined her craft by learning to go with the

flow during sessions. Music therapy is a versatile service that can mean a lot of different things depending on who the patient is and what the practitioner’s musical background is. For a client, such as Daniel, who is working on expressing their feelings, using music to elicit an emotional response is a point of emphasis. For other patients with disabilities whose primary struggle is staying on task, performing music is common regardless of their skill level.

“With music therapy, I’m focusing more on if they can play with one finger at a time,” Jenkins said. “Can they focus long enough to

Photograph by Keely Loney ; Polaroid by Marshall Deree

complete an entire song? Can they be able to match letters on a page to letters on the keys that I have to see if we have cognitive and visual tracking?”

She demonstrates this by showing the special keyboard she uses with clients. It is set up to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and features various settings that force a user’s level of involvement to increase incrementally. With the basic setting, a client can tap any key and it will produce the correct note for the song. Next, a client must press the correct key, which is illuminated, in order to continue performing the song, and so on.

“Due to the specialized therapy Carrie offers, we are known in the area for her talents,” Gansz said.

“That’s not only working on focus and staying on task until it is done,” Jenkins said, “but it is being able to follow directions, follow the light, move from one key to the next. And then we progress to this little book, which has the letters. So, they are learning to read and track from keys up to the book. So, that’s just a basic progression of something we would do for keyboard skills.” When working with older groups such as dementia clients, the objectives and tactics change.

“It’s not necessarily looking for growth in what we’re doing,” Jenkins said. “It’s more about maintaining what they have and maintaining their quality of life for as long as possible. So, with my dementia client groups, I’ll see them for an hour for each group, and it’s either once a month or twice a month depending on availability and the budget of the facility.”

Carrie said with older patients, memory recall exercises are highly useful. Around Valentine’s Day, she plays older love songs with older groups, which can serve as a jumping-off point for members to talk about their loved ones and other special figures in their lives.

She also plays games such as “Name that Tune” with these groups.

“I’ll play a song but won’t sing the words, and we’ll see if they are able

to recite any of the words back to me and tell me the name of it,” Jenkins said. “And like nine times out of 10, they’re very much able to. There are some songs where they are able to tell me what the song is in three notes, which is just phenomenal considering I can come in and someone could forget my name and have to ask what my name is 18 times. But I sing the first three or four notes of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ and they’ll sing the entire song to me.”

Though Jenkins said she gained a lot of confidence in herself during her practicum, she has had to swim in uncomfortable waters to build out the toolbox necessary to succeed as a music therapist. As a student, she expected the job to be more structured, but in reality, it commands more of a read-andreact approach. As someone who can be introverted, Jenkins has had to become more of an extrovert to build out a public presence and let people know about the services she offers — especially given she is the only practicing music therapist in the area. Within the therapy sessions, she has learned to become more resourceful.

In the present, Carrie Jenkins is happy about where she is in her career. Her career progression has coincided with the increasing popularity of music therapy worldwide. But even if she has found her footing, there are many

obstacles she still has to overcome to be successful in her work, such as the stigma that surrounds it. When people hear the term “music therapy,” they may fail to grasp its legitimacy immediately. Perhaps most people did not realize that close to 100 colleges across the United States offer undergraduate music therapy programs. Jenkins said people have cynically asked her if the job simply entails turning on an iPod, making people listen to music and telling them to be happy.

There are also barriers specific to Arkansas that she said she would like to see addressed in the future. Notably, the state has no colleges and universities that offer music therapy degrees. Arkansas currently does not offer licensure for music therapy, meaning she cannot accept insurance as a form of payment, and most clients are required to pay out of pocket for her services, unlike other therapy options. Eighteen states have licensure as of 2024, with many states establishing it within the past five years. Licensure would further legitimize her practice and perhaps could lead to more practitioners operating in the state. Jenkins played a role in establishing a task force for getting licensure in the state in 2018, but the pandemic brought much of the progress to a halt.

Through her colleagues at Cardinal Care Center as well as recommendations from facilities where she has hosted group sessions, Jenkins has built out an extensive network of contacts that enables her to always have a strong client base. But because there are no other practicing music therapists in Northwest Arkansas, she is frequently stretched thin, she said. Aside from therapy, she also offers music lessons and is a worship leader at her church. She hopes to get more help in some shape or form. “I would love to be a multi-person music therapy clinic and be able to contract out to other music therapists and say, ‘Go out, do this, be awesome!’” she said.

Although she has difficulties being a one-woman music therapy operation in a time of growing demand, Jenkins never sounds upset with the state of things. If anything, she embraces the challenges. “I’ve always had a drive to help people,” Jenkins said. She recognizes the demand for her services and wants to help as many people as possible. She wants to dedicate her spare time to putting her musical skills to use while helping at church or giving music lessons.

For the LeBlanc family, Jenkins’ positive demeanor has rubbed off in a multitude of ways. Beyond expressing feelings, Daniel and Emily reflect on the strong sense of joy the sessions have provided over the years. Daniel saw Jenkins for music therapy for a decade before relocating to Jamestown, New York, with his family. When they discuss their relationship with her, almost every answer is present tense, as Jenkins has remained in touch with the family. Daniel regularly sends her some of his best illustrations of dragons through the mail. With plans to take animation classes at the local community college in a work preparation program and dreams of one day running a film and animation studio, he said he is in part inspired by the time he spent with Jenkins and the skills he developed.

“She’s awesome!” Daniel said, excitedly. “She plays guitar just like I play trumpet.”

Emily interjected to ask her son a question. “Does she encourage you?”

Emily described Jenkins as cheerful and happy in her sessions. Daniel, offering clarification, said he has fond memories of Jenkins because she understands him.

Jenkins is a helper. Music is her tool. When asked what helps her, she said she finds herself returning to acoustic covers of pop songs to chill out and lo-fi covers when she has to focus and get stuff done.

“It is so very therapeutic,” Jenkins said. “In a personal setting, I am listening to music all the time, 24/7. It gets me up in the morning, it gets me to and from in the car. If I’m having a bad day, I know what kind of music I’m listening to in order to get me out of a funk. If I need to stay in that funk and live in it, I know what music I want to listen to.”

She goes as far as to characterize therapy sessions as helpful for herself.

“There are times where I’ll be headed to an assisted living facility, and I’ll be like, ‘Man, I’m so tired. I don’t feel it today. I don’t want to do this, but I know I have to do this.’ Then, by the end of the session, I’m in a better mood than some of the clients are because being able to engage them and be part of that moment with them is just so rewarding and so wholesome, and it just helps me as much as it does them.”

Jenkins’ trajectory with respect to music therapy is not that different to clients such as Daniel. Though she comes in expecting to help each person she works with, music therapy and working with individuals have helped her just as much.

“Yes.”

Although Jenkins did not specifically mention how she keeps a positive disposition when confronted with various obstacles outside her control in a session, it helps when the work doubles as her own therapy. Q

Self Portrait by Mackyna Parsons

books and majors and travels detail the easy gaits miles fly on as conversation takes a perfect breeze within a tree no need to stop or pause what once was a park of play now embodies the growing age run clubs and new friends to remember for the day take a look and smile life brims and congregates at the park fairytale of life within its castled gate swings are the economy until we make new friends and keep one silver (or gold)

Photograph by Evan Meyers

THEBIRD-SHAPEDCOFFIN

By Maggie Green

Cars halted in the street and cyclists steered off the path to watch as six men wheeled a birdshaped coffin along Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd on Feb. 22. They were followed by a crowd of mourners clad in black and red, onlookers stepping in time with the drums, and photographers buzzing around the entire ordeal like flies. The mourners filled the wooden coffin with notes to their departed loved ones, and it was their task to deliver it across a stream near the Fayetteville Public Library safely to the ancestors. Fearlessly leading the procession was Jacob Paa Joe Jr. wearing a lion mask. At every turn, he guided the crowd of over 50 people through the mock procession of a traditional Ghanaian funeral.

Jacob Paa Joe, 36, and his father, Paa Joe, are coffin artists in Ghana. They specialize in crafting proverbial coffins, which take the shape of anything that represents the life of the deceased. The style became popular in the 1960s in southern Ghana, where funerals are a celebration of life as reflected by the colorful designs. For example, a fisherman might be buried in a boat, or someone known for loving hot dogs can be buried in a six-foot wooden hot dog. Paa Joe Coffin Works has even been commissioned to do genitalia-shaped coffins, Coca-Cola bottles, shoes and cigarettes.

19 Photo by Maggie Green

“Funerals should be fun in a way,” Jacob said. The coffin Jacob was asked to make in Fayetteville was of a Sankofa bird. It represents the Ghanaian principle of the importance of looking to the past to determine the best way forward. For Jacob, this meant looking back on the years of his father’s teachings to guide his life and their business as Paa Joe’s health declines with age.

Before the procession, Jacob read his letter aloud to the crowd and placed it inside the bird. It was Paa Joe, now 77 years old, who is an internationally renowned artist whose sculptures have been featured in the Smithsonian, the British Museum, and purchased by celebrities and world leaders.

“He is growing old,” Jacob explained. “Or he would have been here with me working on this project. This is my first appearance working outside in the world without him being by my side. I told him before I left that I would make him proud.”

Jacob’s solo residency at the University of Arkansas signals his emergence as the new face of Paa Joe Coffin Works. His innovation seeks to transform the business, and ultimately his father’s legacy, taking it to new global heights. During this transitional period, he must navigate his various ambitious projects without his father for the first time in his life.

A coffin of this magnitude would normally take Jacob six to eight

weeks to construct, even with the help of his esteemed father and their many assistants at their workshop in Ghana. However, his deadline was only two weeks and three days.

The first time I visited Jacob’s workspace in the UA Studio and Design Center, I could tell he was hesitant to leave his work to talk with me and eager to return to it when we finished. He was wearing khaki pants, black Crocs and a navy T-Shirt depicting a pint of beer with a Band-Aid on the glass. The text above it read “THIRST AID.”

Sawdust clung to every available inch of him and sprawled off the plastic covering the concrete floor. Wood glue clotted on his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He was building the bird’s body using short planks of wood, slightly angling each new piece to form a curve, and filling in the gaps with a mixture of wood glue and sawdust to smooth out the form. He cut the boards with a hand saw and shaved the bulk off the body with an adze, which looks like a pickaxe without the pointy end.

“Sometimes we have a few conflicts,” Jacob said about working with his father.

“I want to bring in the new technology, but he will say, ‘No you can’t do that! You have to do this.’”

Paa Joe’s use of traditional tools is one aspect of his work that fascinates their international

Jacob Paa Joe Jr. leading the mock funeral procession. Photo by Maggie Green

audience and makes the largescale works so impressive. But given the short deadline and absence of his father, Jacob decided to use the power tools available in the wood shop. He said the art students working alongside him taught him new techniques and how to use the machines he was unfamiliar with.

Veronica Huff was part of a group of art students who visited Ghana and Paa Joe Coffin Works in May 2023. She saw the trip as a chance to return to her Ghanaian roots.

“It was literally just hammer and nails,” Huff said about the workshop. “That was it. And the shaving tool. Other than that, I didn’t really see anything else. Here, [Jacob has] been using the shaver machine, but there they’re just doing it by hand.”

She also said they don’t use measurements, which explained why Jacob could be seen using the handle of a hammer to estimate the placement of a piece of the neck.

“Here you have to be precise with things for assignments, but with him, it was just a flow,” Huff said. “It was beautiful, and I learned a lot.”

“I have the gift,” he said, beaming. “The feeling to do God’s work was there, and He has given me a lot of revelations and knowledge and wisdom.”

Janine Sytsma is the professor of global African art at the UA. She was one of the professors who facilitated Jacob’s residency in Fayetteville after she led Huff’s study abroad trip. Sytsma said she was excited the project could involve the entire school of art and community, to learn more about Ghanaian funeral practices.

“We’ve even had involvement from art education,” Sytsma said, “I love the idea of some of our students bringing this tradition to their younger students.”

She expressed her admiration for Jacob’s innovation as he has taken on greater roles in the family business and for the overall atmosphere of artistic expression in Ghana’s capital, Accra, that she wanted her students to learn from.

“There is a vibrant art scene in Accra,” Sytsma explained, “more so than in some other countries with strong art centers in Africa. There’s a lot of support for rigorous experimentation.”

Another Ghanaian artist, Va-Bene Elikem Fiatsi, visited Fayetteville during Jacob’s residency. She was there to share her activist performance art but had the opportunity to accompany one of the classes visiting Jacob’s workshop. Sytsma said Fiatsi’s family had actually purchased two coffins from Paa Joe Coffin Works. The family couldn’t decide on one design, so they asked the coffin artists to make two.

“I thought our funerals took forever in the Black community here, as in taking a while to bury our loved ones,” Huff said with a laugh, “but they take maybe two weeks or sometimes months because they’ve got to build the coffins.”

In Fayetteville, Huff helped Jacob with much of the construction of the bird and brought him homemade Ghanaian food when he was feeling sick. She suspected he may have inhaled too much

Jacob Paa Joe Jr. discusses his Sankofa bird coffin with a Studio Foundations class. Photo by Maggie Green

sawdust while working indoors.

“I know being here is way different for him because the space is open over there in the shop (in Ghana),” Huff said. “You could just walk in and see the variety of coffins they have and that they’re working on. It was so chill and laid back, and there was a constant beautiful breeze blowing through.”

Jacob and his siblings were always in their father’s workshop growing up. Around the age of 9, they were tasked with fetching tools and supplies so Paa Joe and his assistants could continue working.

“I was there all the time, but I never knew I would be an artist myself,” Jacob said. “Back then, God was preparing me, but I never knew.”

He gestured to his chest and said around that same age, he felt a divine calling to become a pastor,

which he does part time while managing the business.

“I have the gift,” he said, beaming. “The feeling to do God’s work was there, and He has given me a lot of revelations and knowledge and wisdom.”

In secondary school, Jacob studied building construction and had ambitions to become a contractor or project manager, but Paa Joe told his son he could not leave the business to become a pastor or a contractor. Jacob said his father had sent him to school primarily

A crowd of art students acting as mourners in the mock funeral procession follow Jacob Paa Joe Jr. wearing a lion mask.

Photo by Maggie Green

Photograph by Nadeshka Melo

to learn English so he could communicate with international buyers. He also could not pay for Jacob to complete his education because Paa Joe Sr. would need to hire more help at the shop.

“In 2008 my dad told me, ‘You can’t go to university. You need to stay behind and work with me. I’m getting old, and you are my successor. You need to take over.’ It was a very challenging moment for me,” Jacob said.

Jacob started his apprenticeship under his father that year, but hardship soon struck. The man who gave Paa Joe the land the shop was on had passed away, and his family said the coffin artist would need to pay to lease the land if he wanted to stay. Paa Joe refused and moved his family from the center of Accra to a plot of land almost two hours away from the capital. Few people wanted to travel that far for a coffin, even if it was by Paa Joe.

“It was a very critical moment,” Jacob recalled. “We went through a financial crisis. There was no commission for a period of weeks or months. I had a lot of friends I was dependent on; they were feeding me, and it was a very tough moment.”

Paa Joe, Jacob and his younger brother, and five apprentices moved to the new location. However, eventually all the apprentices left when they ran out of hope for the future of the business. Jacob said he and his brother had no option but to learn the trade to keep the family business alive.

“No one was there to work, and Paa Joe was growing weaker,” Jacob recalled. “We thought of leaving, but I looked back and I said ‘no.’ That is another part of the meaning of Sankofa. Paa

Joe has been very famous. He has received international exposure and international commissions. If I should leave, that would mean it is the end of his legacy. That is the end of his life.”

Jacob’s apprenticeship lasted until 2016 when he was ready to graduate and marry his wife, Thuodora. They have three children, the oldest of which is 6. While juggling fatherhood, traveling internationally for artist residencies, preaching when he has time and co-managing the business at home, he is also building an academy in Ghana to teach people at home and abroad how to build the proverbial coffins. A four-story building is already under construction.

However, he said he has not considered passing the business down to any of them the way his father did. So far, he is content with the prospect of teaching his father’s craft to students all over the world.

“Looking at my name, it is Jacob Paa Joe Jr., so I am an extension of him,” Jacob said. “If he were here, he would be working, and I would only be here assisting him. The art would be on him. So, since he’s not here, I am here as an extension of him to make his dream still come to pass … Sankofa means we are trying to regain back the glory, the international publicity and exposure.”

Jacob was working for 12 hours every day in Fayetteville, including weekends, but said he was still behind on the project just three days before the procession. I offered my help, and he accepted.

It was a pleasantly warm day for Arkansas in February, and he had moved his setup from the unsettlingly pristine white walls of the Studio and Design Center to the school’s inconspicuous wood shop out back. The garage doors were flung open to let the breeze float through like they would be back home in Ghana. He had finished building the sculpture over

the weekend, and it was perched atop a precarious little rolling cart ready for sanding.

His beer shirt was wadded up and creased with dried glue in the belly of the coffin, and he now wore a Santa T-shirt with a short trench coat that matched the color of the sawdust.

Jacob pointed toward the bird and asked me to start sanding the glops of dried wood putty. I reached for the orbital sander, but he told me the battery was dead. He said he could charge it if I felt comfortable using it. Until then, it would have to be done by hand with folded sheets of sandpaper.

We fell into a rhythm of me sanding while he mounted the feet on the base. He looked over my shoulder occasionally to compliment my progress or give tips. When I was done, he said we needed to lift the coffin and lay it on the ground. I glanced at the wooden vessel, solid wood and large enough to hold a corpse, with doubt, but Jacob seemed sure of my strength and braced himself at the butt of the bird. I wrapped my arms around the neck but paused as he said, “Wait,” and started to scoot his side into position.

Suddenly, the wobbly cart lurched under the weight of the Sankofa. The wood hit the concrete with a heavy thud, and I watched as two weeks of this man’s life fractured in my arms. Clinging to the neck of the Sankofa, too afraid to move, I watched Jacob’s face fall just as hard as his bird. His laced fingers cradled the back of his head as he slowly surveyed the damage.

Two cracks blighted the thick neck: One snaked along the base, and the other was closer to the head. The top crack was about an inch wide and revealed the nails holding back the inky darkness of the hollow interior.

“I think it is destroyed,” he said.

I didn’t know how to answer, so we stared in silence. He pressed his palms together under his chin, eyes

closed, head tilted toward the sky, and sent up a quick prayer before returning to his somber expression. “We will fix it,” I reassured him.

“Yes, we will fix it,” he replied.

He took a few more minutes to think after instructing me on which part to sand next. Shortly after I had lapsed back into a meditative state of filing down the wood putty, he laid out his plan. We would need to fill the gaps with extra-strength wood glue and nail together the crack at the base. The top and larger break would require us to hammer the bird’s face to scoot the wood back on the nails.

He left me to continue sanding while he went inside to grab the glue, and returned promptly. In his position, I would have taken a few minutes to mourn the setback in the bathroom. However, his stoic disposition did not falter as we righted the bird and wheeled it into the wood shop.

I held the coffin by the neck with two other students as Jacob climbed inside. One of them, the graduate student monitoring the shop, shot me a worried glance as the structure wobbled with each hammer blow.

We had finished driving nails into the bottom fissure until its edges were tightly pressed together and needed to address the dire situation at the top. Jacob slathered extra-strength wood glue on the edges of the gap and told us to brace ourselves. He began whacking the head with a board, and each impact sent most of the coffin’s weight into my hip. We tried hitting, pushing and lifting the head, but the nails were still exposed.

With a sigh, Jacob pulled the head off and the metal teeth slid out of the base. He removed them and pressed the seam back together. The graduate student hammered the nails back into the neck at an angle to pierce both sides as Jacob held the head steady. It was a success.

We cut, glued and screwed two blocks of wood under the arch of the neck for extra support, which was the only indication the cracks ever existed after it was sanded and sprayed with cream-colored paint. With the cracks adequately sealed, the next few days were spent painting the finishing touches.

During the mock funeral procession, a group of participants wearing green face masks would intermittently jump out of the treeline and block the path of the procession. They crouched and stalked toward the coffin, hands outstretched. Their part was called “The Lizards.” In Ghana, lizards are believed to be evil spirits, and they try to prevent the coffin from reaching the ancestors across the river into the afterlife.

“To dispel the lizards,” Jacob shouted into a megaphone, “we must spin the coffin!”

The six pallbearers dug their heels into the pavement and spun the heavy cart once, twice, three times, then changed direction. As they did so, the lizards fled back into the trees to find the site of their next ambush. Cheers from the mourners followed their departure, and the march continued. It reminded me of Jacob’s response to the cracks in the Sankofa. When difficulty appeared, he pivoted and marched forward.

The family of the dead does their best to ensure their loved one has a successful transition into the afterlife. They fill the coffin with money, valuables, and sometimes food and water before it is buried. Death is the beginning of a new journey to the world of the ancestors, and they might need money to buy safe passage along the way. The participants modeled this tradition as the coffin approached the area designated as the cemetery, which was the Lower Ramble, a bridge over a stream by the public library.

Veronica Huff sat on a rock across the stream from the procession. Her

face was painted white, and she wore a matching swath of cloth as a dress that dipped and revealed the tattoos on her back. Holding a wooden staff, she looked regal as she played her part as an ancestor.

The coffin rounded the corner to face the bridge, and as if on cue, the sun peeked out from the clouds and a smattering of rain began to kiss the rocks and the faces of the mourners. The procession halted at the edge of the bridge, but the pallbearers delivered the Sankofa filled with messages of love, hope and grief into the open arms of the ancestors who carried it across the stream. The crowd cheered, the rain ceased and the sun hid behind the clouds.

“It is a blessing,” Jacob said, looking at the dark splotches the raindrops left on the ground. “It wasn’t raining until we got to the spiritual world — the cemetery — and after the coffin arrived in the afterlife, it stopped raining. What is the significance behind this?”

The coffin was shepherded back to the studio as students bombarded Jacob with hugs by the bridge. They thanked him for coming and said they would miss him. Jacob planned to leave Arkansas in three days to do another residency in Pittsburgh — there he would build a rooster, which is a symbol for leadership, for the August Wilson African American Cultural Center. It would be his second residency without Paa Joe.

“I wish my father was here with me today, but he is in Accra,” Jacob told me as we walked back. “I know he would have loved to take part in the procession. I felt very emotional when I remembered he is not here.”

Stills from “Over Here, Over There”, a short film by Megan Killam

“Over Here, Over There” began production around March of this year and has been one of the most demanding and rewarding tasks of Megan’s life. This film is a love letter to adolescence, music, friendship, freedom, home, and so much more.

Artwork by Fiona Scoggan

“Happiness, more or less, it’s just a change in me, something in my liberty. Happiness, coming and going.” The Verve,

“Lucky Man” (1997)

THE STAR MOMENT

Karaoke bars offer patrons opportunities for exhibition and socialization. Singers of varying caliber are entitled to applause. Individuals overcome social anxiety and meet others through a shared fascination with musical performance. Those who take these elements most seriously craft an entire lifestyle out of it.

By Edward McKinnon

I sit inside a bar on Fayetteville’s busy Dickson Street just before things get really busy. Blinking, colorful lights illuminate a wall of spirits in front of me. A woman several stools down is armed with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. The only other customer in the bar at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night, I am armed with my first whiskey and coke of the evening in one hand, my iPhone with an open Spotify playlist in the other, and a building sense of anxiety on the inside.

Several thoughts race through my head: “What am I doing alone on Dickson Street?” “What am I doing at a bar with no college students?” “Am I really about to sing in a public space?”

Bar and club environments are not exactly my speed since frenetic settings can trigger my social anxiety, so trying a place with other social tools was equal parts scary and exciting. I was in the middle of working on a story about music therapy, so that subject matter was top of mind. That night, I suppose I was in search of my own music therapy.

The bar I am sitting inside is appropriately called Infusion since it specializes in infused liquors. But

like almost everyone who walks through the door, I am there for the bar’s other specialty — karaoke.

I search my playlist for the perfect first song to perform. I scroll past several dozen Green Day, Oasis, U2, Beck and White Stripes tracks that all look enticing, but when I see “Lucky Man” by the Verve, I suddenly become confident. I have listened to the song on a loop and have grown to love it due to its uplifting nature. The lyrics are vague enough for me to conjure up my own idea of what the song means, but the song’s central theme of happiness, and how difficult it can be for people to find level emotional ground, is universal. The refrain, “Happiness, more or less, is just a change in me, something in my liberty,” provides a good mantra. As someone who struggles with depression, I try to gravitate toward songs like “Lucky Man” that elicit positive feelings. The best part: I can hit every note relatively easily as an inexperienced baritone.

Not long after picking my song, the DJ kicks off karaoke, and I am called to the mic. I feel a bit stiff and sit at a bar stool for most of my performance, but my vocals are rock solid. Four minutes and 53 seconds later, I am proud of my performance and immediately request another song. As someone who is generally shy, I view singing in public as an effective method of public exhibition. Additionally, because people bond over shared music interests, people you might never talk to might approach you if they like your song choice, performance, or both.

There is a surprising amount of research on the subject of karaoke and its positive impact on people’s social confidence. One centered on Finnish karaoke singers published in The European Journal of Social & Behavioral Sciences in 2013 concluded that “alcohol drinking is not part of the behavior model of karaoke singers. Karaoke singing

is rather a joyful way to spend time together.” Researchers observed that participants in the study almost unanimously alluded to “star moments,” instances where vocal performances are met with positive audience feedback as a primary motivator for the surveyed karaoke singers.

After one song, I felt I had achieved one of those “star moments.” But four minutes and 31 seconds later, I felt humbled. My decent attempt at a British classic was easily topped by the woman at the other end of the bar who bodied Whitney Houston’s 1992 cover of “I Will Always Love You.” Doug Teaster, an older man I will eventually become more familiar with, gives back-to-back impeccable deliveries of Pearl Jam classics “Better Man” and “Jeremy” not long afterward. More people come through the door and give enthusiastic performances of rock, pop, hiphop, and country staples. Some exit on top, others hang around. I now notice the standard is much higher than I expected.

Alas, as I began drinking more throughout the night, my performances weakened. I stumbled through Oasis' hit “Champagne Supernova.” I pushed my vocal boundaries further on U2’s 1991 deep cut, “Acrobat.” I even sang “D’You Know What I Mean?,” Oasis’ overindulgent seven-plusminute mess of a rock anthem that begins with a full minute of random helicopter and Morse code sound effects.

“The music video is bad ass, though,” I thought to myself upon choosing the song. My performance was not.

My night ends with a small sense of regret. My performances are not maligned since the karaoke bar atmosphere is generally non-judgemental, but I feel a bit selfconscious about my song choices. I am not in good enough shape to socialize either

But I still have an itch to return the next night to improve my performance and talk to more people. I sense a change in myself. Happiness, more or less? If I want to socialize, I must keep singing.

The socialization benefits of karaoke are more relevant than ever. In the past several years, social isolation brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic caused more people to report feeling depressed. Fittingly, as COVID restrictions have been lifted worldwide, the karaoke business has rebounded and is expected to grow significantly throughout the 2020s. In Fayetteville, Big Box Karaoke opened its doors in 2018, offering private karaoke rooms for group gatherings, and has remained a popular destination even after the pandemic. JJ’s Grill and Tin Roof on Dickson Street also offer weekly karaoke nights, attracting college students looking for a fun night out midweek where they can deliver either ironic or sincere renditions of their favorite songs in front of hundreds of their peers. Performing music does not just produce an endorphin high in participants. It generates social opportunities.

Over the past couple of decades, the introduction of new technology has greatly impacted how we socialize with one another. Early research has shown that overexposure to digital technology can prevent people from developing and refining social skills. I have anecdotally become aware of karaoke’s power to combat social disconnectedness through my conversations with the regulars at Infusion, hence their patronage. One who I’ve heard echo this sentiment frequently is Doug Teaster, a 66-year-old attendee at Infusion.

“Learning to walk again. I believe I’ve waited long enough. Where do I begin?” — Foo Fighters, “Walk” (2011)

Two months since my first visit to Infusion, I have essentially made

it a part of my routine, where I go once or twice a week. Just as I’ve suspected, I find Teaster sitting at the bar, sipping on his usual drink — water. He does not drink alcohol, or at least has not in six months, and has no desire to go back. Drinking has mainly served as a social tool for him in the past. Singing is a better one, he said. At the bar, he is contemplating his next song choice.

I greet him, and we jump into conversation. Neither of us is extroverted, but after several previous interactions, we know each other well enough at this point to talk about many things before shifting the discussion to his nearly two decades of experience as a karaoke singer.

In 2006, Doug Teaster walked down an almost unrecognizable version of

Dickson Street searching for a sense of fulfillment akin to a coming-ofage college student. Off the heels of a divorce, he wanted to get out and meet new people — learn to walk again, if you will. He found fulfillment initially in a now-closed karaoke bar behind the block that now houses Infusion. Each trip to this bar required him to walk past another place that at the time offered karaoke on Friday and Saturday nights. Today, the space houses Infusion.

“I’m going to go in there one night,” Teaster thought to himself, knowing he has trouble breaking his routines.

One night in 2009, he walked in. The subsequent series of events would ensure that amending his routine would be more than worth it. He fondly recalls his first social interaction with the karaoke DJ.

He handed him a song slip since the place had yet to adopt a computer-based system. The slip read “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” He looked at the song, then looked at

Edward McKinnon performing at Infusion Karaoke Bar. Photograph by Nadeshka Melo ; Polaroids by Marshall Deree

condition, bronchiectasis, which affects his vocal abilities. But you would never know this based on the ambitious choices he makes. Just when I think I have him figured out, I watch him mimic Chester Bennington’s screams on “One Step Closer” without breaking a sweat before tackling a much smoother track, Post Malone’s “Better Now.” Each performance begins with cheers from patrons who recognize Teaster. When he finishes, he receives some of the largest cheers of the night.

In his 15 years of going Infusion, Teaster has witnessed the place transform from a small pub with the occasional karaoke offering into a full-fledged karaoke bar where self-proclaimed vocalists take up residency. While he has played the role of customer and vocalist for the most part, he did take a turn at DJing for several months in 2011 when the previous one walked out.

“In the beginning, I just did it to help the owner,” he said. “I told her I would cover until she could find a replacement. But then, when I got into it, I discovered it was my favorite job that I had ever had. So it was for fun. I was getting compensated. Not a lot, but it was still about $600 extra a month to spend on my kids.”

In the years since, Teaster has seen plenty of customers and employees come and go. Management shifted hands in the mid-2010s when Amber Hurlbut, one of the bartenders, purchased the place. After all of his children moved to college, Teaster made the karaoke bar a bigger part of his lifestyle. Two to three times a month became two to three times a week. In a good week, he gets to perform more than a dozen songs, which gives him a dozen opportunities to be approached by someone new after hearing him sing. Attending the bar is not indulging in a vice. It is his hobby.

“I am an addict though,” Teaster said. “I’m addicted to this bar.”

Though bars ideally offer a good social atmosphere, there is some inherent cynicism to the pub if patrons may feel the need to have alcohol in one hand and a cigarette or vape in the other to fit in.

However, karaoke can add another dimension to these establishments if they choose to adopt it. Selling drinks keeps the business afloat, but judgment-free vocal exhibition enables individuals to meet new people in a musical context, find their social confidence and indulge in a healthy dose of braggadocio. The regulars insist that karaoke bars such as Infusion are different. Performance art is a jumping-off point to talk to unique people. On my best days, this is why I go to Infusion. For regulars such as Teaster, this is what it is all about.

Through the more than half a year in total I have spent going to Infusion, I have become a recognizable patron. The workers know my name and face, but I am not a frequent enough visitor to fear I am adopting

a bad drinking habit. As weeks pass, I notice the bar’s clientele is shockingly age-diverse, ranging from 21-year-olds such as myself who are hoping to shake up their weekend evening routine to folks Teaster’s age and anyone in between.

It does not take a genius to figure out why Infusion has a different, arguably better aura than neighboring establishments. The drink selection is good, and the tight space creates a very intimate vibe, but it is also one of the only all-nights-a-week karaoke spots in the area. The social benefits are evident.

For instance, business owners and even the military have cited karaoke as a method for boosting morale and retention. Personally, I enjoy singing in front of strangers because it helps me work on my social anxiety. But, from a social-scientific standpoint, there is strong evidence that singing as performance art is more than just an activity that adds an additional element to a fun night out. One qualitative research study published in the European Journal of Public Health has found that group singing activities such as karaoke can help individuals “develop a sense of belonging and enhance self-confidence in participants.” Around the same time as my sit down with Teaster, another character approaches me who also preaches about these benefits, and then some.

“We’re all in the mood for a melody and you’ve got us feelin’ alright.”

Billy Joel, “Piano Man” (1973)

Edward McKinnon infront of Infusion Karaoke Bar. Photograph by Caitlyn Swopes

Though I am starting to get acclimated to the familiar faces at Infusion, I feel relieved when someone else is eager to make conversation. Brian Jackson, a 26-yearold diesel technician in Tontitown, Arkansas, thinks the bar is a good place to blow off steam. He rings off a familiar mantra I can picture coming from an old man making love to his tonic and gin: “Anytime I have a stressful day at work, I don’t like taking it home.”

Normally, when I tell people I am a journalist and would like their input with a story, I am met with resistance, or at the very least a bit of hesitance. Jackson is different. His shorter stature is juxtaposed with his larger-thanlife social confidence. He understands my desire to meet like-minded people here, even if his end goal is different.

Jackson tells me he spent six years in the Army before moving to Northwest Arkansas, stationed through most of his tenure in Oklahoma while having brief stints in Iraq and Europe. Growing up, he developed a strong interest in music, first gravitating to ‘90s alternative rock. Later in youth, he became infatuated with punk rock and thrash metal. He said his music taste has matured with age, and he now has gotten into more synth music and slower rock. While in the Army, he formed a punk-rock band with fellow soldiers called Iggy Six and the Ground Pounders.

Jackson plays bass, keyboards, some guitar and is a confident vocalist. While he acknowledges that music is a hobby, he enjoys working with other artists and making friends through common musical interests. Infusion is one of his go-to spots not just because he likes to perform but because the usual clientele includes aspiring musicians he hopes to work with.

Our conversation is interrupted when the DJ calls for Jackson. I have seen him perform enough times to know that his go-to song is Billy Joel’s classic “Piano Man.” Unlike Teaster, I’ve mostly seen Jackson stick to bonafide crowd-pleasers. His other go-to song is Paul Anka’s “Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” By selecting

the favorites, he lives the dream only the greatest rock stars get to fulfill — hearing the audience sing the lyrics back at him.

This is why people come to karaoke bars such as Infusion. The karaoke bar ideally provides a safe social space. I remember the four rules that Teaster had during his tenure as DJ: Respect the equipment, respect the singer, there is no such thing as a bad singer, and don’t fuck with the DJ.

Good karaoke bars operate under this kind of social contract. Everyone within the walls is encouraged to sing. Applause is mandatory. Heckling and mic drops are forbidden. I have yet to hear boos from crowd members at any karaoke night. The environment is engineered to negate negativity.

Still, Infusion is different from the average karaoke bar. Customers, bartenders, security guards and DJs all sing — and well. Teaster recalls a conversation with a professional tennis player from New Zealand who approached him after finishing his song. Blown away by the experience in the bar, he turned to Teaster to ask how all of the singers are so good.

Jackson also agrees. An attendee at Infusion since February, he has concluded the place doubles as a place to meet everyday people and a viable medium for connecting with fellow artists.

“This is a good way for independent musicians and beginners to network,” Jackson said. “This is the place to come.”

“How many lives are living strange?” —Oasis, “Champagne Supernova” (1995)

Following my less-than-stellar showing during my first night at Infusion, I decide to exercise some restraint. I limit myself to two beers. I am there to have a good time but also want to sing better. I fare better

Edward McKinnon performing at Infusion Karaoke Bar. Photograph by Nadeshka Melo

that evening, make a few social connections, then dip.

The next weekend, I decide to drive to Dickson Street. I sing a few songs that get an improved reception and have since been added to my repertoire. “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand gets the

stellar showing. At the beginning of the night, I perform “Lonely Boy” by The Black Keys and feel less lonely when the sparse crowd applauds. As the night goes on, more people file in and applause grows louder for each performer. I sing “All These Things I’ve Done” by The Killers and feel as though the lyrics “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier” are mine for a brief moment. I sing “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day knowing many people in the bar were raised by the American Idiot album. I conclude with “Champagne Supernova” again, and the nonsensical lyrics of the chorus suddenly mean something when I hear multiple people around me also sing along with conviction. I see dozens of lives around me happy to be living strange.

After hearing applause one last time and sensing the night is coming to a close, I begin to file out. I tip the DJ and thank them for hosting. I close my tab at the bar. I bid farewell to some fellow regulars. I head for the exit and back to my apartment, allowing my memory to rest. When I am ready to visit some old friends, make new acquaintances, and feed my ego for just a few minutes at a time with a microphone and a supportive crowd, I know a karaoke bar will be waiting for me. Q

cracks on the sidewalk.

by Siena Lamb

i still avoid the cracks on the sidewalk. it’s a little game i play with my younger self so she doesn’t forget that i still see her, even though most don’t anymore. and she still whispers in my ear, telling me i look like a princess when i wear purple and my hair is down.

but i tend to tune her out by pointing out the scars on my face and my split ends. and she jumps up and down in my heart, when i make silly faces with my friends, though i tend to tell her to keep still, keep quiet, her laugh is too loud. and she skips along with the butterflies in my belly, when the handsome prince asks to hold my hand. but i remind her not everything is a fairy tale. and she cries for her mommy, when someone is mean to her, though i remind her she is now on her own. but as my feet carry me through the pavement, on my way to the courses for my future... i feel a pull from the little girl from my past. she avoids the cracks “cause it breaks your mommas back”, what a silly thing to believe. but it’s a warm reminder that while she grows smaller, as i grow taller, she truly won’t ever leave.

Photograph by Evan Meyers

Photograph by Emery Summers; Moth Photograph by Anne Elise Tidwell

A Change in Season: Navigating and Managing SAD

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a prevalent mental health condition impacting approximately 5% of the adult population in the United States. Despite its widespread occurrence, this serious illness, which manifests mentally and physically, is often overlooked and underestimated by society.

By Stella Hufhines

The moment Ethan Coombs realized he was struggling with a mental illness, he was immersed in the pages of his old writing journal. “I am undoubtedly depressed,” read the title line of one entry, dated Sept. 27, 2022. Coombs practices writing down his moods and feelings each day for future moments of reflection. As he returned to his journals two years later, Coombs recalled the stark differences between his entries. In September’s entries, Coombs wrote of his dark moods, fatigue or lack of focus, while in May, his entries were full of gratefulness, positivity and happiness.

At the time of the September entries, Coombs was unable to wrap his mind around these mysterious feelings. But as he stumbled upon this entry in January 2024, his perpetual sadness made total sense to him. Now, Coombs knows exactly what was infecting his mind two years ago. He was diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) in 2023, a malady that has affected nearly every aspect of his life. Coombs has linked the plummet of his grades, lack of energy and tendency to self-isolate to the disorder.

SAD is a subtype of depression that is linked to the change in seasons. Although SAD can appear at any time of the year, it is extremely common in the winter due to the decreased amount of sunlight. How

it differs from its associated diagnosis, depression, is that someone with SAD is only affected for three to four months out of the year, while depression is more long-term.

Typical symptoms of SAD include a disinterest in activities that were once enjoyed, change in appetite, decline in physical activity, sporadic sleep as well as difficulty staying focused and making decisions. These symptoms can evolve into serious mental and physical handicaps for those who are affected. SAD affects a large percentage of the population — up to 5% of all U.S. adults and an estimated 1 million children in North America.

January has been one of the leading months in suicide rates, claiming the lives of over 8,300 individuals in the last two years. Although not all of these suicides are attributed to SAD, there is evidence to show that SAD is extremely common in those who are already diagnosed with a pre-existing mental illness, specifically depression or bipolar disorder.

Despite its pervasive nature in the U.S. population, SAD is often downplayed as a trivial mental illness because it is confused with the winter blues, which most perceive as innocuous. However, the symptoms of SAD are anything but superficial. This preconception that SAD is harmless, along with the global stigma against mental health issues, makes those who endure

the disorder often feel unseen and trapped in the shadows of silent suffering.

Ryan Freeman-Burchfield, founder of the Freeman-Burchfield Institute for Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and the only Beck Institute Certified Clinician in Arkansas, explained the mental health stigma “exists inside of us and our society.” FreemanBurchfield said she believes this stigma creates shame associated with mental illness and can be detrimental to those who suffer.

“The consequence of minimizing SAD (or any mental health symptom) is that people will not seek the support they need and it is possible that their symptoms could worsen leading to suicidal thoughts and feelings,” Freeman-Burchfield said.

Coombs, a 23-year-old native of Northwest Arkansas, has grappled with this seasonal struggle for the past four years, but his symptoms appeared to be much worse than the average person. Unable to get any sleep at night, loss of motivation to see friends and the overall miserable veil smothering his mind, make the winter months insufferable for Coombs. When victims of SAD make it out of the trenches of winter, they are usually met with a newfound optimism in the spring, as their days become filled with sunlight and warmer weather. As February ushers in the promise of a sunlit salvation, Coombs said he feels a surge of hope. “In the spring when (my depression) starts to go away, I feel like I’m invincible,” Coombs said. “But It never goes according to plan.”

Spring and summer become his sanctuary, a time for passion projects, academic engagement and the erasure of the previous winter months. The euphoria, however, is short-lived, crashing down as autumn signals the return of his SAD.

The winter of 2021 was an especially troubling season for

Coombs, but he did not attribute a specific factor to the intensity of his SAD. Instead, Coombs believes it was just a particularly bad episode “in combination with a lot of responsibilities I couldn’t delegate,” he said. Despite that specifically harsh winter, Coombs claimed when spring arrived, he quickly bounced back. “(The change) was so dramatic that I didn’t even feel like fall was that big of a deal because of how good I felt in the spring — until the next fall came,” Coombs said.

When Coombs’ symptoms began to creep back in autumn, all of his projects and excursions he had planned during the sunshinefilled summer came to a halt. As a psychology and music major at the University of Arkansas, deeply passionate about his studies, Coombs grapples with the impact of his mental health on academic pursuits. He said one glance comparing his fall and spring transcripts could provide a depressive diagnosis on its own. In the spring, Coombs consistently remains a straight-A student, but in the fall, no matter how many hours he is taking, his grades seem to plummet. During the fall semester, Coombs finds himself dropping classes he once eagerly anticipated, paralyzed by the lack of motivation and energy that his disorder brings.

According to his mother, Tina Matsubara, Coombs “was a quiet contemplator, who overthought everything” as a child. Growing up in Northwest Arkansas, Coombs’ life seemed pretty standard. Not showing any previous signs of mental distress, his parents were surprised as to why he started having relentless panic attacks around the age of 7. Coombs, who experienced these intense fightor-flight responses, now questions the origins of these sporadic panic episodes. Although he said there is no definitive origin, Coombs wonders if the attacks coincided with frequently being left to his own devices as a child.

With a father who frequently worked late hours and a mother who also worked as a teacher and ran errands often, there was a consistency of being left alone with his brother for long periods.

Other than the summer months when his mother was not working, he recalled unusual moments when she was home for extended lengths of time. Although Coombs assumed she was sick, having taken off work, he now believes these moments were likely due to depressive spells.

Even though Coombs said he has always enjoyed being alone, these absences seemed to deeply distress him.

Ethan Coombs has grappled with SAD for the past four years. Photograph by Emery Summers

“(The change) was so dramatic that I didn’t even feel like fall was that big of a deal because of how good I felt in the spring — until the next fall came,” Coombs said.

Growing up, Coombs’ older brother was diagnosed with depression at the early age of 8. Meanwhile, Coombs seemed to embody normalcy.

That’s why, when Coombs told his father of his diagnosis of depression at 20 years old, his dad was taken aback, almost as much as Coombs, himself, was. Coombs said he suspected both reactions were because he had gone so long without showing any symptoms.

“It seemed that, like with my brother, if (depression) was going to emerge, it would have probably happened earlier,” Coombs said. Freeman-Burchfield views SAD as a prevalent mental disorder, especially when it already runs in the family. She said genetics play a large role in determining mental illness and emphasized how common it is for children to inherit such disorders from parents who grapple with identical challenges. Additionally, Freeman-Burchfield suggests that there might be a natural, instinctive element to SAD that contributes to its widespread appearance. “I think in the winter we are supposed to slow down generally,” Freeman-Burchfield said. “We’re humans, we are a type of animal in a way.” Although 5% of the U.S. adult population experiences SAD, Freeman-Burchfield believes that, in reality, far more are likely to experience it.

Calvin Ryerse, a 22-year-old living in New York City, has been struggling with symptoms of SAD for eight years, which is another testament to familial mental illness, as both his mother and grandmother share the disorder. This family history, along with his symptoms, suggests the presence of SAD, although Ryerse is undiagnosed. For Ryerse, his seasonal depression mostly manifests through a lack of energy and motivation. “It feels like moving through molasses,” Ryerse said, “which is a challenging way to spend five months out of the year.” Trudging through the thick mental fog of winter, Ryerse finds himself operating at a snail’s pace in his day-to-day life. For Ryerse, the winter of 2023 held a notoriously bad winter for him, as he was fired from his job in November, graduated in December and ended a relationship in February, all while dealing with his usual seasonal struggle.

Ryerse, who is a filmmaker, found that his most bearable winter was when he was working on his senior thesis film. Having a longterm creative project helped Ryerse get through the insufferable winter months.

“The best way to deal with it is to give myself a project to work on,” Ryerse said. “Having something to look forward to kind of cuts through that intense, cold heaviness.”

Photographs by Emery Summers

Another way in which Ryerse fights the symptoms of SAD is by being outside as often as possible — going on long walks and bike rides despite the cold.

Ryerse said he has not considered getting an official diagnosis because he was “feeling unsure about the process,” and is content with being undiagnosed. “There’s something easier living in the uncertainty of it — confronting the truth or the non-truth,” Ryerse said.

Freeman-Burchfield, who has been helping those with SAD since 2007, has many suggestions for treatment options; however, one of her top prescriptions for those with the disorder is time outdoors.

“I believe in nature,” she said.

Freeman-Burchfield has had her own mental struggles throughout her life and occasionally battles mild SAD. After recently undergoing wrist surgery, which left her feeling limited and partially immobilized, she fell back on one of her most suggested forms of healing: going on a hike. Despite the dead trees that look like skeletal sentinels, Freeman-Burchfield listened to the sound of flowing water from a nearby stream and the chirps of birds — a symphony of delicate flutes.

She strongly believes that getting outside, regardless of the nasty weather, can do wonders for those struggling with SAD. There are many forms of treatment for SAD, ranging from Ryerse’s focus on creative projects to Freeman-Burchfield’s suggestion to get outside, or different kinds of medication. Other common treatments include light therapy, exercise and different methods of talk therapy, however, no single form of treatment works for everyone.

Summer Rainn, who has been diagnosed with SAD since 2020, has been consistently disappointed in her attempts at finding solace through different treatments.

Rainn’s SAD symptoms greatly hinder her day-to-day life, she said. Shutting herself away from the outside world and friends, her self-isolation becomes a tortuous experience. It is difficult to maintain consistent habits with SAD, so Rainn’s routine tends to fluctuate. Being that her symptoms are so severe, Rainn has sought out many forms of treatment. Medication was her first venture, but it proved to make her condition even worse. “The times I was on medication, it turned me into a zombie, barely functioning as a human,” Rainn said. After her hopeless excursions in the world of pharmaceuticals, Rainn became interested in a more recent and debated form of medicine.

Things began to look up for Rainn when she received her medical marijuana card, which made her symptoms far less intrusive to her daily life. Many recent studies address the correlation between mental illness and marijuana, especially concerning depression. While

there are mixed opinions on whether it improves or worsens the condition, there are many personal testimonies that claim the drug is integral to getting those with depression through the day. Outside of marijuana, listening to music seems to be the only other efficient way Rainn can cope with her symptoms.

Similar to Rainn, Coombs has tried almost every treatment option available in the hopes of easing his despair. Before resorting to medication, Coombs attempted to eliminate any environmental factors that could have been feeding his disorder. He endured months of dieting, blood tests, hormone evaluations, light therapy, exercise and a regimented sleep schedule, all to find that nothing truly stabilized his suffering. Medication is the only treatment that seems to lighten the effects of SAD for Coombs — much to his dismay. Coombs has never considered medication a long-term solution and instead views it as a risky last resort due to its possible impacts on the brain. Despite his hesitation toward pharmaceuticals, Coombs has high hopes for the future of healthcare and continues to abide by his same routine of medication, exercise and time outside.

It is common for people with forms of depression to have a hard time envisioning their future. However, Freeman-Burchfield suggests that those who have been diagnosed with SAD and have experienced their depressive cycle find it easier to look to the future. For someone experiencing symptoms of SAD for the first time, the unexplained nature of their emotions can be perplexing. Deciphering and discovering new feelings can be extremely difficult, especially in a world where mental health is frequently stigmatized. Freeman-Burchfield said the reverse can also be true for those with SAD, where one feels a sense of dread as winter approaches. Although those who are diagnosed are aware that their struggle is seasonal, it can create a sense of apprehension when it comes to facing the colder months. They know that darker times are ahead, but there is nothing they can do to stop their symptoms from reappearing.

During a surprisingly warm February this year, Coombs said he was springing out of his seasonal slump and seemed unexpectedly optimistic when considering the future state of his disorder. As an undergrad psychology major, Coombs recognizes that, with graduate school ahead, he is going to stay busy for the following years. When he envisions his later career, Coombs does not see SAD in the picture and is fairly optimistic that his current treatments will continue to carry him through the winters. Trying to focus more on the present, Coombs has adopted the idea that “everything will work out eventually.”

“I’m probably not the typical depressed person thinking about their future because I’m very optimistic about this kind of stuff,” Coombs said.

But this is not always good, he said. Coombs attributed his overly optimistic mindset to his newfound enjoyment of day-to-day life, now that his depressive season was coming to an end.

Freeman-Burchfield said she believes mental health’s severity is often minimized and that there has been a historical stigma surrounding the topic. She mentioned that a transformative moment in reshaping conversations around mental health emerged with the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic. Being locked indoors and estranged from the outside world, COVID-19 brought a 25% increase in the global appearance of anxiety and depression according to the World Health Organization. While acknowledging the grim toll the pandemic took on mental well-being, FreemanBurchfield highlighted a silver lining in the crisis — “it normalized mental health for a lot of people.”

Even in the wake of increased awareness and discourse surrounding mental health, FreemanBurchfield highlights a persistent challenge in the way individuals approach their own well-being. “We maximize other people’s problems, but we often minimize our own,” she said. She encourages individuals to become active participants in understanding their emotional landscape, urging them to contemplate pursuing potential diagnoses, particularly in the case of SAD. “You are the expert on you,” Freeman-Burchfield said. “What you go through, what you experience — you are the expert.”

The societal norm to minimize personal feelings played a significant role in Coombs’ early diagnosis of depression. Even though Coombs had been struggling with symptoms of SAD for years before it was confirmed, he had programmed himself to blame times of emotional turmoil and sadness on factors other than his mental health. By blaming his feelings on these justifications, Coombs had never considered the possibility that he could be dealing with something more serious, which is why his diagnosis of depression hit him particularly hard.

Although the overwhelmingly large number of individuals suffering from SAD could be considered a crisis in itself, Freeman-Burchfield said she believes the bigger issue lies in the stigma against mental health. “People don’t know where to start, how to talk about it, or where to go,” she said. At heart, she thinks that by sharing mental struggles with others, people can connect with and inspire those who are suffering to recognize their own mental hardships. If this pattern repeats, the global mental health stigma might slowly begin to dissolve, FreemanBurchfield said.

By confronting the bigger issue, individuals may begin to find peace in a more accepting atmosphere. Although Coombs can envision a bright future ahead, others may navigate the darkness by focusing on the day-to-day.

In the uncertain landscape of her future, Rainn said she finds herself navigating the present with a mix of determination and curiosity. All that she can currently do is keep using the treatments that get her through each day.

Concerning Ryerse’s future, instead of trying to fight his SAD, he has learned to accept and embrace the disorder. Ryerse said to avoid dreading the next November when his symptoms usually kick in, he finds ways to utilize his SAD. Ryerse views the winter as an opportunity to slow down, a season for intentional rest and introspection. Although the colder months can be tough for Ryerse’s mental health, he finds solace in the knowledge that spring will inevitably come, ushering in a wave of renewal and dispelling the shadows of his depressive mood.

Although no two victims of SAD will walk the same path, many may find comfort in an open conversation. By sharing personal stories and connecting with others affected, the individual experience becomes that of the group. In this transparent environment, those with SAD are learning to manage the seasonal cycle instead of trying to break it.

Photograph by Evan Meyers

I fawned over my hair. Carefully trimming each curl, I sculpted to create the ideal cut. Delicately taking care, gently loving my hair. I decorate myself with beautiful jewels and charms on chains. Making every day a story, an opportunity to appreciate my artistry. Living every day like it’s a song I long to play. Lacing love in my life where it desires to lay. I stare in the mirror, admiring how I have grown. It fills me with emotion. Waves of pride and pain crash against my heart. When I contemplate this age, and this time I have reached in my life. It seems unbelievable. It’s hard to recognize myself when I look in the mirror and feel beautiful. My lungs snag as I remember what I went through. When I confront the colors of my eyes, it draws tears to the surface. It has

A long road, I stumbled and crawled much of the way. There was always a tension pushing me to keep going. The call ever evoking, but my bleeding heart ignored. Even through the stabbing pains, I knew there was something out there worth feeling. I feel pride like a mother over my survival and revival. I wish I could hold myself as a child and make her feel all the love she deserved. But since I can not, I handle myself with care now. I am aware of my habits and try my hardest to balance. I love myself