IDS 2020 Freshman Edition

Welcome to IU, Class of 2024

2020 Freshman Edition

IDS Indiana Daily Student | idsnews.com

This is your copy of the 2020 Indiana Daily Student Freshman Edition. Inside, our summer editors have compiled some of our best work from the past academic year to introduce you to the IDS. The IDS, which has been around for 153 years now, is an independent news organization covering stories on IU’s campus and in the city of Bloomington as well. The IDS’ staff is all students, so anything you read in this issue came from someone only a couple years older than you.

Our freshman edition is special to begin with, but due to COVID-19 this will be our only print paper this summer.

However, we have shifted to e-papers that we publish twice a week. Those can be found at https://issuu.com/idsnews.

We’ve got you covered on what’s going on in Bloomington day in and day out. For our latest news, visit idsnews. com.

I hope you enjoy what we have put together and that you will follow the IDS’ work during your time at IU. If you

have any questions about the IDS, what we do, how we operate or even how to apply to work for us, I’m available by email at editor@idsnews.com.

Tristan Jackson Summer 2020 editor-in-chief

Professor tweets offensive articles

By Jessica Prucha jprucha@iu.edu | @jess_prucha

A Kelley School of Business professor is facing condemnation from university officials, students and Twitter users for tweet- Eric ing a quote from Rasmusen an article that says women are not suited for academia.

Eric Rasmusen tweeted a line from an article Nov. 7 titled “Are Women Destroying Academia? Probably,” which read, “Geniuses are overwhelmingly male because they combine outlier high IQ with moderately low agreeableness and moderately low conscientiousness.”

The article Rasmusen shared was published by The Unz Review, which presents controversial perspectives “largely excluded from mainstream media.”

His tweet received 295 comments from angry students and other Twitter users as of Wednesday afternoon.

Rasmusen has taught business economics and public policy in the Kelley School of Business since 1992.

He said he shared the tweet because a quote in the article stood out to him.

“I don’t know the contents of the article,” Rasmusen said. “It was just the one part that I thought was interesting and worth keeping note of.”

Rasmusen said he was surprised his tweet received backlash.

“It seems strange to me because I didn’t say anything myself — I just quoted something,” he said.

Dean of the Kelley School of Business Idalene Kesner said Rasmusen’s tweet was disrespectful, and the university is taking actions to ensure fairness for students and faculty.

“As the female dean of a business school, I disagree completely with the views espoused, and I’m disappointed,” Kesner said. “At the same time, I have to abide by the laws and take the actions I can within the environments that are within my control.”

Kesner said while she disagrees with his messages, Rasmusen has the right to share his views on his private Twitter because it is not affiliated with the university.

Kesner said she received complaints from students, faculty and other universities about this issue. She said she is working with other faculty members to review Rasmusen’s grading policies to ensure the professor’s grading is unbiased.

Students registered for spring courses with Rasmusen will be allowed to switch to classes taught by different instructors, Kesner said.

“We are allowing students to choose a different course in exchange for this particular course and will help them find alternatives,” Kesner said.

Executive Vice President and Provost Lauren Robel issued a statement to Kelley School faculty, staff and students Wednesday. She expressed her disagreement with Rasmusen’s views.

“His expressed views are stunningly ignorant, more consistent with someone who lived in the 18th century than the 21st,” Robel said in the SEE RASMUSEN, PAGE A7

The General comes home

By Matt Cohen

mdc1@iu.edu | @Matt_Cohen_

There was no true guarantee he'd be there until he came into view.

The former IU players being honored from the 1980s and 1990s came out first, one by one. But the crowd was waiting for one more man, the one they had come to see.

Fans cheered across the soldout Assembly Hall as each pillar of Indiana basketball took the floor, but there was a sense of anticipation among the clamor. They had heard the rumors. They had waited outside for hours. And now they were here, arms outstretched and clutching phones, determined to document the improbable.

A tribute video played on the scoreboard before switching to a camera pointed down the empty southeast tunnel.

Soon, the former players began to file in. They had come from the tunnel that connects Assembly Hall to Cook Hall, where a reunion for the 1979-80 IU men’s basketball team took place.

But they weren’t the ones fans were waiting on. There was still one man to follow.

Nearly two decades ago, he was

fired from coaching IU’s men’s basketball team. He vowed to never return. But Saturday afternoon, Bob Knight emerged from around the corner. * * *

Knight, now 79, took each of the steps up to the stage at the Bluebird Nightclub in Bloomington with two feet, one hand holding the hand of a former player and the other gripping the rail. On a November day, the room filled with the sound of his name.

"We love you Bobby!"

"Thank you, Coach!"

The General looked out at an audience of fans that loved him unconditionally. He had lived in Lubbock, Texas, 1,000 miles away from that kind of love for nearly 20 years.

“This was a great place to coach,” he said to the crowd. “And more importantly than that, we just about beat everybody’s ass.”

He praised the fans, announced raffle winners and made crude jokes. He was asked if he wanted to return to Assembly Hall, where he won three national championships, choked a player, threw a chair, gave an interview naked and

became the winningest coach in IU history. Where he swore he’d never return.

“Let’s go tomorrow,” Knight said.

There was a women’s basketball game the next day. He didn’t go. When rumors spread across social media that he would return for a January game against his alma mater, Ohio State, he didn’t go either. He did attend a college basketball game in Indiana that day, at Marian University, 50 miles from Bloomington.

He’s visited Bloomington High School South for a game — a team led by IU signee Anthony Leal — and he visited Indiana State University for a practice.

It all seemed like some sort of elaborate tease.

He had quietly slipped back into town early in the fall, moving into a house on the east side of Bloomington, not far from where he used to live in his coaching days. A house two miles from the arena where he built his legacy.

His shadow here is so long, his legacy so fundamental to this town, it’s difficult to imagine him casually sliding into a booth at Chili’s or ordering a milkshake

ALEX DERYN | IDS

Former IU men’s basketball head coach Bob Knight puts his fist in the air with former IU men’s basketball player Isiah Thomas at halftime Feb. 8 in Simon Skjodt Assembly Hall. This was Knight's first appearance in Assembly Hall since being fired nearly two decades ago.

at Culver’s. His departure was so ugly, his exile so bitter, it’s hard to picture he’d ever wear red again.

But he’s never hated IU basketball. Those in his inner circle say he’s never stopped loving Bloomington or its fans. They say he’s as happy as ever back in this community once again.

ESPN broadcaster and longtime friend Dick Vitale knew Knight planned to move back to Bloomington long before the public. He knew what Knight said he missed in Texas, what he was only able to find here.

“To be back around a lot of his friends and people that mean so much to him over the years, brings back a lot of great memories,” Vitale said in a January phone call.

“That must be really a thrill.”

Knight still seethes with animosity for the IU administration SEE KNIGHT, PAGE A2

IU senior competes in 'Jeopardy!'

Breakdown College Championship, finishes 2nd of IU's suspended classes IU senior to compete in 'Jeopardy!' College Championship

By Shelby Anderson

anderssk@iu.edu | @Shelby_Andy_

IU senior Tyler Combs will be one of 15 students to compete in the "Jeopardy!" College Championship in April.

Combs is from Greenfield, Indiana, according to a press release from "Jeopardy!". The championship will run April 6 to 17.

“It's a nice way of closing out my time at IU,” Combs said in an interview with the Indiana Daily Student.

He will be competing alongside students from colleges across the country including Yale University, Princeton University, the University of California San Diego and Northwestern Univer-

By Shelby Anderson anderssk@iu.edu | @Shelby_Andy_

next step involved an audition in St. Louis that consisted of anoth-

IU canceled in-person classes from March 23 to April 5 due to the COVID-19 outbreak, according to a Tuesday statement from IU President Michael McRobbie.

McRobbie made the decision after consulting with university leaders, IU spokesperson Chuck Carney said in an interview with the Indiana Daily Student. University leaders are following the advice of federal and global authorities to try preventing the spread of the virus by limiting gatherings of large groups of people.

SEE COMBS, PAGE A2

SEE SUSPENDED, PAGE A2

COURTESY PHOTO

Senior Tyler Combs poses with "Jeopardy!" host Alex Trebek. Combs participated in the 2020 “Jeopardy!” College Championship from February 3-4, 2020.

sity, according to the release.

The process for selection began in September when he took an online exam, Combs said. The

PRSRT STD U.S. POSTAGE PAID PERMIT NO. 1529 BLOOMINGTON, IN

What's Inside Campus

Arts

Region

Sports

Softening Stigma

The ball that never came

Live and Learn

Keeping him close

Abe Shapiro is working to make campus more inclusive of people with neurodevelopmental disorders, page A6.

When Jacobs canceled the spring ballet over COVID-19 concerns, two Cinderellas lost a stage and a dream, page B1.

Indianapolis native Da’Quincy Pittman missed two months of his sophomore year when he was shot six times, page C1.

Sophomore baseball player Gabe Bierman is living out the life his father never did as a pitcher for IU, page D6.

Indiana Daily Student

A2

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2020 FRESHMAN EDITION idsnews.com

» KNIGHT CONTINUED FROM PAGE A1 that fired him. He’s publicly wished them dead.

“As far as the hierarchy at Indiana University at that time, I have absolutely no respect whatsoever for those people,” Knight said in 2017 on the Dan Patrick Show. “I hope they’re all dead.”

For some, he’s lived to see that wish come true. * * * While he was still coach at IU, Knight had a seat picked out in Assembly Hall. He wanted to sit just inside the doors of the south lobby, at the top of the wooden bleachers behind the basket.

He wanted to sit there and watch IU basketball long after he retired. He thought he’d be watching one of his former players coaching on a court named in his honor. He wanted the freedom to get up and leave at any point, just as he’d imagined he’d one day walk away from his coaching career here, on his own terms.

That’s not how it turned out. Twenty years later, the winningest coach in IU history has yet to sit in those seats. He didn’t sit there during his return to Assembly Hall. He reunited with his former players in Cook Hall instead. Former players in attendance said IU’s game played on the TVs, but hardly anyone watched.

Knight teams were built on a motion offense, an offense that always kept the defense off balance. If the defender cut one way, the ball went another. Former Purdue coach Gene Keady once said that he, and all the coaches across the country, had to copy Knight just to have any shot at beating him.

Knight’s profanity was as infamous as his red sweaters and short temper. The chair he tossed across the floor is a lasting memory for many.

But Knight’s abuse is often forgotten, as it largely was when he returned to Assembly Hall. It’s difficult to square the wins and glory he brought to IU with his darker legacy of racism, sexism and abuse of his own players.

In 1979 while coaching the Pan-Am Games, Knight punched a Puerto-Rican police officer.

"Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all,” Knight reportedly told journalists after the game. “I'll tell you what, their basketball is a hell of a lot easier to beat than their court system. The only fucking thing they know how to do is grow bananas."

In 1988, during an interview with NBC’s Connie Chung, Knight made a crass comment about rape when asked how he dealt with stress, according to the New York Times.

"I think that if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it,” Knight said.

In 1992, a photo was released of Knight pretending to whip Calbert Cheaney, a black player and IU’s all time leading scorer. The NAACP asked Knight to apologize.

He didn’t.

“Probably no motivational device I’ve ever come across is as good as this,” Knight told the Chicago Tribune, referencing a bullwhip.

Knight’s grip on power at IU began to erode in 2000 with a CNN report of Knight choking a player, Neil Reed, during practice. It was the moment where all those years of player abuse came to a head, when the man who seemed to be able to get away with anything was finally reprimanded.

After the incident, thenIU president Myles Brand initiated a zero-tolerance policy for Knight. Later, when he pushed a student, the man who had changed basketball in Indiana forever was shown the door.

The night he was fired, Knight walked out of Assembly Hall to a crowd pleading to see him. He told the crowd to go home. In front of more than 6,000 people in Dunn Meadow, the General gave his farewell address. It was brief. The crowd of supporters rippled with cheers to hide its sorrow.

In recent years, Knight’s memory has reportedly begun to fade. The mind that developed an innovative offense and a bruising defense is faltering.

IU radio broadcaster Don Fischer told a Michigan radio show in March that Knight wasn’t doing well.

PHOTO COURTESY OF IU ARCHIVES

Bob Knight throws a chair, in a move that would later become infamous, across the court at Assembly Hall against Purdue in 1985. He was honored Feb. 8 in his return to Assembly Hall.

“I hesitate to say anything about that right now because Coach Knight is not well,” Fischer said. “He’s going through some major issues, and it hurts me to even talk about it just because a man with that kind of a mind, who was so tremendous at coaching the game of basketball, and you know, at the age that we get to at this point in our lives, you want to keep thinking that that brain is never going to go away.”

At an April event in Greenwood, Indiana, Knight introduced his wife, Karen, several times.

He appeared disoriented.

He seemed to confuse memories, telling the same story twice with Michael Jordan as the character the first time, and Damon Bailey the second. Knight didn’t respond to a child’s question about Bailey. He mistakenly said Landon Turner had died.

The Indiana Daily Student attempted to contact Knight by reaching out to his wife, Karen, over the phone and in person. The Knights declined to be interviewed for this story. Knight's children did not respond to requests for comment. * * * In a way, it was fitting that Knight first returned to IU last spring for a baseball game.

While he is known for basketball, Knight loves baseball, even if he never had a favorite team. He rooted for the Cincinnati Reds during the Big Red Machine age of the 1970s and often went to games while he coached at IU. When Knight lived in Texas, he rooted for the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros.

He doesn’t watch sports as much as he used to. Part of why Knight wanted to move back to Bloomington was to be in a community that loved basketball. But his close friend Bob Hammel said Knight only watches so much of it anymore.

Knight and Hammel didn’t see their trip to watch IU play Penn State in April as anything more than just two friends going to a baseball game, as they had done so many other times before.

There was no fanfare for their arrival and no public announcement.

IU baseball head coach Jeff Mercer found out earlier in the week that Knight was coming. He was told to keep it secret.

He told his dad anyway.

He had to.

Mercer grew up a devout Catholic 30 minutes from Bloomington. In his grandparents’ house there are two items on the wall, a crucifix and an autographed picture of Knight. It’s why all he ever wanted to do was coach at IU. When he heard Knight was coming back to watch his team, he cried.

Mercer looked to the stands during batting practice, hoping to see Knight and the reaction of the fans.

Knight passed through the gate into Bart Kaufman Field with a slight hunch. The brim of his hat hid his gaze. Each of his steps was slow and short.

His sweater was tan.

In years past, he had loved to walk. But as he grabbed onto the side of a red golf cart and lowered himself into the cream-colored seat, he needed assistance to make it from the first base gate to the press box behind home plate.

Videos of his arrival went viral on social media.

It quickly became a national news story, and his health was thrust back into the spotlight.

Years of tirades, stress and an occasional thrown chair finally caught up to Knight.

Even a man people named their kids after, a man who some put second to God, ages just like the rest of us. * * * Knight stands at 6 feet, 5 inches with long legs and

eyes that stare right through you. He used to move swiftly, swallowing ground with his strides.

He used to walk for miles deep into the woods. He hunted birds, fascinated with the quickness and precision it took to shoot one out of the air. Everything had to be exact, aim and timing down to the millisecond. It’s a motion you can’t overthink but you can perfect. It’s similar to what he expected out of his players on the court.

Hammel thought Knight could walk forever.

On road games, Knight and Hammel used to go to dinner. They’d walk back together, along the side of the road, often for two miles, just talking.

When he moved back to Bloomington in early October, Knight and his wife Karen went out to dinner with Hammel and his wife Julie.

They went out each of the first four nights the Knights were back. They didn’t walk.

One of the most famous men in Indiana eats at Chili’s, Culver’s, Applebee’s and BJ’s.

At BJ’s in November 2019, Knight signed autographs but had to be reminded to write his own name. He ordered a Pepsi mixed with chocolate milk. IU’s men’s basketball game against Princeton played on the screen directly above his table. He didn’t watch. * * * John Laskowski came to IU in 1971 as part of Knight’s first recruiting class. Then, Knight was just a young upstart headed to Bloomington from West Point.

Laskowski said high school players were uncertain of what Indiana basketball would look like with Knight at its helm. That kept some potential recruits away.

Laskowski was Knight’s third option for a guard.

Laskowski’s father died when he was 8. His mother made $10,000 a year. The only way he was going to college was on scholarship. He’s kept his scholarship letter from IU to this day.

He became a part of the 1975 IU team, which was regarded as potentially the best in school history, even better than the 1976 national title winning team.

Back then, Knight had a milkshake brought to him before every game. It came in a six-pack cooler delivered to the locker room. The cooler contained just the milkshake, held in place by ice.

Knight drank his milkshake after every game, whether to celebrate a win or drown his sorrows after a loss.

In 2014, Laskowski went to a recently opened Culver’s in Crown Point, Indiana, and met the owner, Fred. They talked about the restaurant, their shared love for it, and Fred suggested Laskowski become an owner of his own store.

He found out that all he had to do was follow a manual. The directions were all there for him.

“You know Fred, that’s exactly the type of college coach I played for,” Laskowski recalled saying. “He told me exactly what to do and I went out in my job and it worked out great. I think I’ll look into this.”

In the year since his Bloomington Culver’s opened, no one has ordered a root beer shake. It’s not on the menu, but Laskowski knew he had to make one.

Knight loves root beer milkshakes. After the Sonic that made them near his home in Lubbock, Texas, closed, he wasn’t able to find them anywhere else.

The staff made three milkshakes before bringing one to Knight. They had to make sure it was perfect.

The girl making them didn’t know who Knight was. She was 16.

Laskowski brought the stuck-in-your-straw, almost-

too-thick-to-drink treat to Knight’s house in November.

His eyes lit up.

“I’ll never turn down a milkshake,” Knight said.

At Culver’s, he’s slowly becoming a regular.

Laskowski had barely seen his head coach since Knight left Indiana. Now, Laskowski had the chance to tell Knight how much of an influence he has had on him all these years later. They sat in a booth, sensing stares from across the restaurant.

An older woman with a walker scooted past their table with a knowing glance.

“Did you know who that was?” Laskowski recalled asking the woman.

“That’s Bobby Knight!” she exclaimed with a smile. * * * Knight emerged from the tunnel to the expanse of fans whose decades-long wait had finally ended. Their General was home.

Chants of his name rang out across the arena as Knight— face more sunken, spine more hunched than that day when he left the hall for what was supposed to be forever — shuffled slowly onto the court.

He was accompanied by former players including his son Pat as well as Quinn Buckner, Steve Green and Scott May. Knight waved to the crowd as he stepped onto the floor. He turned and bowed to the student section behind the south basket as the thunderous standing ovation continued.

“Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”

“Thank you Coach!”

The arena was filled all the way to the upper corners of the balcony. The cheapest ticket was $300. It was rumored all week that Knight would make his return, and everyone wanted a glimpse of him.

Knight continued walking to midcourt to greet the players who had already been introduced. There was a chair set up for him, but he didn’t touch it. Instead he hugged former point guard Isiah Thomas, who played for Knight from 1979-1981.

The nearly 50 players and coaches on the court circled around their coach. Standing in the center, Knight held Thomas’ hand and raised it in the air.

In flashes, Knight was still intense, or at least a return to Assembly Hall brought some of that back. He led the student section in a “Defense” chant. He didn’t need a microphone. He pumped his fists and yelled to hype up the crowd. He walked over toward the ESPN broadcast table and grabbed Vitale’s arm before giving him a brief shove.

He did it all with tears in his eyes.

Thomas put his arm around his coach, beaming with pride. How much the moment meant to Knight was clearly evident on his face.

Knight rarely smiles.

But in fleeting moments on the court, the controversial coach gave a grin as he was surrounded by his former players and fans who loved him.

When Knight moved back to Bloomington, his friends tried to convince him to come back to Assembly Hall.

For so long, he didn’t listen.

“I would hope one day, as I’ve conveyed to him, that he would go back to a basketball game there and feel the adulation and the unbelievable love that many of those Bloomington Hoosier fans have for what he did when he was there,” Vitale said in a January phone call.

Former IU guard Randy Wittman called Knight when he moved back to Bloomington. He told Knight that he belonged in Assembly Hall, that there was a reason he moved back to Bloomington.

Every time there was a reunion or big game, the city swirled with speculation that the infamous coach would make his return. But each day came and went without any glimpse of that shock of white hair at Assembly Hall.

The invitation was there, but it was up to him to take it.

On Saturday, he did.

When Knight peeked around the corner, he ended his own exile.

After 20 years, there was closure. He was home.

This story was originally published Feb. 9, 2020.

news@idsnews.com

» COMBS CONTINUED FROM PAGE A1 er test, round simulations and personality interviews.

Along with the $100,000 grand prize, the winner of the 10-day tournament will also have a chance to compete in the next edition of the "Jeopardy!"

Tournament of Champions, according to the release. In the Tournament of Champions, contestants who have won the most games in the prior season as well as the winners of the Teachers Tournament and College Championship compete against one another for a $250,000 prize.

"Jeopardy!" is in its 36th season and is hosted by Alex Trebek.

He tried to prepare by staying up to date on the four categories he considers staples for “Jeopardy!”: history, literature, politics and geography. Combs was in California Monday to film all of the episodes in two days.

“It’s two super long days for two weeks of content,” Combs said.

Combs said his episode of Jeopardy College Championship will air April 10.

This story was updated at 7:50 p.m. Feb. 4 to include information from an interview with Tyler Combs.

This story was originally published Feb. 3, 2020.

IU senior Tyler Combs finishes second in ‘Jeopardy!’ 2020 College Championship

By Claudia Gonzalez-Diaz clabgonz@iu.edu | @clabgonz

» SUSPENDED CONTINUED FROM PAGE A1 “These measures will undoubtedly cause inconvenience and disruption, yet the risks of not acting now far outweigh the foreseeable inconvenience and challenges of these actions,” McRobbie said in the statement.

IU encouraged students to go home between March 23 and April 5, if possible.

For those two weeks, students' course work will continue through online teaching, according to the statement. The university is looking into how to accommodate classroom activities that include labs or other in-person interactions, and said it will release specific guidance.

IU campuses will not close. Residential halls and dining options will remain open, according to the statement.

In an interview with WISH-TV, Carney said the situation would be reevaluated after the two weeks of online classes to determine if it is safe for students and faculty to return to campus.

IU will continue to deep clean campus buildings, Carney said. He said the university has already increased the intensity of its cleaning process and is following the recommendations listed by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for cleaning to prevent coronavirus.

Carney said professors received suggestions over the past few weeks to create lesson plans for online learning. He said the Teaching.IU website can help faculty members create and share online content. IU created this Teaching.IU system for emergency situations that require online teaching, Carney said.

There have been no cases of the virus on any IU campuses as of Tuesday, according to the statement. Two

IU senior Tyler Combs finished in second place in ‘Jeopardy!’ 2020 College Championship on Friday. Combs was awarded $50,000.

University of Minnesota sophomore Nibir Sarma won the competition and $100,000, and University of Southern California sophomore Xiaoke Ying finished in third place was awarded $25,000. Fifteen students participated in the College Championships.

On Thursday, Combs finished in last place with $200. Sarma won $22,196, and Ying won $800. Each day, the competitors started with $0.

Entering Final Jeopardy, Combs had $14,600.

Combs answered correctly to the clue, “In legend, this real European leader fielded an elite corps called the 12 peers that included Oliver & Roland,“ with, “Who is Charlemagne?”

He wagered $5,200, which brought his second round finals total up to $19,800.

Combined with his $200 his earnings from the first round, Combs ended with $20,000.

Combs solved about 16 clues during the Friday competition.

During the program, he thanked his family, friends and IU for their support.

"I've loved my four years at that school," Combs said.

"I want to give a big thanks to all my professors for being such a positive force in my life and giving me the kinds of intellectual skills needed to put me on 'Jeopardy!'"

This story was originally published April 17, 2020.

IU students have been diagnosed with COVID-19 after studying abroad in a country Michael with a level McRobbie 3 travel alert from the CDC. The students are receiving care at home.

IU recommends nonessential events involving about 100 or more people be postponed or canceled, according to the statement.

People should not schedule any new nonessential large events.

All university staff and faculty members should look for department-specific policies on fulfilling work obligations from home by telecommuting. IU Human Resources has also instituted policies about IU-sponsored health care, paid time off, essential employees, building or campus closures, telecommuting and alternative work schedules.

All university-sponsored international travel is suspended through April 5, according to the statement.

Personal international travel is strongly discouraged due to the risk of being unable to return if the virus situation changes. If a traveler is returning from a country that has been designated a level 2 or 3 threat from the CDC, the traveler must selfquarantine off campus for at least 14 days before returning to campus.

University-affiliated domestic travel outside of Indiana is also suspended through April 5. Personal travel outside the state is discouraged with the exception of students returning home.

IU is discouraging visitors on campus until April 5, according to the statement. If visiting from a country with a level 2 or 3 travel alert, visitors are also required to follow self-quarantine rules.

This story was originally published Feb. 9, 2020.

Tristan Jackson Editor-in-Chief Annie Aguiar Managing Editor

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CAMPUS

Man drives SUV at protesters

By Lydia Gerike lgerike@iu.edu | @lydiagerike

A man drove his SUV through a group of protesters Saturday morning as they marched down Sixth Street waving signs against white nationalism at the Bloomington Community Farmers’ Market.

No one was seriously hurt, even after the driver got out of his SUV to confront the 40 or so anti-fascists, also called antifa, and No Space for Hate demonstrators who were still a couple blocks from their final destination of the market.

They stopped traffic as they walked down streets from the Monroe County Courthouse to the farmers market in protest of the presence of Schooner Creek Farm, a vendor whose owners have been connected to white nationalism through the American Identity Movement, formerly called Identity Evropa.

As the marchers walked down the middle of Sixth Street, Brad Clapper drove a GMC Terrain toward the protesters near Bloomingfoods before slamming on his brakes. He started yelling at the group to get out of the street and onto the sidewalk.

“I got little kids, and you’re scaring them to death,” Clapper said.

The 41-year-old from Judah, Indiana, said in a Saturday evening interview that he knew generally the recent farmers market controversy but said his actions weren’t about politics.

He said he turned onto the street looking for a place to park for the market, and suddenly he saw a “mob” of people, about half of them dressed in the antifa uniform of all black clothing and covered faces, blocking the street and scaring his 6- and 8-year-old sons.

If they had been on the sidewalk, he said he would have likely ignored them, but they were in his way and he felt he had no choice but to keep going forward.

Abby Ang, who is an ac-

A3

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

IU freshman shot outside of the Brickhouse

By Grace Ybarra gnybarra@iu.edu | @gnybarra

TY VINSON | IDS

Members of the Bloomington community, antifa, and No Space for Hate march toward the Bloomington Community Farmers’ Market on Aug. 24 to protest the continued presence of the vendor Schooner Creek Farm. The market has been under scrutiny as of late, due to the continued presence of Schooner Creek Farm, which is run by people with alleged ties to white nationalism.

tivist in No Space for Hate and was not dressed in black with antifa, said the SUV seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Because the protesters were walking down the middle of streets, Ang said she thought traffic could be a problem but figured any issue would be more likely near the square where there are more cars.

Although Clapper said he was only going 5 to 10 mph when he drove toward the group, it seemed fast to Ang. “I did not see his car until he was right there,” Ang said.

“It’s something that can happen very quickly.”

A few antifa members surrounded Clapper’s door when he stopped. No Space for Hate posted on Facebook that someone was clipped by Clapper’s side mirror when he drove through, but he said they pushed the mirror in and banged on his hood.

He got out of the SUV and started arguing with the antifa members, pulling at a bandana covering one person’s face.

“Take the mask off,” Clapper said.

The antifa member wearing the bandana swatted Clapper’s hand away, and others started yelling back. A few tried to deescalate the situation, but Clapper and many of the others kept yelling.

“Get the fuck on the sidewalk,” Clapper said.

Clapper went back toward his SUV at one point while he and antifa members continued to yell at each other.

As the protest group started to walk away, Clapper said someone called him a pussy, and he got back out and pushed a few antifa members, who pushed back before Clapper eventually turned around, got back in his car and drove off. He also yelled his name to the group and other witnesses, including at least one person taking a cellphone video.

Clapper said he thinks he could have handled the situation better, but he said his intention was not to be violent. He considers antifa a hate group because of past violence from the group in other parts of the country.

“Maybe I’m naïve, I just never felt like it was going to lead to anybody getting killed or sent to the hospital,” Clapper said.

Ang said Clapper scared her by driving at the group, and it made her think about the 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, when a protester was run over by a car and killed.

“His level of anger was very extreme,” Ang said.

Clapper said he went to the Bloomington Police Department afterward for “guidance” about the situation and to have the officers reassure his sons they were safe.

He did not file a police report and said the officers told him there wasn’t much they could do.

Members with antifa and No Space for Hate told at least one person not to call the police after the altercation ended.

Bloomington Police Sgt. Robert Skelton said no reports had been filed as of Saturday evening.

This story was originally published Aug. 25, 2019.

The 18-year-old woman who was injured in the Oct. 13 shooting outside the Brickhouse is an IU freshman.

Sharakis Jones was shot in the back. The bullet fragmented and traveled through her body, damaging her lung and leaving a small hole in her diaphragm. After undergoing two surgeries, Jones is facing at least 10 weeks of recovery.

Jones started at IUBloomington this school year on a full-ride scholarship after graduating top 10 in her class from Charles A. Tindley Accelerated School in Indianapolis.

“Mom, this is why I didn't want to come here.”

Sharakis Jones, IU freshman

Jones’ mother, Tinicka Watson, described her daughter as a sweet, loving and humble person. Watson said she was nervous sending her daughter away to college this year.

Jones, a human biology major, was deciding between IU and Morgan State University, a historically black university in Baltimore, Watson said.

She ended up deciding on IU because of its proximity to her home in Indianapolis and the scholarships she was awarded.

She said her daughter was definitely enjoying college, despite some of the culture shock and nervousness she experienced transitioning from a predominantly black high school to IU. “Every time I talked to her, she was very happy,” Watson said.

That was until Watson

received a phone call in the early morning of Oct. 13 from Jones’ roomSharakis mate.

Jones Watson was told her daughter had been shot.

She said she asked to speak to her daughter as she waited on the ambulance.

“Mom, this is why I didn’t want to come here,” Jones cried into the phone.

This was the last time Watson would speak with her daughter that night. Watson said after speaking with Jones, she got into her car and drove to Bloomington.

Watson took the time on her way to IU Health Bloomington Hospital to pray. She prayed to see her daughter again.

Watson said she couldn’t believe something like this would happen to her daughter. Jones often returned home on weekends since moving to Bloomington for school. She said this was the first off-campus party Jones had been to since starting college.

About 50 minutes after speaking with her daughter, Watson arrived. Jones was already in surgery.

Watson said the bullet entered the right side of her daughter’s lower back. She said the bullet fragmented and traveled through her body to her chest and diaphragm, grazing her kidney and lung.

The surgery on Oct. 13 lasted about an hour, she said. Jones was put into a medically-induced coma until her next surgery at 2 p.m. Oct. 14.

Watson said IU staff came to the hospital the night of the shooting. She said DeeDee Dayhoff, assistant dean for Student Services and ConSEE SHOOTING, PAGE A4

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

Papa John pops into Kilroy’s

By Annie Aguiar aguiara@iu.edu | @annabelaguiar

Papa John’s founder and former CEO John Schnatter vowed there would be a “day of reckoning” after leaving the company in response to reports he used a racial slur during a conference call.

The reckoning did not take place Sunday afternoon, when he decided to visit Kilroy’s on Kirkwood.

He was shaking hands, posing for selfies and handing out $10 Papa John’s gift cards to the few Kilroy’s customers present. He didn’t have anything to drink.

“I just wanted to check it out,” Schnatter said.

Schnatter, an Indiana native, stepped down as Papa John’s CEO in January 2018 after controversial comments on national anthem protests in the NFL and later resigned as chairman of the board after using a racial slur in a May 2018 conference call.

In the time since his departure from the company, he made national news in an interview where he said he “had over 40 pizzas in 30 days." But Schnatter said in a recent interview on a podcast he hadn’t actually eaten each entire pizza, instead inspect-

» SHOOTING CONTINUED FROM PAGE A3 cerns, and Kathy Adams Riester, associate vice provost for Student Affairs, both arrived around 4 a.m. at the hospital.

IU spokesperson Chuck Carney said Dayhoff and Adams Riester were present to provide the assistance they could onsite.

Watson said Dayhoff told her she would notify Jones’ professors. She said Patrick Smith, one of Jones’ professors and the executive director for the Office of the Vice President for Diversity, Equity, and Multicultural Affairs, came to the hospital.

“They knew it was a stu-

ing the pie or only eating part of it. Schnatter attended a basketball game at his alma mater Ball State University Saturday before traveling to Bloomington. IU student Josh Bialosky, 21, was working at the door at Kilroy’s when Schnatter walked in.

“I didn’t card him when he came in because he seemed of age,” he said.

On the second glance, he saw it was Papa John. He went to tell his co-workers.

Kilroy’s employees and patrons were treated to $10 off their next Papa John’s order — online only — on Schnatter’s behalf as he handed out gift cards featuring a picture of him. Dani Robbins, 21, took pictures with Schnatter and received one of the gift cards. She said she loves Papa John’s pizza, and actually ate one of their heart-shaped pizzas two nights ago on Valentine’s Day. After taking a picture with Schnatter, he urged her to post a picture of the Valentine’s pizza on Instagram and tag him in it.

“This honestly changed my life,” she said. “I’m just starstruck from meeting Mr. Papa.”

This story was originally published Feb. 16, 2020 dent from the very night,” Watson said.

Carney said the university didn’t release that the victim was a student because it was a matter of privacy.

“We were not going to put that out there without the family’s permission,” Carney said.

Watson said Adams Riester returned to the hospital the next day to ask her about her daughter and if she knew any details about what happened.

“I didn’t care what happened,” Watson said. “I didn’t find out Sharakis’ whole night until the detectives came when she came out of the coma.”

During Jones’ weeklong

Viola Davis receives doctorate

By Kyra Miller kymill@iu.edu | @kyra_ky94

Academy Award-winning actress, producer and philanthropist Viola Davis gave a keynote lecture Monday about her own experiences and the effect Martin Luther King Jr. had on society.

Before Davis' speech at Simon Skjodt Assembly Hall, IU President Michael McRobbie presented her with an honorary doctorate of fine arts.

The lecture was part of the university-wide Day of Commemoration of the bicentennial and Martin Luther King Jr. Day. The honorary doctorate is the highest academic achievement IU can offer, McRobbie said.

McRobbie and James Wimbush, IU vice president of diversity, equity and multicultural affairs, introduced Davis and presented her with her doctorate.

During her speech, Davis spoke about her own history. She grew up in Central Falls, Rhode Island, with her parents and seven siblings. She said she overcame poverty, adversity and trauma before realizing she wanted to become an actress.

Davis also spoke about stay at the hospital, Watson said she slept on the floor of Jones’ intensive care unit room while her three other children slept in the waiting room. Watson said many family members and her church’s pastor came to visit Jones.

“Things like this don’t happen in our family,” Watson said.

After the second surgery, Watson said Jones started slowly recovering. Jones was released from the hospital and returned home Saturday.

While Jones was released from the hospital, Watson said she is looking at 10 or more weeks of recovery. She said Jones needs to get her

IZZY MYSZAK | IDS

Actress Viola Davis speaks Jan. 20 in Simon Skjodt Assembly Hall for "An Afternoon With Viola Davis: A Day of Commemoration." Davis was awarded an honorary doctoral degree in fine arts from Indiana University.

the effect Martin Luther King Jr. had on society.

One moment in King’s career Davis said she is inspired by was his fight for sanitation workers to earn a living wage in Memphis, Tennessee. Davis said King reminds her of how important it is to fight for those who are less fortunate than yourself.

“Is it your job to pick up a diploma or a sword?”

Davis said. “And when you pick up that sword, what will you be fighting for?”

We live in a world in need of heroes, she said.

Someone who is heroic must overcome whatever

trivial or traumatic past they have and become someone new. She said it was an important step for her, and that it will be an important step for others.

“There is an old saying about the two most important days of your life being the day you are born and the day you find out why,” Davis said. “You were born to live a life greater than your own.”

Her philanthropic work is inspired by the trauma she went through in her childhood, Davis said. Now that she is successful, she said it is important to her to give back to those who need

strength back up.

“She’ll be recovering for a while,” Watson said.

Watson said she took a three-week leave from work to be there for her daughter 24 hours a day. She said her main focus right now is her daughter. Jones is her oldest child and a first-generation college student.

“I’m her everything right now,” Watson said. “She doesn’t like me leaving her right now.”

Jones will not be returning to IU this semester, Watson said. She said she cleaned out her daughter’s dorm room at Wright Quadrangle on Friday night.

Watson said she doesn’t know if her daughter will ever

return to IU. She said Jones told her she has gone back and forth on her decision.

Jones’ mind is everywhere right now, Watson said. She said she’s mad she cannot be in class and that her life is now on hold.

She said her daughter has earned good grades since beginning this semester and is mad she has to withdraw from her classes and start all over.

Watson said Jones has started to recall the events of that night. She said Jones remembers just about everything except for when she arrived at the hospital.

Jones told Watson she went to a party that night at Briscoe Quadrangle on cam-

her help, those she shared similar experiences with.

In 2012, Davis and her husband founded JuVee, an artist-driven production company focused on giving a voice to the voiceless through effective and culturally relevant narratives, according to an IU press release.

Davis is the first black actor to win Oscar, Emmy and Tony Awards. In 2015, she was the first black actress to win the Primetime Emmy Award for outstanding lead actress in the drama series “How to Get Away With Murder.”

"Viola Davis is one of our nation's finest and most accomplished actors, who has inspired many individuals through her remarkable life story, rich body of work and rise to the top of her profession," McRobbie said. "She has also become a forceful voice for women and women of color, challenging media stereotypes and championing the need for equal opportunities.

“You talked about needing heroes,” IU Provost Lauren Robel said to Davis.

“Seeing you with our students, I can see you are certainly one of theirs.”

This story was originally published Jan. 20, 2020. pus. She said people at that party then announced an after party at the Brickhouse.

Watson said Jones told her she went to the party at the Brickhouse, but there were too many people there and she didn’t know anyone, and she wanted to leave. She said she was standing outside and saw a man get kicked out of the party.

And then Jones told her mother she heard gunshots ringing through the air, and she held her roommates’ hand.

“It’s crazy,” Watson said.

“She’ll never forget her freshman year of college.”

This story was originally published Oct. 21, 2019.

French Studies at IU ͻ >ĂŶŐƵĂŐĞ ĐŽƵƌƐĞƐ͗ ŚŽŽƐĞ ŚLJďƌŝĚ ĐůĂƐƐĞƐ ;ƉĂƌƚ ŽŶůŝŶĞ͕ ŵŽƐƚůLJ ŝŶ ĐůĂƐƐͿ͕ ϭϬϬй ŽŶůŝŶĞ ĐůĂƐƐĞƐ͕ Žƌ ĂĐĐĞůĞƌĂƚĞĚ ĐůĂƐƐĞƐ ;&ϭϭϱ ĂŶĚ &ϮϲϱͿ͘ ͻ &ƵƌƚŚĞƌ ƐƚƵĚLJ͗ tĞ ŽĨĨĞƌ ĐŽƵƌƐĞƐ ŽŶ &ƌĞŶĐŚͲůĂŶŐƵĂŐĞ ůŝƚĞƌĂƚƵƌĞ͕ ŵĞĚŝĂ͕ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ͕ ƐŽĐŝĞƚLJ͕ ŚŝƐƚŽƌLJ͕ ĂŶĚ ůŝŶŐƵŝƐƚŝĐƐ͘ ͻ &ƌĞŶĐŚ ůƵď͗ 'ĂŵĞ ŶŝŐŚƚƐ͕ ƐĐĂǀĞŶŐĞƌ ŚƵŶƚƐ͕ ĨŽůŬ ĚĂŶĐŝŶŐ͕ ĂŶĚ ůĞĂƌŶŝŶŐ &ƌĞŶĐŚ ĚĂƚŝŶŐ ĞƚŝƋƵĞƚƚĞ ĂƌĞ ũƵƐƚ ƐŽŵĞ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĂĐƚŝǀŝƚŝĞƐ ǁĞ͛ǀĞ ŽƌŐĂŶŝnjĞĚ͘

FRIT-F 225: Contemporary France ͻ džƉůŽƌĞ ƚŚĞ ĞǀŽůƵƟŽŶ ŽĨ &ƌĞŶĐŚ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐ͕ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ƐŽĐŝĞƚLJ ƐŝŶĐĞ ƚŚĞ ĞŶĚ ŽĨ tŽƌůĚ tĂƌ //

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

IU remembers chemistry professor Dennis Peters

By Joey Bowling jobowl@iu.edu | @joeybowling8

Despite his small stature, Dennis Peters had a roaring voice that filled lecture halls. He leapt up from chairs in the graduate chemistry advising office and wowed children and adults alike with flashes of colors and bright fires during Magic of Chemistry programs, clad in a colorful lab coat decorated with chemical illustrations, mathematical formulas and equations.

Peters, an IU chemistry professor, died Monday after contracting COVID-19 while being hospitalized for an injury that occurred during spring break. He was 82 and died a few days shy of his birthday, according to the IU Chemistry Department’s obituary.

He was born in 1937 in Eagle Rock, California, and graduated from California Institute of Technology with a bachelor's of science and got his doctorate at Harvard University. He has been

teaching since 1962, according to the obituary. Peters won a number of local and national awards, such as the Herman T. Briscoe Professorship and Chemical Manufacturers Association National Catalyst Award.

Friends and colleagues alike said though he never had kids, his family was the graduate students he advised and colleagues he adored.

IU graduate student Amir Hosseini hasn’t seen his family in five years. Hosseini said Peters, his graduate adviser, helped fill that void and became like his family in the United States.

“You don’t need to be family by blood to love someone,” he said.

Hosseini said his biggest regret is that he can’t tell Peters how much he meant to him.

“I wish I could’ve told him how much he meant to me, as a supervisor, as a family member,” he said.

Chemistry graduate program coordinator Dalane Anderson said Peters would

frequently organize Wine Wednesdays with the graduate students and invite office staff, where everyone would nurse a glass of wine while talking about their personal lives. She said Peters made the office come alive, joking about trips to Hawaii and his love of chemistry.

“He has the sweetest spirit about himself,” Anderson said.

Michael Samide, one of Peters’ past graduate students and a professor at Butler University, said he credits Peters for his teaching style and said the way he engages with students is shaped by his former adviser. He recalled Peters would never criticize students if they needed help doing research and would help undergraduate and graduate students alike. He would take students out to dinner to celebrate milestones in their careers and frequently had them over to his house for meals.

The experiments Peters would put on for different schools to entice children

with science were always impressive and chaotic, Samide said. He said a fan favorite was color-changing chemical solutions which would change color to the tune of the Lone Ranger theme song. Another involved creating a fire that spread across the lab table Peters worked at, eliciting gasps from the audience.

Ana Couto Petro, one of Peters’ graduate students at IU, said he made her more confident in her work. English isn’t her native language, so she delivered drafts of papers and presentations in installments. She said he truly enjoyed helping her.

“His caring for others, both personally and professionally, was something special,” Couto Petro said. “The world is missing someone this week.”

Peters would always crack jokes with his students and help them prepare to defend their research in front of the panel, Couto Petro said. If students needed assistance, his office was always open,

and he would drop whatever he was doing to listen.

Lee Klein, another graduate student who worked under Peters and completed his doctorate in 2001, said he remembers the professor’s craftsmanship with words.

Peters would tear papers and drafts apart, rebuilding them and making the writing better. However, he never made students feel small and always invested time into them, Klein said.

A common way Peters would check in with students was through IU sports.

He frequently took students to football and basketball games, cheering on the home team and bonding with his graduate pupils.

“He was up out of his chair and shouting wildly and cheering them on,” Klein said. “He turned into a different person. He really got into it.”

Ben Gerroll, part of Peters graduate advising group, said the professor was like a father to him. He said the worst thing one of his stu-

dents could hear was that Peters was disappointed in them and Peters had the perfect balance of hands-off management, yet nurturing and encouraging of all research ideas or topics.

“There’s a void in the world now that I’m not sure can be filled,” he said Many of Peters' current and former students and colleagues agreed he would be someone the world couldn’t replace.

“A light as bright as his doesn’t shine without lighting others around him,” Gerroll said. “There’s just so many sides to this magnificent man. We could talk for days, and we wouldn’t be able to encompass a small amount of who he is and what he was."

Peters is survived by his nephew Ruben Portugues, who lives in Germany, and by his niece Iliana Portugues who lives in the United Kingdom.

This story was originally published April 19, 2020.

IU law student remembered as strong, compassionate

By Natalie Garbor natgabor@iu.edu | @natalie_gabor

IU law student Purva Sethi died Feb. 8 after being struck by an SUV in Bloomington as she crossed Third Street to go south on Washington Street, four blocks away from campus. She was 25.

Originally from India, Sethi came to the United States in 2018 to study law.

She wanted to be a clerk for a judge and work for a judicial system after graduation.

She was set to graduate in May and had accepted her dream job in December. She completed her undergraduate degree at O.P. Jindal Global University-Sonipat, located in the Indian state of Haryana.

After she passed, people took to Facebook to share positive memories.

“ S h e a l w a y s showed how much friendships meant to her, setting Purva Sethi an example for all of us to live by,” wrote Vilasini Venkatesh, a childhood friend of Sethi.

In a Feb. 10 post on the International Students Association at Maurer School of Law Facebook page, she was described as more than a board member. She was a friend to everyone.

“I am thankful to ISA board for bringing us together and glad I met you and was able to experience your kind soul, your tenacity and thoughtful conversations,” Mudia Edosomwan, a friend from the law school, wrote on her own Facebook page.

Friends and family told the Indiana Daily Student she will be remembered as a kind-hearted and compassionate person who put others before herself.

Siyu Li, a friend of Sethi, said although she was soft and kind, she was also strong.

“Her first priority was to make others around her comfortable,” Li said. “She wanted others to be happy above her own happiness.”

She said Sethi had multiple facets to her personality.

She was fierce and passionate while also professional and dedicated to her academics.

Li said during a public memorial for Sethi, Sethi’s fiance Jordan Saner shared their last text message conversation, which was about Sethi giving a woman experiencing homelessness

donuts for breakfast at a bus station.

“I think that really shows how she was as a person,” Li said.

Vikas Broka, Sethi’s uncle, attested to her selflessness as he spoke of Sethi’s work in retirement and geriatric communities.

“In India, she used to have a very important agenda,” Broka said. “Every birthday or special day of her life she used to spend at old-age homes.”

Broka said the next 20 years will be very hard on Sethi's family, as no parent should experience the pain of their child dying. He said that is the toughest thing to bear.

Charles Gardner Geyh, a professor at the Maurer School of Law, met Sethi last fall during his seminar teaching judicial conduct.

He said although they only discussed classwork, he spent lots of time talking with her about the course subject and her interest in working with judges.

Geyh also said Sethi faced many challenges while studying at IU and trying to find jobs in the United States.

“There’s no denying that she was not a U.S. citizen," Geyh said. "She was an immigrant, she was South Asian, she was a woman.

All those served as impediments for her getting from point A to point B.” But Geyh said that none of these roadblocks stopped Sethi in the pursuit of her passions.

Because she was not a U.S. citizen, many jobs were not available to her, but Geyh said she was determined to not let that stop

her.

Around a month before she died, Sethi landed a post-graduate job working for the Allen County Superior Court in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

Although Geyh said she will be remembered for her kindness and decency to others, he said what will be most remembered is her strength, determination and grit.

“She was not someone that would let something get in the way of her goals,” he said. “She does have a legacy: a way of looking at the world today and not being deterred by the barriers.”

She is survived by her fiance, mother, father and younger brother.

This story was originally published March 1, 2020.

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Softening Stigma Abe Shapiro is an IU senior with autism. He’s working to make campus more inclusive of people with neurodevelopmental disorders.

By Emily Isaacman eisaacma@iu.edu | @emilyisaacman

Abe Shapiro is always moving. Walking to class through the center of IU’s campus, he shakes his hand, flips a textbook in the air and bobs his head to music only he can hear.

His headphones create a barrier between him and loud noises, like sirens, that make his ears feel almost on fire. He tweaks his head toward his shoulder and adjusts the rim of his IU baseball hat.

Thoughts dart through his mind like lightning. A literal brain storm, he notes.

The future, the career coach he met with yesterday, his resume (he’s had one since freshman year), a draft of his 12-page paper on Cold War nuclear warfare due this weekend. He’s constantly worrying about having enough time.

The paper is stressful, but it will be fun. He obsesses over disasters, especially war and the Titanic. He’s interested in why they happen the way they do. He likes learning how to prevent them.

“It’s interesting to see people so frightened over what we know now is OK,” he said. * * * Abe, 22, was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, now incorporated under autism spectrum disorder, around first grade.

Autism renders Abe naive to social cues such as eye contact and body language.

It sharpens his anxiety, slows his information processing, amplifies his sense of sound and magnifies his sense of touch.

Several types of therapy, reaching eight hours a week at its peak, helped Abe overcome many of his early challenges.

One woman who helped him shared a phrase that Abe’s family now repeats often: “We’ll win with what we have.”

Abe practiced writing with a pencil at the bottom of a box of sand to build up muscles in his hands. He didn’t understand hugs until his dad broke them down with him.

When pressed, health professionals told Abe’s parents that a kid like him wouldn’t go to college. If anything, he’d go to a small school with ample services.

“I think they were trying to be helpful in lowering our expectations,” his dad Jonathan Shapiro said.

His parents wouldn’t accept those limits. They decided to treat Abe like his twin sister Sarah, who doesn’t have autism.

Now, Abe is part of a new generation of autistic young adults attending colleges across the country at higher rates than ever. He moved from Los Angeles to Bloomington to do it. He’s on track to graduate in May. He’s serving in student government. And he’s fallen in love.

IU’s record of students on the autism spectrum is tracked by the number of students registered for academic accommodations through Disability Services for Students. In the fall, DSS recorded 137.

The true number is bound to be larger. Students with autism often do not need or want academic help. The social aspect of college can be harder — but DSS is designed for the classroom.

Despite an increase in awareness and diagnoses of autism, it still has a stigma.

Several students and community members declined to be named in this story or spoke to their difficulty doing so, fearing condescension and judgment by peers, professors and potential employers if they were “outed.”

Abe hopes to soften this stigma.

“Autism spectrum is not something to be frowned upon,” Abe said. “It’s something to be celebrated.”

In his final year at IU, he’s been standing up for people who might not have the bravery or circumstances to call attention to their differences.

Abe doesn’t just identify as autistic. He embraces it.

He acknowledges his limitations, but also recognizes his distinct strengths: an impeccable memory for subjects that interest him, a penchant for organization and honesty because lying is unnatural.

“I try to make it work for me, rather than against me,” he said. * * * In July, an IU senior lecturer of biology was accused of verbally abusing a Bloomington McDonald’s cashier with a disability.

A customer recorded the professor, Claire Nisonger, calling the cashier a “stupid retard” and saying “people like that shouldn’t be allowed in public, much less operating a cash register.”

Abe watched the video on Facebook and was troubled by the false perceptions it displayed. He had to do something.

A few months earlier, Abe and Nejla Routsong, a visiting lecturer in the Kelley School of Business, started an advocacy and community group called the Neurodiversity Coalition at IU to make

KARLI VANCLEAVE | IDS

Then-senior Abe Shapiro was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome around first grade. Now, Abe graduated with a bachelor’s degree from IU. “The main thing is to not let it define you,” he said. “At the end of the day, we’re all human.”

campus more inclusive of people with neurodevelopmental disorders.

IU offered DSS and Students on the Spectrum, a weekly support group, but nothing that was outwardfacing or student-driven.

The McDonald’s incident gave the fledgling coalition a cause to rally around.

Routsong and Emmy Helfrich, Abe’s girlfriend of two years, were the only coalition members in Bloomington. Emmy, who does not have autism, said she was cautious in interviews with local media.

“I don’t think neurotypicals should speak over — speak for — people with neurological conditions,” she said.

Routsong, with feedback from other coalition members, wrote a petition asking IU for three things: to fully investigate the incident, remove the professor from interactions with students and issue a statement on the value of neurodiverse individuals on campus and in the community. 1,500 people signed the petition.

Routsong, Emmy and Abe knew they couldn’t control whether Nisonger learned a lesson. They could, however, work to change culture so something like this didn’t happen again. * * * Abe’s family never questioned whether he was smart, but he struggled to fit into the K-12 school system and its expectations that students stay on topic, learn the standard curriculum and don’t disrupt class.

He was evaluated for an individualized education program, or IEP, which gave him educational consultants, physical therapists and an inclass assistant.

Abe had no problem with subjects he liked — disasters, history, baseball.

He's memorized World Series winners from 1903-2019

and MVPs from 1955-2019.

His high school didn’t offer an Advanced Placement U.S. History class, but Abe spent multiple days a week studying after school with his history teacher and by himself so he could take the exam. He scored a four out of five.

Abe’s mom, Betsy Borns, tried to manipulate his interests to help him study other topics. She asked his second grade teacher to station a Titanic model in the classroom so he could imagine lessons in terms of the ship. At home, she edited math problems so they’d revolve around the Titanic — and when that got old, other disasters.

Abe frustrated his twin sister at times. Math was hard for her, too. Why didn’t she deserve special problems tailored to her passions? Why was her brother rewarded for behaving in a restaurant if she would do that anyway?

Sarah watched Abe make friends who weren’t really his friends. People took advantage and made fun of him, but he couldn’t detect deceit, so how could he know?

For middle school Abe moved from public school to Bridges Academy, a special needs school where he found “learning had meaning.” His interests didn’t feel awkward or strange anymore.

His teachers seemed to care about him.

“For the first time, I felt comfortable talking with people,” he said.

Abe and Sarah applied to IU together. Their mom is from Indiana, and their cousin is Rabbi Sue Silberberg, the executive director of IU's Helene G. Simon Hillel Center. Abe received his acceptance first.

Sarah’s studying elementary education at IU so she can be the teacher she wishes Abe had. He’s majoring in history.

Going to a big school scared them both. The new sounds, sights and smells intimidated Abe. He felt helpless without a routine.

Abe called Sarah all the time freshman year. He had frequent panic attacks, which continued throughout college as he encountered uncertainty.

But quitting school would be uncertain, too. He doesn't know how he kept going. * * * The Neurodiversity Coalition marked Abe’s first time leading anything.

He streamed the callout meeting on Facebook Live so people who weren’t comfortable publicly identifying themselves could still participate.

“The people here who are nervous about informing their professors, informing their fellow students about what it’s like to have some shortcomings socially, it can be a daunting task,” Abe said to his first audience — eight people in person, 130 views on Facebook that evening.

Routsong, 42, told the audience that she was diagnosed with autism at 37. She doesn’t feel comfortable sharing this with her students. She doesn’t know anyone in her department who identifies as autistic. It can feel lonely.

Routsong encouraged Abe to use the term “neurodiversity” rather than autism, expanding their mission to advocate for people with conditions including Tourette syndrome, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and dyslexia.

The international neurodiversity movement began in the late 1990s after an Australian sociologist with autism wrote the term in an honors thesis.

Supporters define it as a civil rights movement that advocates for viewing people with autism and other neurodevelopmental disorders as having differences that need to be worked with, not problems that need to be fixed.

Throughout the fall, almost every coalition meeting focused on how to make the

university respond to the McDonald’s incident.

After brainstorming ideas for months, Routsong brought an email draft to a November coalition meeting. She read it out loud to the group of eight coalition members sitting around a long conference table in the Distinguished Alumni Room in the Indiana Memorial Union. Abe sat at the head.

Routsong emailed the draft to each person so they could read it themselves, in silence.

She sent the message to Provost Lauren Robel the next morning. * * * Abe and Emmy’s first date was April 15, 2017 — exactly 105 years after the Titanic sank.

He pointed this out as they approached their first anniversary. Emmy suspects he planned it. Abe says it was a coincidence.

Emmy reminds Abe it’s OK to wear headphones when they go out. He doesn’t like parties much, and neither does she. They like to watch movies, go to local concerts and play trivia.

In December, they arrived about an hour early to “Parks and Recreation” trivia at IU Late Nite. They quizzed each other on practice questions, and Abe researched for his nuclear warfare paper.

After a few questions, the trivia emcee announced a break for a dance contest.

Emmy glanced over her shoulder.

“Abe?” He unraveled his headphones, scooted back his chair and, his expression serious, walked to the front.

Abe loves releasing pentup energy through performance.

“You can be any way you want to be,” he said.

A medley of “Walk it Out,” “Gangnam Style” and “Juju SEE ABE, PAGE A7

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CAMPUS

A7

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

» RASMUSEN CONTINUED FROM PAGE A1 statement.

Robel said IU officials have been inundated with demands to fire Rasmusen, but they will not, as he has the right to express his views under the First Amendment.

Robel said IU will require Rasmusen to use doubleblind grading on assignments, to ensure that students’ grades are not affected

by Rasmusen’s prejudices.

Rasmusen responded to the provost’s statement Wednesday in an email to the Indiana Daily Student.

“To show students that they need not fear bias in grading, the university is condemning a dissident professor, requiring him to use blind grading, and allowing students to opt out of his class,” he said in the email.

“This, it is claimed, will make

» ABE CONTINUED FROM PAGE A6 On That Beat” played through black speakers that usually make Abe’s ears ring.

He checked off all the corresponding dances. He dabbed, jump-lunged and ran in place, hitting the beats of the music perfectly. The other three contestants mostly stayed in one spot. Abe covered the space, popping down to the floor and back up again.

Emmy laughed as she recorded a video of Abe on her phone.

Everyone voted for the best dancer. Abe won.

Emmy thinks people with autism are stigmatized for having intense interests. As a film major, she talks about her favorite movies to anyone who will listen.

“Everybody has a weird passion that they research and know everything about,” she said.

For their first anniversary, Emmy gave Abe a piece of coal from the Titanic. * * * The morning of Nov. 13, Abe saw an email from Robel.

He learned the professor at the heart of the McDonald’s incident had been suspended.

students relaxed and feel able to express their political views without fear of retribution. Having seen the university crack down on the one outspoken conservative professor, students will feel more comfortable in expressing their views while at Indiana University — that is, they will know what to expect if they speak freely in the classes of the 999 liberal professors. Of course, IU is not discouraging bias, but encouraging it, even requiring it, as a condition of teaching. There are views you're not supposed to express, even outside of class, and heaven help the student whose professor checks his twitter account before issuing grades.”

Twitter users also resurfaced some of Rasmusen’s older tweets. In March 2018, he tweeted,” I just realized--Women's Studies and Home Ec are the same thing. They are both meant to teach a Abe felt overjoyed.

“Three months of hard work finally came together in that one moment,” he said.

IU spokesperson Chuck Carney confirmed to the Indiana Daily Student that Nisonger was on suspension. In a February email, Carney said she had resumed her duties, which do not involve interacting with students.

“She has worked to address the issues involved in her suspension,” Carney said.

Nisonger did not respond to requests for comment. She previously referred the IDS to her lawyers, who did not respond to multiple calls.

Emmy said she went into shock. At first she felt guilty.

This professor was punished perhaps because of complaints by Emmy and her peers. Then she remembered.

“She got herself in trouble for saying those things,” Emmy said. “We just held her accountable.”

Abe still didn’t see a public statement from the university, and he wanted more information on the investigation. But he felt the response started a discussion on social perceptions, signaling IU was willing to become more inclusive.

The university had listened.

woman how to live her life.

It's just that only one of them keeps its promise.”

Many students replied to his tweet, tagging IU’s Twitter page.

Rasmusen also stirred controversy in 2003, when he expressed negative views of gay people on an IU server.

In his blog, he offered his beliefs about about why gay people should not be teachers, elected officials and doctors.

"A second reason not to hire homosexuals as teachers is that it puts the fox into the chicken coop,” Rasmusen said in a blog post originally published in Aug. 2003.

“Male homosexuals, at least, like boys and are generally promiscuous. They should not be given the opportunity to satisfy their desires.”

Former Kelley School of Business Dean Dan Dalton asked Rasmusen to remove his posts from the IU server

his female students and colleagues unfairly. She said his tweets were offensive and degrading to women.

Hopkins said she hopes the university takes action because over half of the university’s students are female.

“I believe the university is doing a disservice to its students, male and female, if they allow a man who espouses those ideas to be in charge of their education, in any capacity, even in one classroom,” she said.

Women in Business president Amanda Novicoff partnered with three other student groups — Women in Business, Alpha Kappa Psi, Social Enterprise Engagement at Kelley School and 180 Degrees Consulting — to submit a formal complaint to Kesner on Tuesday afternoon.

“I believe he is creating a hostile and uncomfortable environment inconsistent

in September 2003, but university officials allowed Rasmusen to re-add the log to the server the next day.

Maggie Hopkins, IU alumna and former student body vice president, worked alongside Rasmusen at Bloomington Faculty Council meetings last year and said Rasmusen’s views often conflicted with hers.

During a Nov. 2017 Bloomington Faculty Council meeting to discuss the controversial Thomas Hart Benton Murals in Woodburn classroom 100, Rasmusen was the only faculty member to support the continued use of the classroom. The murals detail Indiana history, including a depiction of Ku Klux Klan members.

The council eventually repurposed Woodburn 100 as a gallery, rather than a functioning classroom.

Hopkins said she worries that Rasmusen treats

with IU’s message,” Novicoff said.

Novicoff said she wanted to create something to draw attention to this issue.

“We wanted a way to create positive momentum at IU in light of this situation,” Novicoff said. “We decided that the best way to do so is would be to start a fundraiser for Girls Inc.” Novicoff worked with other Women in Business members to create black sweatshirts reading “Female genius.” on the front and “Support women in academia” on the back in white lettering.

“We want people to rep the message around campus as much as possible because what he’s saying is exactly the opposite of what IU tries to push,” Novicoff said. “We want people to reestablish that this is who we are.”

This story was originally published Nov. 20, 2019.

* * *

MEL FRONCZEK | IDS

Emmy and Abe look at each other to confer about their answer to a trivia question at a Late Nite event at the Indiana Memorial Union on Dec. 6, 2019. They won "Parks and Recreation" trivia that night.

* * * As the semester drew on, and not as many people were coming to meetings as Abe had hoped, he realized his group needed to be fun if he wanted to make more changes.

Advocacy groups such as the Neurodiversity Coalition are not only about tangible successes such as the response to the McDonald’s incident, said Samuel Johnson, president of the Hoosier Alliance for Neurodiversity, a statewide self-advocacy and disability rights organization.

They’re about creating places

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ie over his ears to stifle the blaring pop music, thumping bowling balls and toppling pins.

To Abe’s surprise, his sister Sarah showed up.

Abe bowled a strike and collapsed, ecstatic, on the floor.

Sarah sat down to tie her shoes.

“Abey, are you winning?” she asked him.

“I’m lucky,” Abe said.

She shook off his response.

“You’re just good, kid,” she said.

She slung her arm around her brother as they set up the scoreboard for the next round.

where people with shared experiences can connect.

“The process is the message,” Johnson said. “We’re fighting for inclusion. We’re fighting to have spaces that we can be involved with. But in the act of doing that, we’re creating those spaces.”

The coalition decided on a bowling night at the IMU in December. To make it as accessible as he could, Abe paid for everyone.

He felt anxious.

“This is gonna be a failure,” he thought. “It’s not enough people.”

He didn’t wear his headphones, but he wore a bean-

After he graduates in May, Abe wants to continue fighting to eliminate educational inequity and promote disability rights.

He’s considering law school or social work. First, he’s taking a year or two off.

He plans to stay in Bloomington over the summer so he can work and be around the people he loves. He also wants to continue developing the coalition.

As a member of IU Student Government Congress, he’s hoping to pass legislation that would circulate neurodiversity resource pamphlets in residence halls. In April he’s bringing Haley Moss, the first openly autistic lawyer in Florida, to speak on campus.

Abe sees himself as an outlier. He’s not like other people, and he uses that to his advantage. He thinks others should too.

“The greatest disaster would be kids like me being isolated from a world that doesn’t understand them,” Abe said.

He’s doing his best to prevent that.

This story was originally published Feb. 16, 2020.

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ARTS

2020 FRESHMAN EDITION idsnews.com

arts@idsnews.com

IZZY MYSZAK | IDS

Junior Lily Bines poses March 13 during a rehearsal in the Musical Arts Center. The ballet, "Cinderella," would have been performed April 3 through April 5.

The ball that

never came

By Claudia Gonzalez-Diaz clabgonz@iu.edu | @clabgonz

Cinderella swept the floor of a dance studio in the Musical Arts Center.

Her movements were soft and elegant, and her hands held the rickety broom like it was a dance partner. Her furrowed eyebrows and pursed mouth showed disdain — Cinderella couldn’t stand the torment by her evil stepsisters.

Off to the side, another Cinderella loosely mirrored her brushing movements and the small turns.

It helped her to memorize the acting, the dancing. She stretched her hamstrings and sipped water, her attention fixed on the movement at the center of the studio.

They would soon alternate, to get equal practice time.

The two Cinderellas were Haley Baker, 22, and Lily Bines, 20, ballerinas in the IU Jacobs School of Music Ballet Department. They were cast as Cinderella, what would have been the biggest role of their lives to date, on Feb. 10.

It also would have been one of their last college performances. Haley will graduate in May, and Lily will graduate a year early in August.

They would have performed “Cinderella” this Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Since last semester, they have done the demanding work for the role, spending hours at a time in the studio.

But they will never get to perform this show. They will never go to this ball. Like all Jacobs events scheduled between March 23 and May 16, the department's spring ballet was canceled.

“Some part of me still can’t believe that we ever did it,” Lily said. “It feels like a dream.”

“It does kind of feel like, ‘did it actually even happen?’”

Haley said.

Haley and Lily were ready to dive deep into the role of Cinderella. Seeing it all come together — glittering dresses, an ethereal set, a live orchestra — would have added that magical touch of “wow.”

But no amount of train-

ing, time in rehearsal or love for ballet could halt the spread of the coronavirus long enough for the two Cinderellas to go to the ball.

Haley Baker was “ponytail girl” before she was Cinderella. She took her first dance steps right before she turned 3, learning tap and jazz. She would jump and turn with so much enthusiasm that her ponytail would dance, too.

“She was just a little jumping bean,” her mom, Beth Baker, said.

As Haley got older, it was harder to show emotion in front of an audience. She had the technical skill of a dancer, but the acting part was a challenge. Her teachers would try to pull it out of her.

Sarah Wroth, co-chair of the Department of Ballet, remembered asking Haley a question during an evaluation at the end of the fall semester of her sophomore year.

“Do you want to be a professional? Because we can’t tell,” Wroth told her.

In an interview, Wroth said they knew Haley was talented, but she needed to work harder, the way a professional dancer would.

"We didn't see that hunger, that thirst to be the best that we knew she could be," Wroth said in an interview.

Haley has always been a hard worker, but she worked silently. She wouldn’t naturally push to the front of the studio. On the inside, Haley knew she loved to dance. But it was harder for others to know that if she didn’t outwardly show it in her movement.

“When others see me dance, they shouldn’t question if I love it or not,” Haley said she realized after the evaluation. “They shouldn’t question if I want to be there.”

Lily Bines found dance later, when she was about 9.

In the beginning, her parents, Audrey and Joel Bines, signed her up for a single class. She had participated in soccer, softball, gymnastics and musical theater — all the usual activities, her mom Audrey Bines said.

After the first class, Lily took an interest in ballet and

When Jacobs canceled the spring ballet over COVID-19 concerns, two Cinderellas lost a stage and a dream

asked to go to another. Soon enough, she would go three or four times per week, and when she was 10, she started dancing at a studio with a stronger focus on ballet.

“She really lit up when she went to ballet,” Joel said.

Lily said while she was comfortable acting, she couldn’t move and bend the way more experienced dancers could. It was hard to straighten her legs, make them look longer. She had to gain strength in her feet. After barre class, when the dancers would practice the splits on the floor, her torso would hover above the ground. Lily’s dance teacher would push her hips down.

Despite this, her parents said they’ve never had to tell her to go to rehearsal, stretch or complete ab exercises to strengthen her core. For 11 years, it was all self-motivated.

Before college, it was hard for Lily to dance with confidence in front of her peers.

But after three years at IU she can move to the front and feel good about what she puts out there.

“I think that’s been the biggest growth for me, is finding that confidence for myself,” Lily said.

The two dancers' sleep schedule has to be consistent. Their diets of nutrientrich grains and proteins have to sustain hours of conditioning, technique class and rehearsals. They pack resistance TheraBands in their bags to strengthen their feet and toes, and they have traded weekends of downtime for auditions.

For Lily and Haley, performance makes the challenges worth it. Getting to perform after weeks and months of intense focus is an emotional high.

“The feeling of getting to dance is so special,” Lily said.

“It’s hard to say exactly what it is. I just love doing it.”

The dancers said in class, Wroth pushes students to find their light, both by lifting their heads up while dancing and by finding positivity in life and embracing it. But sometimes finding light is hard to do on

IZZY MYSZAK | IDS

Senior Haley Baker dances as Cinderella with the other dance majors cast as mice March 13 in the Musical Arts Center. "Cinderella" would have been Baker's last show at IU before it was canceled due to the coronavirus pandemic.

a hard day.

“It’s fun,” Haley said. “But sometimes you’re having a really bad day and it’s like —” “I don’t have any light!”

Lily finished.

“Exactly.”

It helps to dance alongside their best friends. Both Haley and Lily lived with dancers who go through the same thing they do. There’s a special kind of bond formed in the trenches of the MAC. “It’s really good to have a friend there to make you laugh,” Lily said.

Haley and Lily competed against other dancers for the role of Cinderella, and they have even competed against each other in the same company auditions. But by now, competition is normal. They don’t let it affect their relationships beyond the studio.

The department wears matching T-shirts with nicknames on the back on special occasions such as opening night. Haley's is "Halley Backer," which sounds like "hollaback girl," and Lily's is "Buck." It’s a physical sign of belonging. The dancers all chose to wear them on their last rehearsal.

“The camaraderie, that’s what made it special,” Haley said. * * * When Wroth posts the cast list, nobody ever wants to be the first to look. It’s such a tense moment, Haley said.

Squinting from afar where things feel safer won’t cut it.

The print is too small.

In mid February, the role of Cinderella was on the line.

Back in Texas and Pennsylvania, Lily and Haley’s parents waited anxiously to hear the news. They knew it would happen any day now.

Lily didn’t know the list was up Feb. 10 when she left her ballet class in studio 305.

She needed to blow her nose.

In the hallway, an underclassman walked up to her.

“You’re Cinderella!” the younger dancer said.

For a moment, Lily was in denial, and then felt a burst of shock. She had to contain her excitement as she returned to the far corner of the studio.

Haley was dancing close to the door. She could see the underclassmen congregating near the bulletin board. She knew what that meant and glanced at the clock overhead.

There were 30 minutes left.

Maybe she could hold it off.

She really tried to stay focused on the class.

But there was another distraction. Students mouthed “It’s up!” from the doorway, which was open. So close. She left to get a drink — a perfect excuse to peek at the cast list on the way to the fountain.

She couldn’t handle the wait.

“I was so distracted,” Haley said. “I had to go look.”

She was excited but knew there would be pressure to execute the role.

Lily and Haley talked about it later, discreetly. They were grateful, overwhelmed

and excited and knew it would hurt others if they made a big deal out of their accomplishment during class.

Haley tried to hold it together. “I didn’t want to come back in and yell across the room like – “ “I’m Cinderella!” Lily joked, finishing the sentence in an obnoxious, nasal voice.

Lily told her proud parents in a text message written in all caps and followed by multiple exclamation marks. Haley's family would reply to the news with memes and GIFs of Disney princesses and mice.

Looking forward, they could see it coming together — Cinderella would accept pointe shoes from the fairy godmother and wear a glittering dress to the ball. She would dance alone to the live orchestra. Patrons would pay to see her.

But Cinderella was also a massive responsibility. Lily and Haley would have to prepare for the most consecutive dancing they’ve ever done.

They would go to the gym after six hours a day in the studio for cardio and strength to keep up with it all. Heavy breathing doesn’t look good on stage.

They also had to act, advancing the plot without words. Haley and Lily would learn to show deep compassion for the mice, contempt for the stepsisters and love for the prince.

Haley and Lily felt the pressure. In rehearsals, they would turn to each other with a look that said: “How are we going to do this?”

But they found a way. On a rough day, they knew how to lighten the mood. Instead of being competitive, they cheered after each other's accomplishments and would have a water bottle ready when Cinderella came running off the dance floor.

“For me, I realized it was okay to be afraid of a role, as long as it didn’t affect how I tackled it,” Haley said.

Wroth has worked with Haley and Lily for three years, and said this year they took their dancing from solid technique to artistry. Instead of pretending to be Cinderella, they became her.

“They took the character of Cinderella and made her a human being,” Wroth said.

Haley said she thinks they both surprised themselves with how strong they became in the process, both mentally and physically. It was the first opportunity they’ve each had to find themselves within a character.

“We’re both Cinderella, but we’re Cinderella differently,” Lily said.

It was time for the fairy godmother to wave her wand over the two ballerinas. Then unfortunately, reality took over. * * * Ballet dancers have to make strength, beauty and athleticism look easy, even when they’re exhausted.

In the same way, the ballet department had to believe the show would happen, even as the threat of canceling “Cinderella” became more real each day.

They began to practice with the intention of performing.

Lily and Haley were cast Feb. 10. A day later, the disease that had already killed a thousand people in China got a name: COVID-19. Seven weeks until showtime.

Around two weeks later, on Feb. 28, the coronavirus claimed its first death in the U.S. Five weeks until showtime.

Eleven days after that, on March 10, IU President Michael McRobbie announced online teaching for the two weeks following spring break. It would end right after the last performance of “Cinderella" was scheduled to take place.

Wroth, holding out hope, scrambled to reschedule dates for the show.

On March 13, the air in the studio felt heavy and the dancers knew it might be their last rehearsal together.

Wroth had to believe there was a way forward, and the dancers wanted to perform.

But the World Health Organization had declared the coronavirus a pandemic two days earlier.

“You could tell everyone knew it was going to be the last time in the studio together for a while,” Lily said.

It was a hard day to navigate, because it marked the end of the “Cinderella” production as well as the last semester for the graduating class. Dancers cried.

The final blow was sent March 15 in an email from President McRobbie.

Lily’s parents had planned to fly up from Texas for “Cinderella.” Mike and Beth Baker had scheduled their Airbnb for this weekend, too. It wouldn’t be used.

Haley was watching TV on the couch with her parents in Pennsylvania when she saw it. She didn’t want to open it. She knew what it said.

Classes would be virtual for the rest of the semester.

Haley and Lily sobbed that night. It felt like something was taken from them. * * * The realization that “Cinderella” was canceled sunk in over time. No ballet, no Cinderella. No preshow nerves, no audacious stepsisters, no endearing mice, no prince charming, no standing ovations from strangers. No final curtsy.

Today – April 3 – they would have prepared for opening night, maybe wearing their matching team Tshirts.

Now, Lily and Haley are back home in Texas and Pennsylvania. Virtual ballet classes help establish a sense of normalcy.

Dancers can attend ballet class in their hometown bedrooms, living rooms and kitchens. Zoom classes can’t offer the same open space as dance studio 305, but it can transmit live pointe class to keep dancers trained up.

It brings the department back together.

“It’s kind of fun because you have all your friends on the little screen,” Haley said.

For dancers Haley and Lily, a day without ballet would feel unnatural. A week without it would be uncomfortable. When COVID-19 subsides, Haley and Lily need to be ready for the studio.

In the future, Haley will take more risks. She’ll push herself to the front. Nobody will question her love for dance. They’ll believe it.

Lily will approach auditions and roles with confidence. She’ll remember her friends that would have wanted her to shine, too.

For now, they’ll click into Zoom, and find more ways to be active outside of class.

The next step for Haley and Lily is to join a ballet company, where they would get paid to dance instead of paying to dance. Changes happen every day. Hopefully, the company auditions canceled during the pandemic will be rescheduled.

When it’s time, Haley and Lily will find new ways to tilt their heads a little closer into the light.

This story was originally published April 3, 2020.

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

Jacobs School of Music dean to step down

By Kevin Chrisco kmchric@iu.edu | @beatsbykevv

Gwyn Richards, the David Henry Jacobs Bicentennial Dean of the Jacobs School of Music, will step down June 30. Richards served as the dean for almost two decades, after being named dean in 2001. He will return as a faculty member of the choral conducting department.

“Dean Gwyn Richards R i c h ards’ visionary impact on the sensational Jacobs School is already legendary,” Provost Lauren Robel said in a statement.

“His understanding of the uniqueness of the school and its importance to the world of the arts is what has driven his work. Everything he has done as dean has focused on excellence.”

Under Richards’ leadership, the Jacobs School added prominent musicians like Wolfgang Brendel and Heidi Grant Murphy to the faculty and organized several world premiere performances.

The school also created many career development, community engagement and educational initiatives during Richards' tenure. These initiatives include Project JumpStart and the Fairview Violin Project which provides under-served classrooms with violin instruction.

Jeremy Allen, the Eugene O’Brien Bicentennial Executive Associate Dean of Jacobs, was named interim dean and will begin his tenure July 1.

This story was originally published May 13, 2020.

COURTESY PHOTO

Jacobs School of Music Rudy Professor Glenn Gass smiles for a headshot. Gass retired at the end of the school year.

Professor, creator of rock ‘n’ roll classes, to retire

By Lauren McLaughlin lrmclaug@iu.edu | l_mclaughlin8

The professor who created IU's rock 'n' roll class will retire at the end of the school year.

In 1982, Glenn Gass’ implementation of rock 'n’ roll courses was unprecedented at other universities and inspired the adoption of rock courses at universities around the country. Gass said he started them to pay his way through graduate school.

During his time at IU, Gass has taught courses on rock history, the Beatles and Bob Dylan.

“You can imagine that any adult was still the right age to hate rock n’ roll,” Gass said. “I had to fight to get the classes offered at all.”

Gass earned his master’s and doctoral degrees in music from IU, but he earned his bachelor’s degree in music

from the New England Conservatory of Music.

Gass holds the title of Provost Professor of Music in General Studies. This title is an award from the Provost intended to honor professors who have done significant teaching or research, according to the Office of the Vice Provost for Faculty & Academic Affairs.

Through his studies and fascination, Gass has met Beatles-related people such as Hunter Davies, the Beatles' official biography author. He and his wife also met Ringo Starr through Todd Rundgren, an acquaintance and former member of Ringo Starr & His All-Starr Band.

Gass said that he and Starr conversed about his courses.

Gass said the first course he taught was a Beatles course in the Collins Living Learning Center. The Beatles course inspired an overseas

summer course in England, where Gass and students visited historical sites important to the band and its members.

The program ended in 2017 because of his upcoming retirement, Gass said.

The primary goal of his courses was not to teach students the history of music but to introduce it to them and make them fans, Gass said.

“I get a surprising amount of former students writing and telling me they still have my old tapes and still think about my class every time a Rolling Stones song comes on the radio,” Gass said. “That’s the big payback for me.”

Jim Sherman, professor emeritus of psychological and brain sciences, said when word spread on campus that a professor was creating these rock courses, he knew he had to meet him.

Sherman said Gass does not just play the music in

class, but also explores the politics and psychology behind music.

IU freshmen Lexi Minder and Nicole White are in one of Gass’ rock history classes.

Minder studies exercise science, and White studies biology. Minder said she took the class because she heard it was a good arts and humanities course for general education credit. White said she took it for the general education credit as well but also because of a friend's recommendation.

“He has lots of energy all the time,” Minder said. “He’s a little all over the place, but it’s a fun class.”

White said his legacy will be positive.

“You just mention you’re in a rock 'n’ roll class, and people will name drop him,” White said. “I’ve never heard a bad thing about him.”

Gass said he is retir-

ing because he is able to but also because the timing seemed right.

“The stars just seem to be aligning," Gass said. "It’s 2020. It’s the bicentennial year."

Gass’ youngest son will graduate from IU at the end of the school year, and the dean of Jacobs, Gwyn Richards, is also retiring, Gass said. He said it seemed like a good time to bow out and let new people come in.

He said that he does not know who exactly will be teaching his classes, but he said Jacobs Professor Andrew Hollinden, who already teaches courses about rock and blues, will be taking over his two main rock history classes.

“I’ve had my time, and it’s been great,” Gass said.

This story was originally published Feb. 12, 2020.

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After her death, a dancer’s parents plan ballet about her

By Annie Aguiar aguiara@iu.edu | @annabelaguiar

Raffaella Stroik danced in “The Nutcracker” every holiday season since she was 5 years old. Her first on-stage role as a ballerina was delivering flowers to the Sugar Plum Fairy, a part she would eventually dance as she grew older.

Last Thursday, Duncan and Ruth Stroik drove down from their home in South Bend, Indiana, to attend this season’s IU Ballet Theater production of “The Nutcracker” without Raffaella, who died last November.

“She’s not in ‘The Nutcracker,’ and she should be,” Duncan said.

More than a year after the death of their daughter Raffaella, Duncan and Ruth are commissioning and producing a ballet about their daughter’s life. The Jacobs School of Music has agreed to premiere the ballet, which is currently scheduled for the spring of 2022.

Raffaella studied at IU’s Jacobs School of Music Ballet Department until 2017 and began working as a ballerina at the St. Louis Ballet after college.

She went missing in November 2018, and a search party of more than 100 people looked for her before her body was found in a lake in Mark Twain State Park, around 100 miles northwest of St. Louis. Her death was ruled an accidental drowning. She was 23. * * * Raffaella’s standards were high, Duncan remembers.

When he would take the young ballerina to see professional ballets in New York or Chicago, he would ask her afterwards: “Wasn’t that really great?”

“Dad, come on, that wasn’t very good,” she would say before listing her critiques — a bad turnout or pre-recorded music when she preferred her musical accompaniment live. It wasn’t that she was unappreciative,

Duncan said, it was her love of the art of ballet.

Duncan’s worried the ballet he and his wife are producing won’t be up to Raffaella’s standards.

“I’m worried I won’t meet them,” he said. “I’m worried I’ll do things that she won’t like. But that’s good because maybe then I’ll do a better job. But I’m thinking that all the time.”

The show is a special one for the family. Raffaella danced in 17 years’ worth of productions as she moved from school to school and company to company.

At a production one year in Elkhart, Indiana, Ruth was watching from the audience as Raffaella danced in “The Nutcracker” and broke into tears. She was struck by how emotionally connected Raffaella was to the audience.

“I thought, ‘well I’m her mother, I’m connected,’” Ruth said. “But then I looked down the aisle and all the other moms were crying too. So then I felt like, I’m not the only one connecting with her.”

One of four daughters, Raffaella wanted to be a ballerina from early on and started taking classes at age 3. The Stroiks say while she wasn’t always the top ballerina in her company as she grew up, she took it very seriously from a young age.

“I like to dance for others,” Raffaella said in a 2015 interview with the HeraldTimes as she prepared for the role of Odette, Queen of the Swans in “Swan Lake.”

“When I’m on stage, I just feel this amazing joy and love. I just want the audience to feel that way.”

Duncan said she flowered at IU, especially under the instruction of famed French ballerina and ballet professor Violette Verdy, who died in 2016 after a brief illness at age 82.

Raffaella’s death has changed the Stroiks. They cry every day. They’re devout Catholics, but they can’t help but be angry at God sometimes.

Ruth said they are now

IDS FILE PHOTO

Raffaella Stroik performs during rehearsals in 2016 at the Musical Arts Center. Stroik was found dead in 2018 in Monroe County, Missouri.

living in an ocean of sadness with rare moments of happiness.

“I actually now have a longing to go to be with Raffaella, at the right time,” she said. “I used to pray for a long life.” * * * A couple of months after Raffaella’s death, Duncan and Ruth were in St. Louis to speak with the detectives when Ruth woke up with an idea.

“Her whole life came to me as a fairy tale,” she said.

“Raffaella’s life as a tragic fairy tale. So that’s when the idea came to turn it into a ballet.”

The ballet will be a new work in the tradition of Raffaella’s favorite classic ballets, such as “Swan Lake” and “Giselle.” The story follows a peasant girl in 18th century Italy who is an artist trying to meet her prince. Italy was one of Raffaella's favorite

countries she ever visited.

“When you have the death of a loved one, you’re looking for meaning,” Duncan said. “For me, I see the ballet stories and the fairy tales as more real than a lot of our stories.”

Fairy tales cover the basic needs: searching for true love, a fight against good and evil, princesses with fairy godmothers.

The Stroiks created a GoFundMe campaign on Nov. 10 to raise money for the ballet.

While Duncan, an architecture professor at the University of Notre Dame, will be designing the sets himself, he and Ruth aren’t artists and need outside help for the ballet. The money raised will go toward hiring a composer and choreographer in addition to constructing the sets, creating costumes and promoting the ballet.

In less than a month, the campaign has raised almost $100,000 of its goal of $250,000. The money has

come from 295 donors, including Raffaella’s friends, members of the ballet community, art lovers and people who have similarly lost loved ones too young.

Notes from donors fill the page.

“I am delighted to become part of the Ballet for Raffaella,” one wrote. “I can see it now — just wonderful.”

Another note simply reads “Love you Raffi,” accompanied by a heart emoji.

Duncan said his favorite part of the GoFundMe is the opportunity to thank each donor individually.

“If I had an hour to meet with each one of them, I would love to do that,” he said. “But this way, I can actually talk to each one of them a little bit. They’re giving to the ballet, and we get to be friends.” * * * Duncan and Ruth said Raffaella would have liked

this year’s ballet. It had live musical accompaniment, just as she liked it, and everything was beautiful, just like when Raffaella was at IU. It would have been up to her standards.

Even though Raffaella is gone, Ruth said she’s still here in small ways.

She’s alive again when the Stroiks watch old videos of her ballets, still having that emotional connection with the audience she dances for. Ruth said watching this season’s production of “The Nutcracker” was similar.

“I feel her presence on the stage,” she said. “It’s so much her life, her way of making art.”

Duncan said his favorite part was the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, one of Raffaella’s roles.

While watching, he thought: our little daughter used to do all that.

This story was originally published Dec. 8, 2019.

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The Beach Boys bring good vibrations in concert

By Vivek Rao and Maggie Anderson arts@idsnews.com

Nashville, Indiana, saw a break from near-freezing temperatures this weekend as it welcomed a dose of California sunshine.

The Beach Boys performed twice Saturday at the Brown County Music Center. The setlist included classic number-one hits “I Get Around” and “Help Me, Rhonda.”

Before the event doors opened, groups of greyhaired concert-goers huddled outside the venue. Once inside, attendees enjoyed special Beach Boys-themed drinks like the Fun, Fun, Fun, inspired by the band’s 1964 hit single.

The event drew fans from across the country. Florida resident Liz Pickering attended the concert while visiting family in Indiana.

She said she hadn’t seen the Beach Boys perform since the 1960s.

“My favorite album was ‘Pet Sounds,’” Pickering said.

“That was the age of Jan and Dean and a lot of beach groups. That was our age.”

Californian Rose Serot said though she’s been listening to the Beach Boys for over 50 years, this was her first time seeing them per-

PHOTO COURTESY OF MICHELE WEDEL PHOTOGRAPHY

Mike Love, founding member of the Beach Boys, sings Feb. 29 in Brown County Music Center. The Beach Boys performed twice Feb. 29 at the center.

form live.

Jacobs School of Music senior lecturer Andy Hollinden attended Saturday’s concert with his daughter Sazi Shields, who Hollinden said became a fan of the Beach Boys when she took his class MUS-Z405: The Music of the Beach Boys.

Hollinden said his favorite song at the concert was “Don’t Worry Baby.” He said the song is about a possible car crash and when he saw the band perform in 2012, Shields had just gotten into a car crash.

“I could hardly keep from crying because I knew my

daughter had just totaled her car and was lying in the hospital in really bad shape,” Hollinden said. “I was today sitting next to that same daughter, and she got to hear them sing that song. And she’s all healed.”

The lineup also featured the songs “Pisces Brothers”

and “Here Comes the Sun,” as tribute to the Beatles’ George Harrison.

The Beach Boys' singersongwriter Mike Love wrote “Pisces Brothers” after Harrison died in 2001.

Both Love and Harrison are Pisces.

The song was accompa-

nied by footage of Love with the Beatles in Rishikesh, India, when they attended a Transcendental Meditation training course under the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in 1968. Love said Harrison appreciated Indian culture, meditating frequently and learning how to play the sitar.

Hollinden and Shields went backstage after the concert and talked to band members Bruce Johnston, Scott Totten and Love. Hollinden asked if the band had plans for its 60th anniversary, which is next year. Love said they planned to keep touring.

When Love was on stage, he joked about how the Beach Boys’ members have aged since they formed nearly 60 years ago in 1961.

“What we’d like to do is take an intermission and then a nap,” he said 20 minutes into the concert.

Hollinden said he finds it heartwarming to see the Beach Boys still performing after so many years.

“I think what the Beach Boys do live is a continuation of love, and it just spreads joy internationally,” Hollinden said. “The Beach Boys’ music is so achingly beautiful that it just makes me want to weep.”

This story was originally published March 1, 2020.

Bloomington community helps save Caveat Emptor bookstore from closing

By Michelle Lie mlie@iu.edu

Caveat Emptor Used and Rare Books owner Eric Brown posted a message on the bookstore's Facebook page April 27 saying they were unable to pay the building’s rent.

The next day the store, which will celebrate it's fiftieth anniversary next year, had so much interest they had to close the submission form to catch up on orders.

Brown said they received about 300 care package requests overnight after the post went up.

“Right now it’s been amazing and we’re trying to catch up,” Brown said.

Brown closed the bookstore to the public on March 24 after Indiana Governor Eric Holcomb issued the stay-athome order.

Instead of selling books in-person, the bookstore is selling book care packages online. The care packages consist of staff-selected books from the genres or subjects customers indicate on the order form found on their website and are delivered to the customers via courier service or shipping.

“A lot of people think it’s just kind of fun because they are getting a mystery package of books in a genre that they want.” Brown said.

Brown said the care package’s start at $20 for two to four books and go up depending on how many books are in the package.

One book can cost from $5-10. The shipping and handling cost is also part of the package.

Generally, the workers add an extra book or two for the customers.

“We try to give them a little extra since they are not hand-

picking themselves,” Brown said.

The average time for a care package delivery is around three weeks because of the high demand from customers, according to the bookstore's website.

“The Bloomington business community is coming together and everybody is kinda talking and helping each other out,” Brown said. “This took us by surprise, so we are actually doing well, we are doing much better.”

This story was originally published April. 30, 2020.

COURTESY PHOTO

A ladder rests against a bookshelf in Caveat Emptor bookstore. Owner Eric Brown posted a message on the bookstore's Facebook page April 27 saying they were unable to pay the building’s rent.

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

BEATS BY KEV

I wanted Yandhi Kevin Chrisco is a senior in journalism.

IDS FILE PHOTO

Batman producer and IU professor of practice Michael Uslan speaks Feb. 4, 2015, in the Ernie Pyle Hall auditorium on the future of the film and television industry. Uslan invited student to join him Feb. 9 in the Franklin Hall Commons for an Oscars watch party.

'Joker' producer has Oscars watch party

By Madison Smalstig msmalsti@iu.edu | @madi_smals

Michael Uslan, an IU professor of practice and producer of the modern “Batman” films including “Joker,” is inviting students to join him 7:45 p.m. Feb. 9 in the Franklin Hall Commons for an Oscar watch party.

“Joker” received 11 Academy Award nominations, the most of any films this year.

The nominations include actor in a leading role for Joaquin Phoenix, adapted screenplay, costume design and best picture. Other films receiving multiple nominations ahead of this year’s awards show include “1917,” “The Irishman,” and “Once Upon a Time… In Hollywood” with 10 and “Parasite,” “Little Women,” “Jojo Rabbit” and "Marriage Story” with six.

Before the award show begins at 8 p.m., Uslan will present a short introduction about the Oscars and the business of the film

industry and provide students his perspective on the Academy Awards, including commentary on the background operations and his predictions of the winners, Uslan said.

“My wife and I decided that the right thing to do, even though some people may be upset with me in California, is to be here with the students and cheer our ‘Joker’ team on, as loudly as we can, amidst all of our students from Bloomington.”

Michael Uslan, professor of practice and producer of the modern “Batman” films

“Once I start talking about either movies or comic books, it’s next to impossible to shut me up,” Uslan said.

Same Coverage, Different Platform

Uslan, an IU alumnus, said he had the opportunity to go to the Academy Awards this year, but he decided to stay in Bloomington for this watch party because he wants to pay IU back for helping him make his dreams come true.

“My wife and I decided that the right thing to do, even though some people may be upset with me in California, is to be here with the students and cheer our ‘Joker’ team on, as loudly as we can, amidst all of our students from Bloomington,” Uslan said.

He began working on Batman movies in 1989, when he worked with Tim Burton on “Batman.”

Since then, he has worked as the executive producer for films such as “Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice,” “The Dark Knight” and “Batman Begins.” He also recently released his memoir “The Boy Who Loved Batman,” which details his life, his work in the field and his love for the character.

Uslan said IU and the opportunities it provided him is also why this semester he is teaching two three-weekend courses on the business of Hollywood in the Media School.

In one of his classes, Live from LA: Experiential Learning from Hollywood, Uslan invited about 30 people working in various aspects of the film, TV and animation production industry, such as Mark Hamill, who played Luke Skywalker in the “Star Wars” movies, and Tony Bancroft, who directed Disney’s “Mulan.”

“These are people that if my students go out to LA and get jobs in the industry and work hard for the next five to six years, still wouldn’t have access to these people,” Uslan said.

He said he hopes that these lessons, straight from people in the industry, will help his students as they pursue careers in film and the production industry.

Kanye West has always been this interesting figure, detached from humanity and reality. He seemed omnipotent, all-powerful and full of zest and spirit.

He was always this largerthan-life being. Now, with “Jesus is King,” he feels like anyone else.

I can now relate to Kanye, sort of.

I went to Catholic school.

I took various classes about religion and skimmed through the Bible. I know like six of the Ten Commandments. I used to remember whatever the hell the Beatitudes are. I probably know the same amount of stuff about Jesus and God as Kanye does, which, actually, isn’t all that much.

This album doesn’t say a lot about faith or Jesus or anything really. It just exists.

It just is.

It’s full of random Bible verses, Kanye comparing himself to biblical figures and Kanye-isms that will make 14-year-olds sit slack-jawed on the school bleachers saying, “Woah, that’s deep.”

Kanye thinks he’s saying something, but in reality he’s saying nothing at all. Kanye hasn’t said a lot of meaningful things, but on albums like “Life of Pablo” and “Yeezus,” at least the things he was saying were fun.

This album just feels like something my youth pastor

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kmchric@iu.edu This story was originally published Oct. 29, 2019.

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This story was originally published Feb. 2, 2020.

Singer Kanye West stands during his Sunday service performance this past April at Coachella. West released his new album "Jesus Is King" on Oct. 25, 2019.

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would put on while making sure the boys and girls stayed on opposite sides of the dancefloor. It’s sanitized, which is fine, but the cleanliness just seems so awkward and disingenuous after hearing Kanye rap about bleached orifices.

The existence of “Jesus is King” itself is more interesting than any of the songs or production choices. It feels like a strange heel turn for West, but at the same time it feels extremely Kanye.

He compares himself to Noah. He says things like, “What if Eve made apple juice?” Both of those things sound like something he would say on past records.

I guess the lack of cursing and sex references makes it seem like a massive departure.

This album is just weird; it’s confusing. “Closed on Sunday” features acoustic guitar and a haunting choir.

It sounds like it could be featured in one of the “Midsommar” trailers. But then he keeps saying “You’re my Chick-Fil-A.” It’s bizarre and just thinking about it too hard makes me pissed off.

Listening to “Jesus is King” fills me with complicated emotions. I can’t believe this is where Kanye is as an artist now, but at the same time I’m not surprised at all.

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

“I came in here completely blindsided. I didn’t know I was going to be a token.”

Adrianne Embry, IU student and actress

ELLE KREAMER | IDS

Actress Adrianne Embry looks out during the final scene of “Hamlet” on Dec. 3, 2019, in Ruth N. Halls Theatre. Embry is a founding member of the group BBBTT, or Black Brown & Beige Theater Troupe, whose goal is to promote the inclusion of people of color in the IU theater department.

A little less than kind Students within IU's theater department are pushing for a fairer educational experience

By Annie Aguiar aguiara@iu.edu | @annabelaguiar

The prom would be perfect, the protesters decided.

Their audience would be there; the majority of faculty and students from the IU’s Department of Theatre, Drama, and Contemporary Dance would be in attendance at the 2018 Drama Prom, the annual end-of-year departmental scholarship award banquet in the Tudor Room of the Indiana Memorial Union. Everyone would have to listen.

The day of, one of the nine student actors backed out during practice. It was too risky, especially when the protest would be aimed at the people controlling casting.

Before the awards ceremony, two of them pretended to be emcees and walked to the podium to begin while the rest waited in their seats in

the audience, waiting for their cue. A false introduction later, the seated protesters started to speak while rising from their seats.

"I support the right of every student to an equal education,” one said as they stood.

“I know we can do better,” another said as she rose. “Because every community can do better."

As they stood, they walked toward the podium. They continued: “I experience discrimination.”

“Men in this department have always tried to control my body.”

“I don’t see myself onstage.”

Woos and spoken-word poetry snaps of support came from some audience members, but many simply stared as they continued. Some laughed.

“This is our house, our

shared house,” actress and black woman Adrianne Embry said in the piece. “And what happens to each of us in our house happens to us all.” * * * The protest’s model came out of a movement in Chicago theater called #NotInOurHouse, which was created to address sexual harassment and abuse in the industry. The IU version was called “Not in Our Haus,” a reference to one of the season’s productions, and was expanded to include more student concerns — race chief among them.

Some students in IU’s department say the department has mishandled issues of race and gender and deprived them of equal educational opportunities, but a recent push toward a more progressive approach through casting, production details and indepen-

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dent student projects is trying to correct that.

IU Theatre’s selected shows tend to be ones that traditionally let white men shine, such as this season’s “Hamlet” and other classic Shakespeare productions, or 2017’s “Peter and the Starcatcher,” which featured 17 roles for men and only one role for a woman.

Students of color have had limited options for meaningful stage roles, frequently cast as ensemble members or roles with few lines. Plays with more than one person of color, such as last fall’s “Barbecue,” give students the opportunity to tell stories not focused on the white experience. But they’re outnumbered by more traditional choices, such as this fall’s production of “Hamlet.”

Considerations for the play selection process include SEE THEATER, PAGE B7

ARTS

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» THEATER CONTINUED FROM PAGE B6 the university’s Themester and the needs of actors in the graduate program. IU’s productions are chosen through a committee composed of faculty members and two students from the department’s Student Advisory Board, who consider proposed plays and eventually carve the list down to the season’s shows.

These considerations, some students say, have left them behind.

“I came in here completely blindsided,” Embry said. “I didn't know I was going to be a token." * * * Room A200 of the Lee Norvelle Theatre and Drama Center looks more like a high school gym than a Danish castle, with its wooden panel floors, tape demarcations of marks and imaginary coffins.

When “Hamlet” finally makes it to its destined stage in the Ruth N. Halls Theatre in December, the set is complex and evokes the disjointed mood that director Jonathan Michaelsen is aiming for. But for rehearsals, a rectangle of four tables with mismatched chairs was enough to be the Danish royal castle, Elsinore.

While the original play only has two women characters, this production’s cast has more women than men.

For the purpose of this production, these originally male roles have been genderswapped to fit the actors, such as M.F.A actor Glynnis Kunkel-Ruiz playing Horatio and associate professor Nancy Lipschultz playing Polonius.

Another gender-swapped character is Norwegian crown prince Fortinbras, who appears after the Danes have all met their end by way of stabbing or poison or poisoned stabbing.

He hangs over most of the play, a threat of a foreign conqueror that becomes a reality by the end of the story when there’s not much left to conquer. It’s not a big role and in some productions, the character is omitted for the sake of a shorter run time.

In IU Theatre’s production, Embry will play the traditionally white male role.

“Fortinbras is a trained soldier, and she is ready to act,” Michaelsen said to the cast while discussing some of the gender changes in the show before the first rehearsal.

As the production’s cast goes around the table to introduce themselves, she is the only black person in the room.

The production’s only other black actor, Kenny Arnold, wasn’t at the first rehearsal.

Arnold is playing the priest and the ghost of Hamlet’s murdered father, appearing only as a voice over and a lighting effect for the latter.

Like Fortinbras, both roles have limited lines in the play.

Most of the lines in the play go to Hamlet himself, played by M.F.A actor Michael Bayler. A baseball cap covers his blond hair during most of the first rehearsal as Bayler’s voice fills the room for hours.

Embry crossed her arms and rested her head on them as Hamlet and Horatio spoke to the ghost of the murdered king, waiting for her turn. * * * Fortinbras is a Scandinavian prince and military leader originally written for a 400-year-old play based on a medieval legend. Embry is

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The cast of “Hamlet” stands on stage Dec. 3, 2019, during the first act in Ruth N. Halls Theatre. Director Jonathan Michaelsen cast more women than men for this production of “Hamlet.”

a 22-year-old black woman who grew up in an Indianapolis area so surrounded by gun violence it inspired her to write a play she’s hoping to stage next semester as an independent project, which has the working title “Chariot.”

At first, she had no idea how she was going to relate to the role. It takes time to get to a point of connection with your character, and with some it just doesn’t happen.

Embry played an African immigrant named Nomfundo who worked in a nail salon and was being underpaid by the owners.

Embry just felt stupid in the role. She describes roles like that as feeling like someone else’s skin is stretched over her face instead of settling into the character.

She originally auditioned to play Gertrude or Ophelia, but Michaelsen chose her to play Fortinbras instead — a daunting task for her to sink into a role so unlike herself.

She watched three different “Hamlet” productions to see how other actors embodied Fortinbras: all three were white men who leaned into the authoritative nature of the role.

Actress Adrianne Embry runs through her final lines as Fortinbras Nov. 13 on stage in Ruth N. Halls Theatre. Embry was shocked when director Jonathan Michaelsen chose her to play Fortinbras in his production of “Hamlet."

Playing Fortinbras didn’t really click for her until one day before rehearsal. She was listening to Houston rapper Megan Thee Stallion, known for songs such as “Big Ole Freak” and for coining this past summer’s social mediadominating catchphrase “Hot Girl Summer.”

Megan is all confidence and precision in her songs, with a mix of attitude and structure that has catapulted her to an up-and-coming class of musicians in a genre famously inhospitable to most women artists.

In “Freak Nasty,” the song Embry was listening to while driving to rehearsal, Megan raps: “And I walk and I talk like a pimp, ‘cause I am.”

Then, it clicked in Embry’s head: If Fortinbras was a female rapper in 2019, she

would be Megan Thee Stallion.

Now, she sees Fortinbras being portrayed by a black woman as fitting.

“If that is not the world... how I view black women, we’re strong,” she said. “We carry shit.” * * * In a side room on the second floor of the theater building, those working in the Costume Shop for “Hamlet” are tasked with a big job: making the production accessible to modern audiences.

Costumes in theater are more than just clothes, they’re intensely purposeful choices.

In large theaters, when individual facial expressions can be difficult to see in detail, costumes do a lot of the work of shaping how characters are perceived.

“Hamlet” was originally written sometime between 1599 and 1602, but costume designer Justin Gannaway, who is designing the show’s wardrobe for their M.F.A. in Costume Design, says they always design for 2019.

“I don’t ever judge the success of a design until I’ve heard from millennials about it,” they said. “I design for our generation.”

Gannaway and M.F.A Costume Technology students Ellis Greer and Madi Bell spent hours stitching and sewing fabric to create Gannaway’s vision on the many dress forms, the mannequin-resembling blank canvases for the costumes that fill the room.

In Shakespeare’s time, men portrayed women on stage. Now, in a production with an unusually high number of women on stage, the modern take is mostly manifesting itself through representations of gender. As a non-binary person, exploring gender is a recurring theme in Gannaway’s design work.

Fabrics with feminine touches such as floral flourishes have made their way into masculine roles; Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle who murders his brother and marries the Queen Gertrude in his ascension to the throne, wears a black and red floral print coat throughout the show. Other costumes for men have lace

ELLE KREAMER | IDS

Actress Adrianne Embry runs through her final lines as Fortinbras on Nov. 13, 2019, on stage in Ruth N. Halls Theatre. Embry was shocked when director Jonathan Michaelsen chose her to play Fortinbras in his production of “Hamlet.”

detailing along collars and sleeves.

For Kunkel-Ruiz’s Horatio, one of the genderbent characters, Gannaway’s original design featured a bustle under a coat to create an hourglass silhouette in Hamlet’s confidante. During the fitting, Kunkel-Ruiz was doubtful.

“It’s not feeling right for me, because I feel like Horatio is non-binary,” she said to Gannaway.

Gannaway agreed, and the bustle was gone. Horatio’s final costume features a long coat belted to create a shape that’s feminine without being an hourglass, existing somewhere between the exaggerated shapes of the noblewomens’ dresses and the stark masculinity of the play’s military outfits.

In a theater like the Ruth N. Halls, with rows of seats extending into the back of the house, the designs have to say something about the character both when seen by closeup audience members and ones sitting further back.

For Fortinbras’ modified military uniform, the gold chaining coming down from Embry’s shoulder adds anoth-

er layer of ornamentation to the accomplished soldier. But it also helps build the character: Embry has narrow shoulders, and the gold highlight on the navy fabric helps form a more authoritative, masculine silhouette on stage.

Embry loves the costume.

She likes to keep the shoes her characters wear because they make her walk differently for each — she said Fortinbras’ boots, which give her a heavier step, make her feel badass.

But her favorite part of the costume is the gold chaining on the shoulder.

“If that doesn’t say boss bitch,” she said, “I don’t know what does.” * * * Taking a modern approach to a centuries-old play exemplifies a debate that runs along a generational divide through theater, both in IU’s department and nationally: why continue to produce the classics?

While Gannaway has embraced this production’s genderbending, they say the cause of it – the original lack of roles for women – along with

the mistreatment of Ophelia and Gertrude by the source text can’t be forgotten.

“As theatricians and designers and tastemakers, we have to have those conversations,” they said. “At some point, we have to consider: do we phase these classics out?”

Embry was Shakespeareaverse for a long time; she didn’t see herself in those shoes, because actresses who look like her didn’t often get to be in them.

“The goal of this project is to embolden a positive shift of culture in which every student feels supported,” wrote department academic adviser Kim Hinton in a 2018 email planning the Not in Our Haus protest. Hinton died earlier this year from a pulmonary embolism at age 47.

Now, over a year after the Not in Our Haus protest, students are still trying to achieve that goal while acknowledging the original protest was ineffective.

“We got the same results as if we didn’t even do it,” Embry said.

Now, students of color within the department are trying a new technique: making their own opportunities.

Embry is the co-president and co-founder of Black Brown & Beige Theatre Troupe, after encouragement from theater professor Ansley Valentine.

The troupe, which was formally started this fall, is planning different ways to elevate student performers of color starting next semester: a showcase, a partnership with the Black Student Union, collaborating with prominent student theater troupe University Players, an independent production of Embry’s play, “Chariot,” and a production of the play “The Colored Museum” by George C. Wolfe.

Some of these are dependent upon departmental approval —some applicants get higher priority and better chances at departmental approval, such as M.F.A projects or University Players productions. Embry said that if the department wants to be inclusive, the Black Brown & Beige Theatre Troupe should have a spot on that list.

“This is a university that, and especially this theater building, loves to claim that we’re so diverse and inclusive,” she said. “It’s like, okay.

Make sure my troupe gets to put on these stories. * * * Fortinbras is the character who says the last lines, a lament for Hamlet’s death and for the state of affairs in Denmark, as she arrives to take over.

Each time Embry walks on stage as Fortinbras to see the slain Danes, she said she can’t help but think: “You white folks messy. Let me help you out."

While Fortinbras is a minor character in the production, she exists largely as a foil for Hamlet: Hamlet’s fatal flaw is an inability to take action, and Fortinbras is all action.

“For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune,” she says as she orders those left to now serve her.

In the last moment in the production, before the cut to black and the cast takes a bow, Embry takes centerstage and looks out toward the audience as Fortinbras becomes Queen. The rest of the stage is dark.

Now, the light is on her.

This story was originally published Dec. 15, 2019.

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Live & Learn

By Caroline Anders

anders6@iu.edu | @clineands

INDIANAPOLIS – The boy is 15 years old and full of metal. Bullet fragments are stuck in his arms, his leg, his side. A rod runs through his leg, and a plate and screws hold his arm together.

Da’Quincy Pittman limps into school on a rainy Monday morning in late February. It’s his first day back in nearly two months, and his clothes hang differently than they did before. After five surgeries, a stay in the ICU and weeks of rehab, he’s down maybe 20 pounds.

In the center of his forehead dangles a twist of hair, adorned with three beads: red, clear, red. Since that night, he’s called them his lucky beads.

He arrived after the morning rush, bleary-eyed but still careful to hold the door for his mother. The school’s chief of staff hurries over, already crying.

They flit around him – the principal, the chief of staff, his mom.

“Quincy,” one says. “I’m going to get you a schedule, OK?” “Did you have any breakfast today?”

He shakes his head.

“Can you hold a pencil yet?”

He nods.

Da’Quincy is one of about 480 middle and high schoolers at his school on the far east side of Indianapolis. The teachers and staff hug and feed and clothe their students, but they can’t always keep them safe. Da’Quincy is one of five who has been shot in the last year. * * * On the night of Dec. 29, three men jumped Da’Quincy and a friend in the parking lot of an apartment complex. They threw open the doors of the car he was sitting in, shot him six times and stole the Jordans off his feet.

Indianapolis’ death toll is soaring. Over the last decade, the number of homicides climbed nearly 80%. A 2016 study found that Indiana had the highest rate of black homicide victims in the nation.

By mid-February of this year, the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department had investigated 31 homicides, nearly double the 16 investigated by the same date in 2019.

Da’Quincy’s school, the James and Rosemary Phalen Leadership Academy, charters buses to drop off students at their doors when afterschool activities end. A five-minute walk to the bus stop isn’t worth the risk. One student gets picked up at his door because his bus stop is on the corner where his mother was shot and killed.

Gwendolyn Hardiman, the school’s chief of staff, has been in education for 38 years. She wears fashionable glasses and long, intricately done nails. The students call her Grandma.

“Soon as you hear it on TV you wonder, ‘Is it one of ours?’” she says.

Phalen is a public charter that opened nearly three years ago when teachers at other far east side schools got fed up with the fistfights and failings. Nicole Fama, Phalen’s 41-year-old principal and regional director, was the principal of PLA at 93, a school under the Phalen umbrella that was getting tired of sending its students to underperforming high schools.

Phalen Leadership Academies founder and CEO Earl Phalen heard about School 93’s troubles and asked Fama what was keeping her up at night. She told him she just wanted the kids to have a safe place to go after middle school.

Phalen bought a trashed, abandoned school and got to work. The James and Rosemary Phalen Leadership Academy became one of 20 Phalen Leadership Academies around the nation, including five in Indianapolis. The first year, it only offered seventh and eighth grade.

Then ninth, then 10th. The plan is to expand each year to cover all of high school. Da’Quincy will be in Phalen’s first graduating class.

The school sits off of 42nd Street and Mitthoeffer Road, surrounded by a clump of gas stations and roads clotted with potholes. Grandma doesn’t stop at those stations, but she still makes sure her car never gets all the way to empty so she doesn’t have to stand outside too long.

Phalen is a structured place. Administrators and teachers always refer to students as scholars. The kids sometimes call Fama things like Ops and Federal because she doesn’t mess around. She keeps a baggie of drugstore drug tests in her desk.

But Phalen is also a home. Some of the students call Fama Mom. There are washers and dryers for those who don’t have running water. Deans drive students to get haircuts. Grandma keeps a pack of mini deodorants under her desk for when the boys get musty.

It’s a place where the principal takes care of bullet wounds.

Fama keeps her “doctor’s bag” — a Saks Fifth Avenue bag that carries a jumble of gauze and ointments — in her desk for when bandages need changed. She doesn’t have any medical training, so she tries to imitate what the wrapping looked like when she first saw it.

She’s gotten pretty good.

“When I went to school, school was school,” Grandma says. “But this is everything.”

Phalen’s teachers and administrators have to be nurses, mental health experts, confidants and parents.

“You slide in academics — if you can,” Grandma says. * * *

Da’Quincy’s mom is a nursing assistant, but she’d never taken care of a fresh gunshot wound until her son was full of them.

Shirley Collins, 38, has five sons, and she wants them to stay in the house.

“I really can’t trust the world,” she says. “I don’t want to let my kids out of my sight.”

But Da’Quincy has been asking to go back to school, and she thinks he’s ready.

Fama isn’t so sure. A Barack Obama campaign poster and a portrait of Michelle look down from the wall in her office as Da’Quincy explains that he left his arm brace and some of his medicine at home.

His mom says he won’t take his vitamins or drink his Ensure. She says he doesn’t like physical therapy because his therapist is a man who won’t let him get away with anything.

Grandma is back in the office, pears and carton of milk in hand.

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Da’Quincy Pittman missed two months of his sophomore year when he was shot six times.

She’s beside herself. “You can’t lose ground!”

Months ago, Da’Quincy was a star wide receiver on the football team. He’s adamant that he’ll play again, anywhere that will let him, but the adults aren’t convinced. He might have to coach.

Now Fama and Grandma spoon-feed him applesauce. He doesn’t argue.

He wanders down the hall to his first class, escorted by a friend and looking a little dazed as he navigates a rush of handshakes and hugs.

He tries not to think about the shooting, but sometimes he can’t help it. It gnaws at him. It makes him look over his shoulder.

A girl runs up squealing and squeezes him too hard. A teacher chides, “Honey, don’t do that to him!”

In the hall, he runs into Mudder, who was shot just a month before he was. Mudder grins at him, the hard lump of a bullet still lodged between his eyes.

Hero’s welcome over, it’s time for geometry. * * *

Almost every student at Phalen knows someone who’s been shot.

They hear gunfire as often as thunder.

Taevion, 14, lives at Carriage House, an apartment complex about half a mile from the school, where four young adults were killed a few weeks ago. That night, she rolled out of bed and dropped to the ground.

She drops to the ground about three times a week. She rearranged her room a long time ago so her feet would face the window — so she wouldn’t be shot in the head.

When she hears gunshots, she texts everyone who lives around her “You cool?” or “You straight?” If they don’t respond, she knocks on their doors.

Rashad, 12, knows to turn off all the lights and TVs when he hears shots and hide in his room with his little sister.

When one boy on the basketball team heard gunshots, he lay on top of his grandmother to protect her.

A group of students were shot at as they walked home from drama practice. A different group was shot at leaving a basketball game. One boy used to stay up all night because he was scared. He’d sleep at school.

Nevaeh’s mom was shot with an AK-47 when she was pregnant with her. And what does the 13-year-old think when she hears gunshots?

“I know somebody finna die.

‘Cause it’s the usual stuff.”

Mudder was riding in a car when he was shot. Da’Quincy was sitting in one. Another Phalen scholar was at a party. A fourth was in his dad’s front yard. The fifth was on his front porch.

“I keep screaming,” Fama says.

“I’m waiting for people to be outraged, and no one is.”

When Mudder was shot on Thanksgiving Day, students started calling and texting her.

She rushed to the hospital and held his hand. The students looked at her like she should be able to fix it. To fix any of it.

“We feed them. We clothe them.

We take them places. We pay for things for them,” she said later. “And so when something bad happens,

you know, it’s an instinct to run to your parents. I was in tears. I was like, ‘What did you think I could do?’

“I could do a lot, but I can’t stop a bullet.” * * * Da’Quincy’s biggest fear was always being shot, but he didn’t think it would actually happen. He doesn’t like needles and couldn’t imagine bullets.

He thought he would focus on football and school, and his life would be smooth. On the night of Dec. 29, he was sitting in a car with a friend, talking on the phone with some girls, when he saw three men walking up and felt something wasn’t right.

“Lock the doors,” he said, but the men were already climbing in. They demanded everything he had. He told them the truth: He didn’t have anything but his shoes.

“You think I’m playin’?” one asked.

They shot him six times. No one has been arrested.

Da’Quincy remembers a woman trying to get him to drink bottles of water as they waited for help. He remembers not knowing where the blood was coming from, but knowing his hoodie was drenched. He didn’t realize how many times he’d been hit until the paramedics cut his clothes off in the ambulance and he saw the holes.

When his mother saw him on the hospital bed, she passed out.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”

He remembers being hooked up to all the machines. He remembers being calm. He thought of the bullet rooted in Mudder’s forehead. He remembers not crying.

“I swear to God, I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

He came to school a few weeks after the shooting because he wanted to talk to the football team.

Before, he was an athlete. Sitting in front of them in his Pac-Man pajamas, he told them he couldn’t lift a spoon to his mouth. He couldn’t wipe himself.

He had a message for them.

“This ain’t what we need to go through,” he said. “Stay in the house where you safe.” * * * Phalen is supposed to expand to offer 11th grade next year, but that project is nearing a standstill. At least $1.2 million is needed just to open the doors in the fall.

One Monday afternoon, Fama launches into a series of tense meetings about how they’re going to make that happen. They have no idea.

“We’ve had our backs against the wall before,” Grandma reminds her. “We’ll just wait and see what happens.”

But Fama’s tired.

A dog park in Broad Ripple just got a $600,000 facelift. The City of Carmel took out loans to help fund a luxury hotel project that’s now more than $18 million over budget.

Some kids at Phalen are going home to places where the lights being on isn’t a given. They’re begging for more after-school activities to stay where it’s safe for just a little while longer. But until the renovations are done, Phalen is out of

NOBLE GUYON | IDS

Da’Quincy Pittman, 15, waits for his schedule Feb. 24, his first day back to school since being shot six times in December. “It just hits me sometimes,” he said. “It haunts me.”

space.

A boy came in earlier that morning and asked Fama’s dad, Coach, for something dry to wear. He had missed the bus and walked an hour to school so his mom wouldn’t whoop him. He was drenched.

Coach dutifully put his clothes in the dryer and found him a sweatshirt.

Fama doesn’t have the $3.5 million she needs to build her scholars a gym, and she doesn’t know where she’s going to get it.

“You take better care of dogs than you do children on the east side,” she says. But she’s talking to herself. * * * Mr. Dwenger launches into his lesson on finding the volume of a sphere. Da’Quincy puts his head in his hands. The student sitting behind him answers every question.

Da’Quincy plays with his shoelaces and picks at his lip. His foot, full of nerves still fried from when the bullet shattered his femur, is aching.

An announcement over the loudspeaker reminds everyone tomorrow is school picture day.

Da’Quincy makes it 18 minutes into geometry.

He limps back to Fama’s office, calculator in his back pocket, and doesn’t stop to talk to anyone this time. He’s so irritated with how much his foot aches, he can’t think about anything else. He opens Fama’s door.

“Already, my sweetheart?” she asks.

He spends the rest of the morning with the nurse, lying with his knees tucked to his chest, knit blanket pulled over his head, curtain drawn around him. The signs on the wall tell him he’s brave and tough and important, and remind him to stay hydrated and wash his hands.

He tries to go to the bathroom, but he feels like his body is shutting down. He collapses to the floor.

He has to be helped back to bed, and he’s mad. He wants to be able to do things himself.

Da’Quincy knows he’s pushed it too far today, but he assures the nurse he feels OK now. She calls Mom anyway.

“It might just be too much for him to be here today,” she says quietly.

When Mom arrives, they settle Da’Quincy into a wheelchair and help him into her minivan. He promises he’s going to take his iron pills and be back tomorrow.

Sometimes he thinks people assume he’s going to fall and crash.

But he’s determined not to.

“I feel like they don’t understand that I want better than what most people expect,” he says.

He prays he’ll make it. He prays for better days. He trusts God’s plan for him.

This week, despite six gunshots, five surgeries and weeks spent relearning how to be a teenager, the boy who hates needles but is full of metal will turn 16.

This story was originally published March 3, 2020.

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Workers return after 6-week-long GM strike

By Lilly St. Angelo lstangel@iu.edu | @lilly_st_ang

BEDFORD — At each tent, a campfire fire burned, and the wind whipped the white soot and embers in all directions. Union workers, who had traded their T-shirts and sunglasses for sweatshirts and beanies, sat in camp chairs or stood around the fire, waving their signs when the occasional car passed.

It was late October and it had been more than a month since the United Automobile Workers’ strike had begun at the General Motors plant and autumn had arrived. Drivers still honked and waved, and the Bedford Police still turned on their sirens in support.

The strikers wanted to go back to work, but they didn’t want the long weeks of no pay to be for nothing. They wanted their share of GM’s new wealth they believed they’d earned.

Around the fires, they talked about GM’s CEO Mary Barra’s nearly $22 million paycheck and watched the few people who are still working in the plant go in and out of the buildings behind the tall fence, pointing them out by name and position.

“He needs to pull his britches up,” one woman said as she saw a man she recognized walk out.

Some union workers would wave at the handful of people they knew who were still working on the other side of the factory fence. Workers sometimes returned the wave and sometimes didn’t, fearing that if they showed support of the strike, they might lose their jobs.

The strikers also knew they were being watched.

Cameras were pointed at the picket line, and managers would peek out the windows to watch them.

Tension, frustration and hope intermingled on the picket line as national negotiations with GM dragged on.

Kevin Hutchinson, president of Bedford’s UAW Local 440, was determined to stick it out for long haul if that’s what it took to get what they wanted.

“We’re in it now,” he said.

The strike would last six weeks, the longest nationwide auto strike in 50 years. * * * At 12:01 a.m. on Sept. 15, Hutchinson, or “Hutch” as everyone calls him, walked into the Bedford GM plant carrying the blue and gold flag of the worker’s union.

Word spread quickly on the factory floor, where workers were casting aluminum to make engine and transmission parts and assembling Corvette chassis.

They shut down their die cast machines and semipermanent molds, cleaned up their work stations and walked out of the factory doors, simultaneously starting a strike with nearly 50,000 GM workers across the country.

As they marched out together, union and American flag leading the pack, Hutch got goosebumps.

For more than 70 years, the Bedford GM plant had provided the best paying jobs in the area. Jobs with enough pay to start a family, own a house and retire comfortably.

But now, good jobs were no longer a guarantee. Before GM filed for bankruptcy in 2009, the UAW gave up worker benefits to keep GM afloat.

Since then, GM had bounced back financially but had been slow to give back the benefits and level of pay union workers enjoyed before the bankruptcy.

The union also agreed to let GM hire more temporary workers after they filed for bankruptcy, positions that have ended up being not so temporary.

Temp workers, many of whom have worked for GM for several years, perform the same jobs as permanent employees, are paid a little more than half of what a permanent employee makes, have significantly less health insurance, receive three unpaid vacation days a year and must give 24-hour notice before taking those days. They are not guaranteed a certain number of

hours a week, and the union can do little to protect them.

Their hourly pay starts at $15 an hour and is capped at $19 an hour.

One temp worker got his wisdom teeth pulled and wasn’t given permission to stay home after the surgery.

Instead, he was given a bag to spit blood in as he worked.

Hutch has a keen eye for corporate greed and cutting corners, and not just in the auto industry. He rants about how little employees get paid at Walmart, what teachers are paid at schools and what the catering workers at Los Angeles International Airport who went on strike this past June made.

Hutch thought about what Japanese admiral Isoroku Yamamoto allegedly wrote after the attacks on Pearl Harbor: “I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve.” He wonders if Mary Barra feels the same way.

As GM tries to tighten its spending to compete with foreign car companies, job security is the deepest concern among many workers. GM closed three plants in the past year to cut expenditures and invest in self-driving cars and electric vehicles, which the company sees as the future of the industry. These vehicles, by nature, will require fewer human hands to put them together and will result in the loss of many jobs.

In the meantime, employees of shuttered plants get transferred to plants around the country, becoming “GM Gypsies” and leaving homes and families behind.

President Donald Trump promised to keep manufacturing jobs in America in his 2016 campaign and even visited the workers of the nowshuttered Lordstown, Ohio plant, and told them not to move or sell their houses, that he would fight for their jobs.

Hutch, who doesn’t even like to call Trump “president,” said while union workers generally vote blue, he knows workers who voted for Trump because of his promises and now regret it.

LILLY ST. ANGELO | IDS

Kevin Hutchinson talks to union workers on the picket line at Bedford’s General Motors plant. The union workers recently ended a six-week-long strike.

“I think there’s huge things that could have been done to help the auto industry,” Hutch said.

But those things didn’t happen.

In the blustery autumn wind, union workers threw more wood on the fire, making sparks fly. Older workers on the picket line reflected on the struggle each generation of autoworkers has made to secure good paying, permanent jobs for the generation after them. It was their turn to do that now, but was it even possible? * * * From day one of the strike, Hutch was at Union Hall and on the line seven days a week, sometimes for eight to twelve hours each day. He credited his strike captains for keeping everything running smoothly, but he also did his own rounds.

He stopped at each of the eight tents that surround the factory, listening to concerns, answering questions, giving updates and making sure everyone has enough firewood for the night and food and water for the day. He gave hugs and handshakes and knew

many of the people by name.

Hutch has been working for GM for 43 years and has been UAW president for two.

He’s 65 and has four grown sons and five grandchildren.

His hands are rough, and his fingers are stubby. He wears clear hearing aids that barely show, but that everyone teases him about it. He lost his hearing from the factory noise and now reminds the younger workers to wear their ear plugs so they won’t end up like him.

His usual outfit is blue jeans and a UAW red T-shirt.

One says “Kicking Ass for the Working Class” on the back.

“This should have happened earlier, and it got out of hand,” one man said as Hutch stopped to talk.

“Well, now it’s time,” Hutch said. “Now it’s going to happen, you know?”

In small towns like Bedford, the solidarity of the community has been key to the strike’s success. In a back room at Union Hall, a food pantry was started for families struggling to get by on the $250 UAW workers receive each week while on strike.

The hall became a hub for workers not on picket duty.

Kids weaved in and out of the

chairs in the main meeting hall and women carried in donations of diapers, feminine products and food.

A whole corner of the main room was occupied by cases of water bottles and Gatorade. “UAW On Strike” signs laid on tables and a Rosie the Riveter poster kept watch over the snacks.

Outside Hutch’s office at Union Hall, a whiteboard was crammed with names of people and community groups and donated items, ranging from Clarisa Guy’s apples and cookies to Georgia Wood’s muffins, danishes and 30 pounds of ground beef.

While many of the strikers were permanent employees, they were on strike in large part for their temp worker “brothers and sisters,” many of whom are the younger generation of the community — sons and daughters, neighbors and friends — who are trying to start families and build their savings. Because their pay has been so low, the strike hit temp workers hardest.

Zach Jones, 27, is a temp worker at the Bedford plant.

He started working there SEE STRIKE, PAGE C3

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Public school teachers protest at Indiana State Capitol

By Kyra Miller kymill@iu.edu | @kyra_ky94

More than 16,000 teachers, students, family and supporters, all in red, surrounded every entrance of the Indiana Statehouse in Indianapolis. Bands played, educators chanted and speeches were made in support of the Red for Ed action day. At least 146 of Indiana’s 291 school districts were closed Tuesday.

Some of the main concerns teachers voiced were salaries, staff shortages and the effect of standardized testing on students and teachers.

The protest was located at the Statehouse to draw legislator’s attention to the teachers and students of Indiana public schools, according to the Indiana State Teachers Association website.

While many educators were hoping to draw the attention of Governor Eric Hol-

ª STRIKE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE C2 a year and a half ago and doesn’t plan to leave — it’s the best job around here, he said. But right now, there’s no way for him to climb the ranks with temp pay capped at $19 an hour.

He’s been dipping into savings like everyone and said he could probably make it another month without pay. Jones was getting paid between $15 and $16 an hour before the strike.

“I at least want a pathway to becoming full time,” Jones said. “Instead of going out there blind and wondering if it’ll ever happen.”

Jones stood in the chilly air, his hands deep in his sweatshirt pockets, not talking as much as the other workers at his tent. He was quiet but frustrated.

Under a different tent, Marquita Deckard sat in a camp chair embroidered with her name that she uses at her horse races. She’s a barrel racer and during the barrel season, she lives in her horse trailer on competition weekends.

comb, he was not in the state.

Holcolmb had a standing engagement with the Republican Governor’s Association Conference in Florida.

“As I look into this sea of red I see hope, I see our future,” said Randi Weingarten, American Federation of Teachers' president. Weingarten is a former public school teacher from New York City.

Teachers at the Statehouse told many stories of children who have become overly stressed and anxious about standardized tests, and how they took an extreme toll on their mental health.

One teacher, Bianka Tinklenberg from Plymouth, Indiana, told the audience that standardized testing causes her students a lot of stress and pain. She said she would love to have the resources to help her kids, but her school only employs a social worker two days a week.

Tinklenberg said she would like to see an increase in mental health and academic resources in schools as well as living wages for teachers, because educators should not have to have a second or third job just to make ends meet, she said.

“Think of how effective we could be if we didn’t have to fight day in and day out,” Tinklenberg said.

Indiana is ranked 37 of the 50 states in salaries for teachers, according to the National Education Association. Since 2002, Indiana has had the slowest growth in teacher’s salaries in the nation, said Sen. Tim Lanane, D-25.

According to Forbes, as of April 2019, Indiana ranked last in the nation for teacher salary raises over the last 15 years. While teachers gathered to fight for fair pay, their number one concern is for their students, Weingarten said.

“Our students cannot wait for another budget cycle,” said Keith Gambill, ISTA President. “The crisis is now!”

Indiana is also facing a shortage of educators. Positions in schools can’t be filled because respect and pay for teachers is not high enough, said GlenEva Dunham, president of AFT Indiana. Public school budgets are decided at a local level, but state legislators make the laws and state budgets, so teachers brought the fight for funding to them.

“We must stand and we must fight for the children of Indiana,” said Rep. Melanie Wright, D-35, who is also a teacher.

Teachers also called for more funds to be invested in public schools rather than private or charter schools.

The Indiana Department of Education reports that 90% of Hoosier students attend public schools. However, charter

Deckard was once a temp worker who went on strike to get hired as permanent worker. In 2007, the UAW worked to get temp workers hired as permanent workers and got what they wanted — and quickly. The strike lasted two days.

Deckard was one of the last temp workers who got hired as a “Tier 1” permanent worker. Tier 1 workers got a starting wage of $28 an hour and make up to $33 an hour now, while anyone hired after 2007 is a Tier 2 worker, has a starting wage around $17 an hour and can make only up to $28 an hour after eight years of working.

“I just got lucky,” Deckard said.

For picketers, there was more to being outside 24/7 than just keeping cool or warm. After dark, they had gotten quite a few furry visitors. One tent backed up to a tall fence with grasslands on the other side and one night, picketers saw a coyote, two deer and two skunks.

“We said, ‘Well, let’s just cut a hole in this fence and have a drive-thru zoo, charge a little admission fee and get

by on the strike a little longer,’” one man joked.

Steve Haefke transferred to the Bedford plant five months ago from the closed plant in Lordstown, Ohio.

Lordstown and three other GM factories in the United States were "unallocated," or unofficially closed down, this the past year, a move by GM that angered the UAW because it went around the 2015 contract that said no plants were to be closed during the four-year contract.

Haefke, who has worked for GM for 25 years, wore a black Carhartt jacket with the UAW symbol embroidered in silver thread over his heart.

He moved to Bedford with his wife, but his whole family is back in Lordstown. But he considers himself lucky.

“It’s not easy, but we’re only six hours away,” Haefke said. “Some of our guys are 21 hours away. You know, guys we worked with, girls we worked with, they ended up in Arlington, Texas, and scattered all over the country.”

GM Gypsies have become the norm in Bedford and factories across the country. At almost each tent on the Bed-

ford picket line, at any given time, there is a worker who has been displaced by factory closings. Some are on their fifth or sixth plant. They are a product of an industry that is being forced to evolve.

After plants close, workers have no choice but to move or quit. Haefke said this phenomenon has caused divorces and broken families. * * * When she wasn’t on the picket line, Deckard took care of her seven horses and slept in with Grizzly Bear, her German shepard. Her barrel racing season is over now. Every year, she rests her horses for the winter and works overtime at the plant.

Two weeks ago, she got a new 6-month-old-colt named Crimson.

“He’s just a baby,” she said.

“So I’m starting to work with him.”

After long days of keeping up morale on the picket lines, the bench-press at Hutch’s favorite gym, the Iron Pit, was his place of peace.

“I get in there, and if I’m mad about anything, I’m mad

IZZY MYSZAK | IDS

A group of educators hold signs Nov. 19 on the ledge of the Indiana Statehouse in Indianapolis. Nearly half of Indiana school districts closed for #redfored day.

and private schools receive about 8% more funding than public schools, according to the Indiana Coalition for Public Education.

“When are we going to start preparing kids for the future?” Wright said, “We can no longer be held accountable to the testing companies, we must be held accountable to our kids.”

When asked what’s next, many members of the ISTA and AFT Indiana said the 2020 elections.

Across the atrium of the State House, chants of ‘vote them out’ echoed over speeches from educators and lawmakers.

at the weights,” Hutch said.

He has placed and often won competitions in world and national powerlifting championships.

At the Iron Pit, metal clangs and clinks. Hutch works his lats on a machine by pulling down a heavy handlebar attached by pulleys to 180 pounds of weights.

He pulls the bar down and exhales quickly on each yank.

Eight pulls, then rest. Eight pulls, then rest.

“There is a lot of truth in, ‘If your mind believes it, your body will achieve it,” he said.

ers were unimpressed by the contract that has just been released.

Although it gave temps a clearer path to becoming permanent workers, preserved their good health insurance and raised the pay of some workers, it would take time for some of the policies to be implemented. It also included the permanent closing of three of the four unallocated plants, including Lordstown.

Private booths were set up at Union Hall and the fairgrounds where all union workers marked their vote on a slip of paper over the course of two days. They voted the contract down 60-to-40, but nationally, it was approved on Friday, officially ending a strike that lasted six weeks.

To many of the older workers, it felt like the strike was just a fight to keep what they already had.

“We didn’t lose, but we didn’t gain anything, and I lost a lot of money,” Deckard said.

For Hutch, the strike was worth it, but the closings of the plants deepened his frus-

* * * At the beginning of the fifth week, Hutch was called to Detroit for a meeting. No deal had been reached, but a few days later, as Hutch stopped on the way to Detroit to shake hands with workers on the picket lines at the Fort Wayne pickup truck plant, he got the news. A tentative agreement had been made.

In Detroit, Hutch’s meeting about the contract that was meant to be about two hours dragged on for six.

Back in Bedford, work-

This story was originally published Nov. 19, 2019.

SEE STRIKE, PAGE C8

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

From memory The house at the corner of West 7th and Jackson was a beloved family home. know it?” Steve said. Steve’s sister, Rosemary Stancombe Crockett, got out of her car and stood next to Steve. She shivered.

“Just doesn’t look as big anymore, does it?” she said.

Steve and Rosemary walked up the sidewalk.

Steve stepped into the freshly laid straw and tried to map out where the front step used to be.

Steve tries to keep connections to the past. He bought a ’52 Pontiac so he could have something from the year he was born. He hasn’t restored it much, though people always tell him he should.

He always responds with, “It’s only original once.”

Rosemary, 64, grabbed a set of aluminum cups from the rubble. Steve plans to pass them down to his son before he dies.

“There was a lot of livin’ goin’ on in that house,” he said.

By Ty Vinson vinsonjo@iu.edu | @ty_vinson_

On tainted soil

TY VINSON | IDS

Debbie Corcoran and her daughter Sydney Reed look at chemical plume maps Feb. 16 in their home in Martinsville, Indiana. The chemical plumes are contaminated areas created from improperly disposed chemicals from different companies in the city. One of them runs through their neighborhood.

Sydney was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer in her spine, at age 14.

By Ty Vinson

vinsonjo@iu.edu | @ty_vinson_

MARTINSVILLE, Ind. On Thanksgiving of 2015, Debbie Corcoran watched her daughter pull the hair off her scalp in clumps and pile it next to her plate of turkey and mashed potatoes. Debbie got her a trash can.

It had only been a few weeks since Debbie’s daughter, Sydney, was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma, a rare form of bone cancer in her spine, at age 14.

“I think it’s time to shave my head,” Sydney said.

Before that Thanksgiving, Sydney’s hair was her everything. It had grown past her shoulders for the first time, stretching down her back in a blonde curtain. It was the hair she inherited from her mom.

Debbie told her daughter she’d shave her head with her when it was time. Sydney said it felt like pity, a cancer cliche she finds annoying instead of supportive. When people get cancer, everyone around them shaves their heads. She wanted her mom to keep her hair so she could curl it, braid it, play with it. It seemed unfair to Sydney, having to give up more to the house that may have given her cancer.

After dinner, Sydney’s father held the razor over her head in the kitchen. At first, Sydney laughed. She told her dad she wasn’t sure if she was ready.

“It’s coming out one way or the other,” he said.

He started to shave, and her face contorted. She didn’t have a mirror, so she had to guess what it looked like.

After half of her hair was gone, she reached to touch her head. She screamed. * * * Doctors told Sydney the cancer’s cause was environmental, from issues the city of Martinsville neglected to tell residents about as, for decades, toxic chemicals spread under the earth.

Dry cleaners and manufacturing companies in the 1980s improperly disposed of chemicals downtown in landfills and in poorly stored metal drums. The toxic chemical tetrachloroethylene, or PCE, seeped into the groundwater and soil.

Martinsville’s water runs from three wells. All wells were tested in the early 2000s, but only the third came back with high levels of PCE. That contamination site, the Pike and Mulberry Street Superfund Site, is the only one currently being remediated by the Environmental Protection Agency. The cleanup is funded by Masterwear Corporations, one of the companies responsible.

PCE is widely known as the dry cleaning liquid. If disposed of properly, there is no issue. However, according to the EPA, both short- and long-term exposure to the chemical can cause dangerous side effects in humans and animals, including several types of cancers.

As time passed, the PCE under the city evaporated into the atmosphere, creating a chemical plume contami-

nating homes, schools and businesses above the earth.

Sydney has lived most of her life above the contamination. Her house, as well as the elementary and middle school she attended, sit on a chemical plume site.

The city contains four or five sites, meaning many homes could be in the same position, according to information Debbie found independently and with researchers from Purdue University. But no one is sure how many sites there are because they’re hard to map.

Sydney’s treatment has cost around $3 million so far.

Debbie struggles to cover the 20% they’re responsible for.

They can’t afford to move out of the house they believe is poisoning them, or out of the city that once said there were no issues with the water.

Debbie said nobody else in the city is taking the contamination as seriously as they should. Despite efforts to rally her neighbors, most have been skeptical.

“You gotta die from something,” one told her. * * * Sydney’s symptoms started in eighth grade as extreme pain in her back and knees.

A childhood playing softball conditioned her to small aches and pains, but this was different.

One night, after a motorcycle ride made the pain worse, she woke up screaming. Debbie took her to the emergency room at IU Health

Bloomington, where a doctor told her the joints connecting her spine to her hips were inflamed. She was sent home without a test or blood work and told to take Motrin.

She’d go through a bottle of Motrin a month. In class, she would ask her teachers to be excused so she could pop open the bottle she kept in her locker.

Two months later, Sydney had an MRI at an Indianapolis clinic. Lying on a hard surface for the MRI was excruciating. She wailed the whole hourlong drive home, feeling every bump in the road cut into her spine.

She didn’t lay completely flat for two months, even to sleep. She’d sit up on the L of the couch at her mom’s, surrounded by pillows, watching “The Walking Dead.”

After doctors noticed a mass on her spine, Sydney went back for another MRI. This time, the technicians put pillows in the machine to make her more comfortable.

When her doctor lifted her off the table, she bit into his shoulder from the pain.

Sydney’s dog, Mikey, had arthritis. She made quesadillas to share with him on Halloween 2015. It felt right — they were in pain together, so might as well share a meal.

When she bent down to feed him, her back got tense. She went to lay down on the couch, and she started to scream.

Sydney had a surgery scheduled to take out the SEE CANCER, PAGE C5

A man and woman pushed carts filled with items down the sidewalk on West Seventh Street earlier this month. When they got to where the Stancombe House used to be, they stopped.

The brick fireplace from the front parlor room was still there. The front step was still there. Everything else was rubble, broken glass and shredded floral wallpaper. Faded yellow stucco still clung to a piece of what used to be the kitchen wall. Sitting on the front step was a stone frog, a little worn, with only hints of green paint left.

“What used to be here, a house?” the woman asked.

“Looks like it burned down.”

The woman picked up the stone frog and examined it for a few seconds.

Then, she placed it into the crook of her arm, put a hand on her cart and continued down the sidewalk.

To answer her question, to understand what used to stand there and what it meant, you have to go back in time, back through four generations.

A lot of things began and ended at 523 W. 7th St. – childhoods, a million meatloaves, even lives. The house caused a public controversy when wreckers took it down a few weeks ago. The city wanted to protect it. The family who owned it wanted it gone. Now the family owes $83,000 in fines.

They knew they’d missed some steps, and they knew the city would object, but they felt they had no choice.

The house that held 90 years of their memories took a lot of trouble with it when it fell.

Sept. 26, 2019 First, the demolition crew went through the house to salvage everything they could. They took out the stoves, cabinets, countertops, windows, mantels.

They began to dissect the house piece by piece. The wrecker tore into the roof. It was all sorted, crushed and disseminated to landfills.

Diana’s husband, Dave Holdman, watched the house come down. She came by after the roof was gone, but didn’t stay. When the house was gone, she called her mother, Judie. Judie couldn’t bear to see the house, not after what happened there.

“It’s finally done and over with,” Diana said to her mom.

They cried over the phone.

Oct. 14, 2019 Steve Stancombe stood beside the flat space where his grandparents’ house used to be. It was cold, one of the first cold days in October.

He put his hands in his pockets.

“A lot of memories here,” he said.

The dining room was gone. There wouldn’t be any more family dinners.

The porch chair was gone — the one he used to lean back on as a kid, copying his grandpa. The porch is gone. Steve, 66, was able to recover some slats from the porch. They still had the blue shade of paint on them.

“It don’t look so big when there ain’t nothing there, ya

Sept. 25, 2019 An engineer hired by the family inspected the house to determine whether it could be saved. When he walked through the house, he laughed.

The support underneath the house had rotted in the dirt. The pipes were broken from constantly freezing over. Fixing the problem would require lifting the house and setting it back down on new support, all while praying it didn’t fall apart. It also would require a lot of money.

Diana and Dave went to the house and saw there had SEE MEMORY, PAGE C8

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE C4

mass on Nov. 3. That day, her doctors found out the mass was a tumor, and it had burst.

She was diagnosed with cancer a week later.

After they told Debbie, she walked outside, stood in front of Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis and began to pray. She prayed that God would take her away instead of her daughter, that he would let Sydney heal.

She calmed herself down before going to Sydney’s hospital room. Sydney asked if it was cancer. Her mom nodded.

Sydney’s mind went straight to death. She didn’t want to go through chemotherapy because she had seen what it did to children in the St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital commercials. Once while she was getting blood work done at Riley, a little girl walked by.

The girl was skinny, pale and bald. Sydney looked at her mom.

“That’s what you want me to look like,” she said. “That’s what you’re wanting to do to me.”

Sydney hated chemo. The type of chemo she had to receive could only be taken one way: directly to the heart.

Whenever the chemo was injected through a central line in her chest into her every other week, she called it the red devil.

On the day of her first treatment, Sydney posted on her Instagram.

“I really don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me,” the post read.

Every three months, Sydney had to get an MRI. She would have panic attacks inside the small and loud machine, so she watched a movie during the procedure. She picked the Pixar movie “Up” and watched it every time she went to get an MRI, one constant she could keep for herself now that everything had changed.

She quickly lost friends.

Her mom said they probably just didn’t know how to handle the situation. After all, they were just kids.

Now, Sydney feels like everyone her age is too immature for her.

“There’s no way to be a kid again,” she said. “I just hate everything.” * * * Sydney is 18 and a senior in high school. She’s had to make up 13 months of school.

School has been hard.

She would lie on the floor because of the pain. Regular chairs are too hard on her spine, so she uses a cushioned one.

Sydney wasn’t able to fin-

C5

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

ish her eighth grade year. She was passed onto ninth grade anyway. “’No child left behind’ my ass,” Debbie said.

Debbie has been fighting local and state governments to change regulations on chemical disposal. She met with state legislators, pleading for them to change laws on selling property on contaminated soil.

She goes door to door asking people if they would allow their house to be tested. She’s had the door slammed in her face, been called crazy. But she believes her daughter’s cancer is evidence enough.

Sometimes, she feels like her daughter hates her for making her stay alive.

When Sydney refused treatment, her mom told her the state could take her away.

She’d be forced to live with foster parents, who would make her do treatment. Parents have lost custody of their children in similar situations.

“Forcing your daughter to do something that could kill her was not easy,” Debbie said.

Sydney struggled to eat and developed an eating disorder. At one point, she tried to commit suicide. On one particularly bad night, she went into Debbie’s room at 3 a.m.

She asked her mom: “Why does God hate me?”

Debbie told her daughter that God doesn’t hate her, he’s testing her.

Debbie stepped outside, smoked about 20 cigarettes and came back in. She told Sydney she needed to stay alive to help her learn about what was killing her and try to stop it from killing other people. Sydney thought she was full of it.

Debbie said she frequently gets calls and notifications from someone telling her they or someone they know has cancer or some other life-threatening illness.

“I feel like I’m uncovering bodies every day,” she said. * * * Debbie manned the front door of a town meeting she helped organize Feb. 5, signing in residents and giving them packets of information.

Gary Oakes, the director of planning and engineering, said the city began prioritizing the contamination issue immediately after city administration changed in January.

Officials are working with the EPA to come up with quicker solutions to the contamination. The current proposals may take anywhere from nine to 34 years, much slower than the city wants.

Oakes said Debbie going door to door and helping get houses tested is probably the best thing anyone could be

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Sydney Reed, 18, holds a rubber bracelet that says "#sydpigstrong" Feb. 16 in her home in Martinsville, Indiana. Sydney was diagnosed with Ewing sarcoma when she was 14, and her doctors told her it was caused by environmental factors.

doing. People trust another resident coming into their house more than some EPA official.

“Everyone wants a resolution to the problem,” he said.

Carbon filters were installed in the water system in 2005. But tests run last year

by Purdue School of Health Science researcher Sa Liu showed a second issue lies in the ground itself.

Liu recorded high PCE levels in the air inside of homes and in breath samples of 39 residents.

Liu’s study was a pilot.

She plans to apply for more funding to continue with tests. She asked participants to spread the word in order to get more volunteers.

“It’s a big public health problem that requires all hands on deck,” Liu said.

Jeremy Kinman, associate technical director at Wilcox Environmental Engineering, Inc., talked at the meeting about a potential solution to the chemical issue.

Kinman’s company has been privately working to clean up one of the chemical plumes in Martinsville, called the O’Neal plume. The remediation is funded by the insurance company of the business to blame, O’Neal’s Clothes Depot Cleaners.

The company placed what it calls a permeable reactive barrier into the ground, and within days, levels of PCE were almost nonexistent, he said. The system puts carbon into the water, and the carbon attaches to PCE. Underground bacteria break down the carbon-attached PCE into harmless ethylene, allowing clean water to pass through.

“You’ll see a massive

drop in PCE concentrations in hours,” Kinman said. “It’s that immediate.”

The barriers could be implemented within the next couple months for the rest of the chemical plumes in the city and can work for years. Kinman said if the EPA proceeded with testing, it would work with the companies responsible for the contamination. The city and state wouldn’t have to pay a cent. Oakes said the city is on board with Kinman’s plan.

Several hands shot up in the crowd at the end of the meeting. What neighborhoods are you looking at?

Who’s going to pay for all this? Are my children safe?

“This just sounds too good to be true,” one woman said. * * * For the first two years after she was diagnosed, Sydney couldn’t stand to hear the word cancer. She’s still mad at the city, its people and the companies who made her question whether she’d live to see her senior year. She’s joined her mom in speaking out against those responsible for the chemical plumes.

Sydney has been in remission since Sept. 1, 2016.

She still has to see doctors often and go to physical therapy. But she’s started to talk more about cancer and what she went through.

The high school has a dance marathon to raise money for Riley children, and Sydney has spoken at it every year.

She has a boyfriend, and makes more of an effort to make friends at school despite how distant she feels from her peers. For the lon-

gest time, Sydney didn’t want to talk to other people with cancer. There were other kids at school who had cancers, but she didn’t want to know them. She worried she’d become close to them, and they’d die.

That’s what happened to Roselynn. Sydney met Roselynn during treatments at Riley Hospital when Roselynn was a year old. Sydney said she was the calmest baby on the floor. She never cried, unless she was in pain. She liked to dance for people and would do it up and down the halls.

She’d come into Sydney’s hospital room and open the blinds to see if Sydney was sleeping. If she was, she’d come to Sydney’s bedside and wake her up. She was always smiling.

After a girl in her class, Bridget, was diagnosed a second time with stage 2A Hodgkin’s Lymphoma last year, they started talking.

Her doctors told her it was environmentally caused, like Sydney’s.

Sydney sent her chocolate-covered strawberries and talked to her through her treatment. She wants to help those around her cope with something she’s gone through.

She doesn’t hate her mom, and Debbie doesn’t hate her. She’s a teenager, and teenagers sometimes don’t get along with their parents. Some things annoy her, like when her mom meets someone new and she tells them right away that her daughter had cancer. Sydney said she just gets too involved sometimes.

Sometimes, kids will still make fun of her. One girl wouldn’t stop staring at her,

then called her ugly and asked if her cancer was back yet. Sydney pushed her desk over and told the girl to stand up and fight. Then the teacher came in.

She hasn’t had a sleepover since middle school because outside germs are bad for her immune system. But she had a friend over for the first time since then in February.

She plans to get a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from IU-Purdue University Indianapolis to become a crime scene investigator.

She’s unsure what’s going on with graduation right now due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Classes are online.

She isn’t able to go anywhere because she’s immunocompromised. She hasn’t seen her boyfriend, Joey, in weeks.

Last October, she got a shoulder blade tattoo of the old couple from the movie “Up,” which she’s now seen more than a dozen times.

She tries to stay hopeful.

Debbie is still partnering with researchers to get houses tested, going door to door and hoping someone will want to listen.

She tries to be there for her daughter, even though she’s practically an adult now.

Sydney understands her cancer could come back, or a different secondary cancer could start growing at any point.

“I‘m gonna live my life to the fullest because I know I could die next week,” she said. “If I get diagnosed again, I’ll know I really lived part of my life at least.”

This story was originally published April 16, 2020.

C6

REGION

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

Starlite celebrates 65th season Story and photos by Alex Deryn aderyn@iu.edu | @AlexandraDeryn

Top Left Ticket scanner Hanna Hooks scans a moviegoerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ticket May 22 at the Starlite Drive-In Theater located at 7640 S. Old State Road 37. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a bit stressful,â&#x20AC;? she said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;If you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reach the barcode, it takes a lot longer and cars begin to line up.â&#x20AC;?

Top Right Five-year-old Eric Hayden peers out the window May 22 at the Starlite Drive-In Theater. Haydenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother, Brittany Adams, brought her son to the drive-in to watch â&#x20AC;&#x153;Trolls: World Tour.â&#x20AC;?

Bottom Left The Skeen family plays an hour before the showing of â&#x20AC;&#x153;Trolls: World Tourâ&#x20AC;? in front of the big screen May 22 at the Starlite Drive-In Theater. â&#x20AC;&#x153;After being shut in for so long, this was needed,â&#x20AC;? mother Jackie Skeen said.

Bottom Right Feet dangle outside of a car window May 22 at the Starlite Drive-In Theater. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Please tune your radio to 97.5 FM,â&#x20AC;? the big screen reads, to inform moviegoers on how to listen to the audio for â&#x20AC;&#x153;Trolls: World Tourâ&#x20AC;? and â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dolittle.â&#x20AC;?

Hidden within the trees on the outskirts of Bloomington, the drive-in theater celebrated the first day of its 65th season on May 22 with a double feature of â&#x20AC;&#x153;Trolls: World Tourâ&#x20AC;? and â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dolittle.â&#x20AC;? Manager Amanda Phillips had high expectations for a busy opening night accompanied by a profitable season. This is the theaterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first year to be open seven nights a week for the entire summer. â&#x20AC;&#x153;People have been at home

for two months,â&#x20AC;? she said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be busy.â&#x20AC;?

Nurse and Bloomington resident Cindy Rogers works at the Starlite Drive-In Theater on weekends to earn extra money while helping moviegoers have the safest, cleanest experience during the COVID-19 pandemic. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I think this is much safer than going to an inside theater,â&#x20AC;? she said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s good for peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mental health.â&#x20AC;?

Rogers was on â&#x20AC;&#x153;potty patrolâ&#x20AC;? next to the womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bathroom

while five-year Starlite employee Christopher Hawkins worked at the menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s difficult,â&#x20AC;? he said of working during the pandemic. â&#x20AC;&#x153;But I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really fear anything.â&#x20AC;?

Employees are taking precautions to provide a clean environment that includes limiting the bathroom to two people at a time, cleaning the bathrooms every 15 minutes and advising people to park at least six feet away from one another. Movie lovers gathered from

all around southern Indiana to spend time at the drive-in. The theater announced that it would operate at half capacity, allowing 200 cars in instead of the usual 400. Bloomington resident Chris Feeny and his daughter Leah have only been able to have fun outdoors since the coronavirus outbreak. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is our first movie outing in a long time,â&#x20AC;? Chris said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We love to go to the movies.â&#x20AC;?

Bloomington resident Brit-

tany Adams brought her fiveyear-old son Eric Hayden to see â&#x20AC;&#x153;Trolls: World Tourâ&#x20AC;? celebrate one of the first warm nights in the summer season. Children ran around the concessions counter, throwing salty popcorn in the air while CocaCola stuck to the tables and their parents waited in line, many wearing face masks.

This story was originally published May 24, 2020.

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Indiana Daily Student

OPINION

2020 FRESHMAN EDITION idsnews.com

Editor Jerrett Alexander opinion@idsnews.com

C7

IN THIS ESSAY I WILL...

IU’s bicentennial brings in billions, but all for who?

Tom Sweeney (he/him) is a senior studying economics and mathematics.

The newly constructed Metz Carillon, an instrument made of bells in a tower that cost $7 million, will be rung on Monday in celebration of IU’s bicentennial. It was paid for using special discretionary funds controlled by President Michael McRobbie.

The bell tower encapsulates the features of the IU Bicentennial that will become its legacy: large-scale, expensive construction and publicity organized by university leaders in the face of students’ desire to focus on financial assistance and historical commemoration.

Documents from the university and IU Foundation, the private fundraising arm of IU, seem to validate concerns from students about how IU’s bicentennial initiatives have developed in recent years.

Students hoped to learn more about the university’s 200year history, but instead witnessed relentless institutional and capital expansion efforts, all while the university raised billions of dollars in gifts and reduced its own expenses on student financial aid.

Financial records available online suggest that the IU Bicentennial brought unprecedented growth for the institution’s financial portfolio, including campus infrastructure and new forms of investment such as venture capital, without much to show in direct assistance to students.

Bicentennial programming across various university offices stands in stark contrast to the vision of a historythemed celebration offered by students, faculty, staff and alumni, as several project ideas endorsed by students were apparently abandoned for various reasons.

Students wanted history A report from the Bicentennial Steering Committee, a group of faculty, staff and students appointed by McRobbie in January 2016, outlines a vision of the IU Bicentennial that seems to have been left behind.

The Steering Committee’s report describes its purpose as helping “establish a common intellectual framework for Indiana University’s Bicentennial, and to identify core principles and values.”

Students wanted the bicentennial to be about history. According to the report, feedback from a survey and focus groups commissioned by the committee found that students “from all campuses” expressed a primary interest in opportunities to introduce historical education to the student body, including in IU course curriculums.

Many of the proposals became “Signature Projects” organized by the Office of the Bicentennial, which is directed by McRobbie’s deputy chief of staff.

One of the student ideas recommended by the committee was a state-wide competition modeled after “The Amazing Race,” a reality television show in which teams follow clues and complete challenges around the world.

According to a webpage on the Bicentennial Office’s website, the idea was to involve IU and Bloomington community members in “feats of trivia, athleticism and discovery” around all of IU’s campuses.

Plans for the event have not been announced, and its webpage is not currently linked on the Bicentennial Office’s online list of Signature Projects.

Another idea originally picked up and later shelved was a new museum. According to the Bicentennial Office’s website, the planned IU Museum would “draw from the existing archival holdings of papers, objects, and collections from nearly 200 years of history.” However, the webpage says that “after extensive review and consultation,” the project was put on hold.

To add to the disappointment, a time capsule buried in 1922, which was to be found with the help of student interns and opened this weekend, was eventually located under the parking lot of Kroger in Seminary Square, according to the office. Plans to open it were abandoned because the parking lot is privately owned.

Some proposals that did take root, however, became IU marketing tools.

The Bicentennial Office took up the report’s idea to create a traveling historical exhibit that would visit all of Indiana’s 92 counties. Yet the “Big Red Bus,” as McRobbie called it, is more akin to a marketing campaign on wheels than a small museum.

An interactive virtual tour of the bus shows historical items resting between large crimson-colored panels which boast of IU achievements and follow the bicentennial branding used in IU marketing materials.

“All for You,” the bus campaign, is a slogan echoed on a billboard with the same logo on Interstate 69.

An openly stated objective of the campaign is increasing admissions. “Hopefully the exhibit will inspire people to apply for admission, support university programs or get involved,” Jeremy Hackerd, project manager for the Bicentennial Office, told the Indiana Daily Student in November.

Billions of dollars raised

and spent Meanwhile, financial documents available online show a multi-billion-dollar spending blitz on capital projects, which include building and land purchases, since the announcement of the University’s Bicentennial Strategic Plan in December 2014.

According to university financial audits, annual cash spent on capital and related expenses nearly doubled from Fiscal Year 2014 to its peak in Fiscal Year 2017.

Recent and upcoming projects have had some of the highest price tags of any listed in capital project records available on IU’s Capital Planning and Facilities website.

The records date back to July 2007.

The Bicentennial Strategic Plan cites $625 million as the expected cost of renovations intended to be completed this year, much of which uses state funding, according to online budgets.

However, university funding has been used for staggering expenses such as renovations of Memorial Stadium, which cost $53 million, and Wells Quad, which cost $30 million. Building athletics infrastructure and renovating Wells Quad are part of the “action items” in the Bicentennial Strategic Plan.

The large construction projects would not be possible without the Bicentennial Campaign, the primary fundraising campaign of IU Foundation. The foundation says the campaign has raised more than $3 billion.

The trend of expensive capital projects will continue after the bicentennial.

In the works now is a new residence hall with a budget just shy of $100 million, announced alongside hikes in student tuition and fees, which faced the ire of the IDS Editorial Board. A new health sciences building and IU-Purdue University Indianapolis construction have received budgets of $40 million, too.

The Bicentennial Campaign has been a runaway success. Revenue from donor contributions increased 94% after just three years of the campaign entering its public phase in 2015, according to the foundation’s financial audits.

It’s another fundraising victory for McRobbie, who already has one title for “most successful fundraising campaign in university history” under his belt, thanks to a matching campaign that ended in 2010.

At the same time, the university has decreased its annual expenses on student financial aid, university financial documents show.

While the net price of attendance, defined as the cost

IDS FILE PHOTO

The bells of the Metz Carillon.

of attendance remaining after gift aid, has decreased slightly due to new privately endowed scholarships, the amount that the university has opted to spend on financial aid has actually dropped off since the announcement of the Bicentennial Plan.

In other words, the financial records prompt the question of whether current students are paying for the university’s capital spending spree.

The president’s priorities Class and athletics buildings are only part of the Bicentennial spending story.

This Monday’s events have become so extensive that the university canceled its annual Martin Luther King Jr. Day breakfast and combined MLK Day and Bicentennial events. The Bicentennial festivities will feature several special projects funded at least in part by McRobbie’s little-known resource of discretionary foundation funds, according to an IU Foundation report.

A small group of donors known as the Well House Society contribute unrestricted funds for the president’s discretionary use intended to help the university “meet the greatest need.” More than $27 million dollars of such funds have been raised by the foundation as part of the Bicentennial Campaign.

According to IUF policy, the first priority for all unrestricted donations is given to the president to use at his discretion “to meet extraordinary needs or targets of unusual opportunity of special benefit to the University.”

They have been used in the past for emergency scholarships and cultural programs.

According to the foundation, however, McRobbie has used the unrestricted checkbook to fund expensive special projects for the Bicentennial such as restorations of a courtyard outside Maxwell Hall, which is an administrative building, and a large circus carriage with steam whistles, called the IU calliope.

The discretionary funds have also paid for murals commemorating the Bicentennial and the Metz Carillon, both to be featured in events

on Monday.

The carillon tower has been the subject of much frustration from students on Twitter and social media platforms, who have lamented the idea that the bell tower has been prioritized over new counselors or functional WiFi. Even though IU resources are often restricted for certain uses, students have a point.

The president’s discretionary funds in particular merit more scrutiny.

The Bicentennial legacy Building on campus is part of the eight “Bicentennial Priorities” outlined in the Bicentennial Strategic Plan.

Other initiatives attributed to the Bicentennial Priorities include Grand Challenges, a multi-million-dollar program to fund three medical and scientific research projects, and IU Ventures, a new venture capital corporation which business commentators have said could be a “game changer” in the Midwest’s biotechnology startups industry.

A blurb for Grand Challenges ends with a reassurance: “IU will continue to support the creative and scholarly activities of its artists and humanists.”

More reassurance about the university’s priorities will be necessary McRobbie and IU leadership have turned the Bicentennial into the largest institutional expansion in its recent history. What was once intended to be a celebration of the past with current community members has become, in large part, a capital projects spectacle and marketing opportunity.

The president’s gambit may prove successful in the end, and the investments may pay off for future IU students.

Nevertheless, current students, especially the Class of 2020, which was labeled the “Bicentennial Class,” seem right to think they paid for it.

Whatever the legacy of the bicentennial, the IU community should ask: Whom was it all for? tpsweene@iu.edu This column was originally published Jan. 16,, 2020.

POLITICAL CARTOON BY MADELYN POWERS | IDS

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Letters should not exceed 400 words and may be edited for length and style. Submissions must include the person’s name, address and telephone number for verification.

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Send submissions via email to letters@idsnews.com.

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REGION

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

ª MEMORY

CONTINUED FROM PAGE C4 been another fire lit on the inside, destroying more of the house. They had to make a decision. Dave called Judie. Take it down, she said, once and for all. Judie was ready for it to be gone, and the bad memories along with it.

Summer 2019 In May, Dave put in a request for a demolition permit.

The family met with the Bloomington Historic Preservation Commission and the request was tabled. The meeting was moved. At the next meeting, it wasn’t discussed.

The next meeting was supposed to allow the family to voice why they wanted the house to be demolished. They even brought a sketch of what they wanted to build in its place: a Queen Anne singlefamily home.

The commission surveyed all the adjoining houses and then, on Aug. 7, voted to designate the neighborhood as a protected district and sent the decision on to the city council.

Diana and Dave didn’t know about the meeting, they say. They didn’t know the home was protected by city ordinance at that point.

Diana figured there would be consequences, but the house just wasn’t built well.

“If we could’ve saved it, we would’ve done it,” Diana said.

“You have to start from good bones.”

May 2019 Diana Rush Holdman and other members of the family went through the house and salvaged what they could. Old photos of Easter egg hunts and naps with grandma, Carrie Stancombe. Photos of Diana and her siblings. Letters written back and forth between Carrie’s seven kids while they were in the war.

Stained glass, doors, cups, old clothing, detached doors, a white corner cabinet, a set

ª STRIKE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE C2 tration with GM and his commitment to standing up for workers.

“They don’t care about

of eight ship mugs. The Stancombe family crest.

2006-2019 The house sat empty for 13 years.

Homeless people would often break in and sleep there. Fires were lit in the fireplace, even though it had been plugged long ago. Toilets didn’t work, so people would use bottles or 5-gallon buckets.

The fires slowly destroyed the house, charring the inside of the fireplace and burning the carpet around it.

Diana and her husband Dave started thinking about what to do with the house.

It had become an eyesore to the rest of the neighborhood, which is full of historic houses in the section of town called the Near West Side. The house was right across the street from Fairview Elementary, and people were constantly in and out of it, no matter how often they boarded it up.

With colder weather would come more fires in the plugged fireplace. Someone could get hurt.

When they went inside, Diana and Dave found broken glass, 5-gallon buckets of sewage, probation papers, dirty needles and around 40 bottles of urine.

There were always offers from the church next door, but the family felt the house would just be torn down to make room for more parking spaces. Every year, people would ask Judie what she wanted to do, and she always avoided the question. It hurt to think about it.

June 24, 2006 Judie had gone to stay with her daughter Diana for a few days when they both realized they hadn’t heard from Judie’s son Kenny Rush. He just got divorced and was living with his mom while he worked as a mason. He would usually call to check in, but when he didn’t answer the phone for a

families, they don’t care about people,” he said. “We’re just tools, so that’s why we have to fight.”

After the vote was announced Friday, workers would be allowed to go back

couple of days, Judie and Diana worried.

When Judie and Diana arrived, they found blood all throughout the house, on the back patio, seeping down rocks. They found Kenny’s body on the floor of the back room near the bathroom.

The details of the crime are sketchy. It was never solved.

All they know is Kenny was killed by “blunt force trauma to the back of the head.” It could have been an altercation at the home, it could have happened somewhere else and Kenny tried to make it back home. Maybe they’ll never know for sure. He was 45.

After Kenny died, Judie couldn’t bear to be in the house anymore. She shut the house up and said she would never go back.

not worry so much about the house. She joked she thought someone built the house drunk, cutting so many corners you could stand in the front door and roll a marble all the way out the back.

Carrie died in February at age 86. The house sat empty for six months.

1990 The roots from the willow tree out back started growing into the pipes, so the family had to cut it down. In its place, the Stancombes started a tradition that lasted about seven years. Instead of a plastic Christmas tree or one with its end sliced off, the family would buy one with a healthy root ball. After it lived its life indoors for the holidays, Judie, Diana and Dave would take it outside and plant it on the edge of the property bordering North Jackson Street.

The trees grew to more than 20 feet tall.

1967 Kenny was 7 when he ran down the brick sidewalk on West Seventh Street with an arrow in his hand. It was a game of Cowboys and Indians, and though the arrow was a toy, the tip was real and sharp.

His mother Judie told him to stop running with it in his hand, he could get hurt. He stopped, but when he did, he fell on the arrow and it went straight through the roof of his mouth. Judie had to cut the arrow down so he could shut his mouth, then she took him to the hospital.

1989 Kenny had been working on a wall-building project for the Scholars Inn Bakehouse on College Avenue when he came across a stone frog painted green. He loved to find random, weird things like that to give to people he knew.

So, he set it on the front step of his mother’s house on West Seventh Street.

1962 Diana took her first steps in the hallroom just before the kitchen. It was the only halfway level part of the house, and there was very little in it, so it was safe to fall in.

That same year, her father fell asleep at the wheel on his way to a duck hunting trip, drove into an embankment and died.

1979 Carrie Stancombe told her granddaughter Judie to

1960s Carrie watched a lot of wrestling. Everyone who

1957 Steve would copy his grandpa Mose and sit in a chair on the front porch of the house and rock it back until it touched one of the posts, acting like it was a rocking chair.

He would sit and watch people walk by, but he was always told not to talk to strangers.

He could recall steam engine trains going through Bloomington and the black smoke crawling down the brick streets.

On the Fourth of July, the family would drag a couple picnic tables out to sit under

to work voluntarily and starting Sunday night, everyone would be back to work officially.

Deckard went back for the first time at 6:30 a.m. Saturday morning. It would take a few

days for the semi-permanentmolds she worked with to be warmed up and running smoothly again.

“It’s going to be a long week,” she said.

The smokestacks in Bed-

ford will again be filled with white smoke this week, and cold machines will be coaxed out of their slumber. For now, life will go on until the next contract comes up or the next plant closes.

1970 For Christmas, Carrie and her grandkids decorated the fireplace mantel with pine boughs and stockings. The family didn’t have much money. Diana would sometimes find marbles in her stocking. Carrie would always put up a little silver Christmas tree with blue balls behind the couch on a stand. Though it was small, Diana was smaller.

She always thought the tree was big.

COURTESY PHOTO

The Stancombe family sits around the dining table in the 1950s. Steve Stancombe, far right, can be seen wearing glasses and looking at the camera.

walked into the house knew when she was watching AWA All-Star Wrestling. The volume would be cranked up on her little silver TV that sat on a silver tray. She liked Dick the Bruiser, the “World’s Most Dangerous Wrestler.” He won a lot of matches. She’d yell at the TV anytime he did anything wrong or lost a match.

Granddaughter Judie told her she needed to calm down so her blood pressure wouldn’t spike. Carrie was in her 70s after all, it probably wasn’t healthy to be screaming at the TV all the time.

Judie broke the news to her grandmother that wrestling is staged — not real. It broke Carrie’s heart. It was like a child learning Santa isn’t real.

the willow tree out back. But the kids weren’t allowed to swing on the tree. That got them in trouble.

Instead, they would go across the street to Fairview Elementary School. The kids would climb the fence and play on the playground, the swings, the monkey bars, the slide. It made Steve and his sister Rosemary wish they were old enough to go to school already. Some days the children would place a pillow on the large white sill of the bay windows in the parlor room, open the drapes and watch the kids play.

Diana, Steve and Rosemary would finish playing on the playground and go back to the house to get a sandwich from the woman Diana called “Granny Good Witch,” or as we know her, Carrie Stancombe. Diana called her that because no matter what someone would say about somebody else, Granny Good Witch would respond, “You never know somebody else’s troubles.”

This story was originally published Oct. 27, 2019.

To read more visit http:// specials.idsnews.com/frommemory-stancombe-houseseventh-street-bloomingtonindiana/

“They could still close plants over the life of this agreement,” Hutch said.

“There’s no guarantees.”

This story was originally published Oct. 27, 2019.

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Indiana Daily Student

D1

SPORTS

2020 FRESHMAN EDITION idsnews.com

sports @idsnews.com

FOOTBALL

IU can’t close out Tennessee in Gator Bowl

By Caleb Coffman

calcoffm@iu.edu | @CalCoff

JACKSONVILLE, Fla. — Junior quarterback Peyton Ramsey avoided the initial rush and stepped up in the pocket, side-stepping to the right. He planted his left foot and let the ball go as he slung it to junior wide receiver Whop Philyor.

The ball wobbled out of Ramsey’s hand as it floated through the air before falling lifeless to ground short of Philyor, ending IU’s season with a 23-22 loss to the University of Tennessee.

Ramsey stood rooted to the spot. He took a second to look around at the stunned IU fan section before slowly unbuckling his chinstrap as he walked back to the Hoosiers’ sideline.

It was an abrupt ending to what was thought to be a storybook season.

“Really proud of the guy sitting next to me,” IU head coach Tom Allen said, turning to Ramsey. “He just played his heart out and fought and scratched and clawed to try to find ways to make plays.”

With less than five minutes remaining in the game, IU was comfortable.

Holding a 22-9 lead, the Hoosiers were on the brink of shedding almost three decades of disappointment.

Years of not being able to end their season with a smile were about to fall by the wayside.

Then all of a sudden, the wall surrounding IU’s dream season started to crack.

With 4:21 remaining, Tennessee’s freshman linebacker Quavaris Crouch punched it in from the one-yard line to make it a single score game.

On the ensuing kickoff, the Volunteers decided to attempt an onside kick instead of giving the ball back to IU and forcing the Hoosiers to go the length of the field. The Volunteers executed the kick perfectly as they pounced on it, regaining possession near mid-field with a chance to take the lead.

“They obviously didn’t show an onside kick formation,” Allen said. “Hindsight is 20/20; wish you would have had [the hands team] out there.”

IU didn’t respond well to the sudden adversity as its defense was forced to go back onto the field after surrendering a 10-play, 82-yard drive just minutes prior.

It would only take Tennessee three plays and 28-seconds, capped off by a 16-yard touchdown rush from freshman running back Eric Gray for the Volunteers to turn IU’s 22-9 lead into a

23-22 deficit.

“We were playing well,” fifth-year senior linebacker Reakwon Jones said. “But then we didn’t play well when it mattered the most towards the end of the game.

Maybe a few days later we can look back and say, ‘we did pretty good here or pretty good there’ but overall we did not do good enough.”

As the IU offense took the field trying to regain the lead, Ramsey once again this season stepped up as a leader for the Hoosiers, delivering when his team needed him.

On the first play of the drive, Ramsey delivered a perfect pass down the right sideline to junior wide receiver Ty Fryfogle for a 39yard completion setting the Hoosiers up in field goal range.

Fifth-year kicker Logan Justus paced back-and-forth waiting for his opportunity to put IU back in the lead. As IU set up for the field goal, Justus took one last glance up at the goalposts 52-yards away.

The ball was snapped, fifth-year senior punter Haydon Whitehead spun the laces out and Justus swung his leg through the ball. It flew through the air end-over-end as it curled wide right.

“We know it’s been since 1967 since they won nine,” Allen said. “We were inches away from making tremendous history here in our program and being the first team

ALEXIS OSER | IDS

Above: Senior Logan Justus embraces fellow special teams senior Haydon Whitehead following a close game. Justus missed a field goal and an extra point Jan. 2 during the TaxSlayer Gator Bowl.

ANNA TIPLICK | IDS

Below: Junior quarterback Peyton Ramsey runs out of bounds with the ball during the first half. IU played the University of Tennessee on Jan. 2 in Jacksonville, Florida, at the TaxSlayer Gator Bowl.

to win a bowl game in 28 years. That’s what makes this hurt so bad is to be that close and realize you had history on your fingertips and let it slip away.”

As Allen walked out of IU’s final press-conference

of the season, he wrapped his arms around IU Athletic Director Fred Glass, and they walked together towards the Hoosiers’ locker room.

Glass, who is retiring at the end of the school year, had just watched his final

chance to win a bowl game fade away. Allen knows the starting place for IU’s 2020 season.

“Next year when we get a bowl game, we’re going to make sure we finish off the right way,” freshman corner-

SOME GROSS TAKES

ALEXIS OSER | IDS

Jack Grossman is a senior in sports media.

JACKSONVILLE, Fla. — There are numerous reasons why IU football blew its opportunity to win the Gator Bowl. Not being prepared for an onside kick and a doinked extra point obviously go to the forefront of most lists.

Atrocious timeout usage, a missed 52-yard field goal and a blunder that cost IU a shot at a touchdown at the end of the first half also

come to mind.

However, IU became the first FBS team in 472 games this season to lead a contest by 13 points with five minutes remaining that lost said game because of conservative play and play calling when the game was seemingly well in hand.

With 8:50 to go in the game, IU started a drive on its own 24. The Hoosier defense had just forced a three and out and was in a prime position to open up a three possession lead with

a touchdown. IU’s previous four offensive drives ended with the following results: field goal, touchdown, field goal, field goal.

The successful drives were a result of a heavy dose of junior quarterback Peyton Ramsey throwing the ball with a few draw plays and scrambles thrown in.

IU only handed the ball off to freshman running back Sampson James six times — for just nine yards — during the four drives.

It was extremely clear

This story was originally published Jan. 3, 2020.

FOOTBALL

Late conservative play costs IU football Gator Bowl victory

Junior Samuel Slusher reacts to his team’s last play of the Gator Bowl. IU lost to University of Tennessee 23-22 on Jan. 2 in Jacksonville, Florida.

back Tiawan Mullen said.

“We had a chance to close out this bowl game but next year we’ll be sure to close it out. Mark my words.”

with Tennessee’s dominant front seven and IU missing its leading rusher in sophomore Stevie Scott III and two starting lineman that IU wasn’t going to have much success running the ball. And again, up until this point, IU did a great job in the second half of the game masking that weakness.

But IU’s first two plays of the drive were handoffs to James. The first went for five yards — that’s not the issue. A change of pace run is good to keep the defense off-balance. But then IU bled the play clock down to three seconds — the equivalent of a scared underdog waiting up five points with eight minutes left trying to run clock in an NCAA Tournament game.

IU handed the ball off to James again, and as a shock to nobody, he was eaten up for a loss of three yards. A missed deep ball on third down caused a three and out, and suddenly, instead of IU putting the game away, Tennessee had a flicker of life.

“Today I feel like you can look at it like, complacency can happen,” senior receiver Nick Westbrook said. “I wouldn’t say we felt complacent on the sidelines but maybe just mentally. Just thinking that we had the lead with five minutes left.”

After the punt, it was the

defenses’ turn to play not to lose. Tom Allen prides himself on having a defense that is always attacking and is relentless in trying to wreak havoc. However, IU uncharacteristically deployed soft zone coverage with just three and four man rushes for the first three plays of Tennessee’s drive.

“We were like, ‘You know what, if we just get one more stop,’ instead of having that attack mindset,” Westbrook said. “The biggest thing is, we just gotta make our plays.”

The Vols gained 56 yards on those three plays while taking no significant time off the clock. That drive resulted in a touchdown, and well, you know the rest.

In the end, IU lived up to its unfortunate reputation of finding yet another new and unheard of painful way to lose a football game.

IU’s first contest of the new decade ended in the familiar feel of letting a game against a marquee foe slip away.

“We’ve just got to stay the course,” Allen said.

“That’s what grit is all about, perseverance and passion towards a longterm goal. So we’re just going to keep fighting.” jegrossm@iu.edu This story was originally published Jan. 3, 2020.

IU in AP Top 25

By William Coleman wicolema@iu.edu | @WColeman08

For the first time in 25 seasons, IU football is ranked in the Associated Press Top 25 poll.

The Hoosiers check in at No. 24 overall in the AP Poll and were ranked No. 25 in the Amway Coaches Poll presented by USA Today Sports earlier Sunday.

The news comes a little over a week following IU’s 34-3 win over Northwestern in the first November night game in Memorial Stadium history. The Hoosiers are now riding a fourgame winning streak in conference play, their first of that kind since 1993.

Before Sunday, IU had the longest active streak of Power-5 schools to not be ranked in the poll. Purdue, last ranked in 2007, now holds that title.

IU, 7-2 overall and 4-2 in Big Ten play, travel to No. 9 Penn State on Nov. 16 for now a top25 matchup.

The Hoosiers have a chance on Tuesday to be in the top-25 of the College Football Playoff Rankings for the first time in program history.

This story was originally published Nov. 10, 2020.

D2

SPORTS

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

CALEB’S CORNER

The Big Ten was irresponsible in handling the coronavirus Caleb Coffman is a junior in sports media.

INDIANAPOLIS — The line to use the sink inside the men’s room at Bankers Life Fieldhouse was longer than the one to use the bathroom.

Bottles of hand sanitizer lined up on tables throughout the concourse, and fans stopped to pump a handful before continuing to their seats.

Fans seemed to understand the severity of the coronavirus — which has infected at least 1 2 people in Indiana — but the Big Ten did not.

While many conferences over the past few days announced fans would not be allowed to attend games during their respective tournaments, including the Ivy League canceling all spring athletics practices and competitions through the end of the semester, the Big Ten foolishly stated nothing was going to change.

“When world experts start to recommend things, you obviously better listen,” IU head coach Archie Miller said.

The Big Ten resisted.

It wasn’t until the NCAA practically strong-armed the Big Ten by announcing both the men’s and women’s basketball tournaments wouldn’t be played in front ANNA TIPLICK | IDS of a crowd that they finally Sophomore guard Rob Phinisee attempts a layup March 11 in Bankers Life Fieldhouse in Indianapolis. The Big Ten conference announced Thursday afternoon that the men’s basketball relented. tournament is canceled because of the coronavirus.

Just before tipoff the the games should be played tournament’s first game play the night-cap against head coach Fred Hoiberg left out the crowds. It’s a simple the tournament.

Even with the reality that as if it were a closed scrimconcept that the Big Ten the bench after falling ill.

Wednesday, the Big Ten an- Nebraska.

Following the game, the couldn’t seem to grasp in the NCAA Tournament will mage, but the reality is that Early in the second half, nounced games would be closed to the public start- news broke that the NBA Big Ten announced that Ne- time, and now everyone is likely be cancelled — or at college basketball is an enthe very least suspended — tertainment sport, and the ing Thursday for the second had suspended its season braska wouldn’t be doing a paying the price.

“I think, once you start the worst possible outcome NCAA isn’t going to assume round of the tournament. after Utah Jazz forward Rudy press conference. It was later The problem was that the Gobert tested positive for the reported Hoiberg had been getting the news that we got is student athletes becoming any risk if there is no money.

For the first time durBig Ten had waited too long, coronavirus. An uneasiness hospitalized, and the team after the game, I think right sick. If there is going to be and the damage had already filled the arena as the alert was being quarantined in its now for our players, it’s let’s any hope that we get to ex- ing this crisis, the Big Ten get cleaned up, let’s get out perience a version of March did the right thing. Give the started popping up on fans’ locker room. been done.

Nobody should have of here,” Miller said. “Let’s get Madness, the players must game a breather and pray it We are in the midst of a phones and concern continwill resume shortly. Many been allowed in the stadium back to the hotel where we be healthy. global crisis, and the Big Ten ued to grow.

Even without crowds, sports fans thought it wasn’t “It was like telling them besides essential personnel, can keep our group kind of tried to maximize its reva family member was sick,” but dollar signs pulled harder tight and move forward with camera crews, media and possible, but some things enue. support staff have all been are bigger than March MadFans had arrived at Bank- Miller said. “I think the NBA than common sense. The Big tomorrow.”

Since the game on around strangers in crowded ness. ers Life Fieldhouse for the probably just put the sport- Ten thought it could somehow avoid a disease that was Wednesday night, the Big arenas over the past several first game of the afternoon ing world on hold.” calcoffm@iu.edu Everything came to a declared a pandemic and put Ten took another step in its weeks. We are the danger to between Northwestern and This story was originally attempt to redeem itself by the players, not each other.

Minnesota while a bigger head at the under-four min- everyone in danger. published March 12, 2020.

Yes, you can argue that Shut the doors, and keep cancelling the remainder of crowd got ready to see IU ute timeout when Nebraska’s

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SPORTS

D3

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

FOOTBALL

IU football fends off late Purdue comeback â&#x20AC;&#x153;I work my tail off to help everyone be successful here, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not guaranteed anything,â&#x20AC;? Allen said.

The Hoosiers jumped out to a 14-0 lead in the first half and didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look back. Even when Purdue started applying pressure on defense and pushing the ball down the field on offense, IU stuck to its game plan on both sides of the ball.

Sophomore running back Stevie Scott was inactive with a lower-leg injury, so it was freshman Sampson Jamesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; turn to take the lead snaps out of the backfield for the Hoosiers.

James had just 148 rushing yards the whole season entering the game. At halftime â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the freshman had 89 yards and a touchdown to his name on just 15 carries. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We all knew he (James) could do that from the jump, he just needed his opportunityâ&#x20AC;? junior receiver Whop Philyor said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;He got his opportunity â&#x20AC;&#x201D; he just ran with it.â&#x20AC;?

Philyor also turned in a much-needed offensive performance for the Hoosiers, adding two touchdowns and racking up over 100 receiving yards for the fourth time this season.

By William Coleman wicolema@iu.edu | @WColeman08

West Lafayette, Ind â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Nobody knows how difficult it is to beat Purdue more than IU head coach Tom Allen.

In 2017 and 2018, Allenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first two seasons as head coach, the Hoosiers fell short in the Old Oaken Bucket game to drop to 5-7 and miss out on a bowl game.

It took three missed field goals from a near-perfect fifth-year kicker, two overtimes and the denial of a multi-score comeback, but Allen can finally say he beat Purdue in an Old Oaken Bucket game. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always a tough one against Purdue,â&#x20AC;? Allen said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I wanted this so bad for our university, for our alumni, for all the people that support us and invested in this program.â&#x20AC;?

Overcome with emotion following the 44-41 win in double overtime, Allen thanked IU President Michael McRobbie and athletic director Fred Glass for â&#x20AC;&#x153;taking a chanceâ&#x20AC;? on him. With a bowl win, Allen would match Bo McMillinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s program record 19 wins in a head coachâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first three seasons.

ALEX DERYN | IDS

IU football players hold up the Old Oaken Bucket on Nov. 30, 2019, in Ross-Ade Stadium in West Lafayette, Indiana. IU reclaimed the bucket after losing to Purdue since 2016.

James and Philyor combined for 256 total yards and three touchdowns, but IUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s offense became more onedimensional when James left the game with a lower-leg injury in the fourth quarter.

The Hoosiers were up 28-10 with less than two minutes remaining in the third quarter before the Boilermakers marched down

the field for touchdowns on three consecutive drives to tie the game.

IU had trouble stopping sophomore running back Zander Horvath, who finished with 164 rushing yards and two touchdowns. Horvath became the first Purdue player to amass 100 rushing yards in a game this season.

Fifth-year kicker Logan

Justusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; three missed field goals, all from the left hash, initially haunted IUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chances of winning. Coming into the game, Justusâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; only missed kick was an extra-point. Allen turned to Charles Campbell with a 28-23 lead for a crucial field goal in the fourth quarter, and the redshirt freshman connected on the 41yard attempt.

Purdue scored on a 20yard pass and converted a two-point conversion with less than three minutes in regulation to tie the game at 31-31, ultimately sending the game to overtime. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We never blinked,â&#x20AC;? Philyor said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We were always poised and on top of the game.â&#x20AC;?

Each team scored touchdowns in the first frame, but the Boilermakers were held to a field goal on the first drive of the second overtime.

Two completions from quarterback Peyton Ramsey brought the ball down to the one-yard line, but Ramsey pushed through a pile and scored the go-ahead touchdown on his feet to clinch IUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first eight-win season since 1993. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Those are the kind of things you dream about,â&#x20AC;?

Ramsey said. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Having an opportunity to go win nine, it means a lot.â&#x20AC;?

On Dec. 8, the Hoosiers will learn their postseason fate and where theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll play a bowl game once all the conference championships are played.

This story was originally published Nov. 30, 2019.

MENâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S BASKETBALL

What Khristian Landerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reclassiďŹ cation means for IU

By Tyler Tachman ttachman@iu.edu | @Tyler_T15

Khristian Lander stood outside the Evansville Bosse High School gym and spoke with excitement in his voice.

It was late February and only three days after verbally committing to IU, Lander was already entertaining the possibility of skipping his senior year at F.J. Reitz High School to suit up for the Hoosiers in the 2020-21 season.

With a sweat towel slung over his neck after a one point loss to Evansville Bosse in the final game of the regular season, Lander wanted to talk about then-freshman IU forward Trayce JacksonDavis. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I feel like if I can get ahold of Trayce, we can dominate the Big Ten,â&#x20AC;? Lander said.

Lander was anticipating that Jackson-Davis, who averaged 13.5 points and was named to the All-Big Ten Freshman team last season, would be gone for the NBA after his sophomore year. In that hypothetical situation, Lander and Jackson-Davisâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time at IU wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t overlap.

Lander didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to put that in jeopardy. On Monday, he officially announced that he would be coming to Bloomington for the 2020-21 season.

Jackson-Davis didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hesitate to express his glee on Twitter shortly after the announcement. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This year just got scary,â&#x20AC;?

Jackson-Davis wrote.

Before reclassifying, Lander was the No. 1 point guard in the 2021 class, according to ESPN. Now, Lander is the No. 25 prospect in the 2020 class.

The 6-foot-2-inch point guard will provide more depth to an experienced

PHOTO COURTESY OF COURIER & PRESS

F.J. Reitz High Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Khristian Lander, left, looks to make a pass around Benjamin Bosse High Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Ran Funches during the Banterra Bank SIAC Tournament semifinal Jan. 17 at Reitz High School in Evansville, Indiana. The Bosse Bulldogs defeated the Reitz Panthers 93-73.

backcourt of rising senior Al Durham and rising junior Rob Phinisee. Last year Durham, who isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a true point guard, was tasked with a major role as a ball-handler while Phinisee was on the bench.

Some of IUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s troubles last season stemmed from the inability to consistently score and shoot at a steady clip. The Hoosiers averaged just over 71 points per game, ranking them 165th in the country. As a team, IU shot 32% on 3-pointers, leaving them at

219th in the nation.

Lander is capable of converting those into more efficient numbers. At 165 pounds, he displays quicktwitch speed and the ability to score the ball on all levels. The lefty has a quick, recoiling jumpshot and understands how to use his body to shield defenders when finishing in the paint.

Lander also utilizes backdoor cuts when heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s off the ball to enhance the offensive flow.

On that day in late February, Lander carried on about

the combination with Jackson-Davis. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I feel like the pick and roll would be crazy,â&#x20AC;? Lander said.

The pick and roll with Jackson-Davis could be the key to the uptick in offensive production for the Hoosiers.

The 6-foot-9-inch JacksonDavis showed his efficiency near the basket last year with many powerful dunks.

That scenario with Lander, who said he has been working on pick and rolls since seventh grade, could open up more rim-runs for Jack-

son-Davis and lead to easy points.

As a result, opponents may be forced to send perimeter defenders to crash the paint and help converge on Jackson-Davis, allowing Lander to facilitate elsewhere. Rising sophomore guards Jerome Hunter and Armaan Franklin, along with Phinisee and Durham could have more open looks from beyond the arc.

Last year, Hunter shot 30% from three, Phinisee finished at 33% clip and Franklin ended at 26%. Fresh-

man guard and Indiana Mr. Basketball winner Anthony Leal can also step into the shooting role. The Hoosiers will need to convert on the opportunities that Landerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s versatility can create.

Landerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s decision has pushed IU into some early preseason rankings. In ESPNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most recent list, the Hoosiers sit at No. 23.

For Lander and the Hoosiers, the high expectations will come a year early.

This story was originally published March 21, 2020.

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SPORTS

Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

Highest ranked Super Smash Bros. Ultimate player in Indiana doesn’t let

transphobia hold her back

By Declan McLaughlin dsmclaug@iu.edu | @DickyMcLaughlin

Multiple cameras capture two virtual fighters facing off in-game while both players are illuminated in cold blue light as they stare at their respective screens. The light matched May “Mystearica” Peterson’s long blue hair.

The match was streamed on Twitch.tv, at Frostbite, a major Super Smash Ultimate tournament, in February.

Indiana native Mystearica, who is unranked nationally, faced off against Takuma “Tea” Hirooka, the No. 12 player in the world and No. 5 in Japan. Mystearica fought as the character Palutena, a goddess of light with a magic staff

from the Kid Icarus franchise, while Tea used Pac-Man, the titular yellow circle from the PacMan video games. The two faced off in a flurry of magic fireballs, fruit, fire hydrants and kicks.

In tandem with the stream showing the battle on stage is a chat that displays messages written by viewers watching SEE MYSTEARICA, PAGE D5

COURTESY PHOTO | JEFF MAHIEU

May “Mystearica” sits Feb. 23 at Frostbite, a Super Smash Bros. Ultimate tournament, in Detroit. May is the No. 1 ranked Super Smash Bros. Ultimate player in Indiana.

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

» MYSTEARICA CONTINUED FROM PAGE D4 online. The messages in this chat were heavily delayed.

The moderators slowed down the displayed comments to catch and block any transphobic or hurtful comments made toward Mystearica.

This is nothing new for her. Mystearica is transgender and often faces this kind of prejudice when she appears on stream during a tournament.

“Whenever any trans player plays on stream, the chat is always bad,” Mystearica said.

Mysterica is a 20-yearold Super Smash Bros. competitor from Pittsboro, Indiana. She has been playing the Super Smash Bros. series since she was 5 years old and first showed up near the top of the Indiana rankings in 2016. She is currently ranked No. 1 in Indiana and No. 5 in the Midwest.

Her first Super Smash Bros. game was Super Smash Bros. Melee. She played as her favorite character Zelda, from the Legend of Zelda franchise, because she thought the character was pretty. She didn’t learn about competitive Super Smash Bros. tournaments until 2016 after people on the Super Smash Bros. matchmaking website, Anther’s Ladder, told her she should go to local tournaments.

Mystearica said that she was always drawn to multiplayer games growing up, but that she was limited in her options. She only had Nintendo consoles as a kid, so that led her to the Super Smash Bros. games.

Mystearica is a personality in the Midwest region of the Super Smash Bros. community. She doesn’t have a job, and goes to up to five local tournaments a week across the state. She regularly places first and uses the money she earns to fund her trips to major Smash tournaments across the country. Sometimes she can be loud and talkative during her matches.

“People know her and remember her,” Matt “MaDShadow” Davis, Mystearica’s coach, said.

For all her results and accolades, Mystearica’s gender is usually the top Google result when typing in “what is Mystearica…”

MaDShadow said people sometimes ask what her pronouns are when he is at events with her.

“All the fixation is on her gender, or her sexuality, or how she looks, and it’s unfortunate because they don’t focus on the gameplay,” said MaDShadow.

Mystearica came out to her family and the world via Twitter in January.

She turned off notifications on the tweet and did

not look at her phone after she initially sent it out.

She eventually showed the tweet to her mom, too scared to actually say the words out loud.

Her mom gave her an indifferent response, which was then followed by a positive one online.

“Everyone has been very supportive of me and it’s been very good,” Mystearica said. “It’s been a weight off my chest to be honest because when I did it I was really scared.”

Since coming out, Mystearica said she has received many more positive messages online than negative ones. The negative comments usually come from Twitch or Youtube. Her own bubble on Twitter is usually a safer space.

MaDShadow said it is hard to watch videos of her matches online.

“I have to turn off chat because people are just nasty and mean,” MaDShadow said. “I can’t look at the comments, I just get mad.”

“Everyone has been very supportive of me, and it’s been very good. It’s been a weight off my chest to be honest because when I did it I was really scared.”

May “Mystearica” Peterson, No. 1 ranked Indiana Super Smash Bros. player in Indiana

Mystearica said Smash players don’t bother her in person, since they’re too afraid to say anything transphobic to her face.

Mystearica is no stranger to being tormented. She was heavily picked on in high school in Lizton, Indiana, for being gay, which was one of the reasons she left and got her General Education Diploma in 2016.

“There weren’t very many people in that school like me,” Mystearica said.

“And by very many I mean there was nobody.”

In the Smash community, she is not without allies.

Besides her friends, she has Rasheen “Dark Wizzy” Rose.

The New York-based player is ranked No. 22 in the world and played through the top eight section of one of the biggest Smash tournaments, Genesis 7, this year with a trans flag draped across his back.

Mystearica said it makes her and a lot of other trans people in the community feel more comfortable in the Smash scene.

“He doesn’t have any reason to do it besides the fact that he wants to be supportive,” Mystearica said. “I don’t think people realize how much he puts himself out there by doing that.”

D5

In that same tournament, Mystearica finished 65th and played her last serious game as Zelda, switching permanently to Palutena. The character is considered one of the best characters in the game because of its strong and fast attacks.

Mystearica played against the No. 4 ranked player Nairoby “Nairo” Quezada in the second round of pool play at Genesis 7 . Nairo is considered the best Palutena player in the world. To avoid going against a top-five player with a character he knows intimately, she opted to play as Zelda in the first game of the best-of-three match.

Mystearica barely did any damage to Nario in the first game, not even taking one of his three lives. In the second game, as Palutena, she did much better. She took Nario’s first life in about 30 seconds, using one of Palutena’s taunts after she knocked Nairo off the screen.

“Little things help her like taunting, and that really gets her going,” MaDShadow said.

She lost the set but made a deep run in the losers bracket of the double-elimination tournament.

Mystearica has wins against top players during her Smash Ultimate career.

Her most notable win was against Tea in 2019, followed by wins against Luis “Lui$” Oceguera and Spencer “BestNess” Garner this year. Lui$ is ranked No. 39 and BestNess is ranked No. 43 in the world.

Mystearica does not have a sponsor, an organization or company that can help pay for food, travel and a hotel at major tournaments. Even with these wins, she doesn’t think she deserves one.

“I’ve always had very high expectations for myself,” Mystearica said. “So when I can start getting like 13th and top eights at S-tier tournaments, then I can be like ‘alright, now I’ll look for a sponsor.’”

She used to be hard on herself in the past. After losses or poor performances, she would often get in her own head and ask why she kept playing the game.

But, she said she now uses these feelings as motivation, fueling her desire to improve.

“Even though I got 25th at Frostbite, which is supposed to be a pretty good placement, I was very upset about it because I wanted to do better because I feel like I can do better. So I’ll never be satisfied,” Mystearica said. “But I didn’t let it demotivate me. I tried to let it motivate me instead.”

This story was originally published April 15, 2020.

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

Keeping him close How Gabe Bierman remembers his father on the field

By Phillip Steinmetz psteinme@iu.edu | @PhillipHoosier

Around his neck, Gabe Bierman wears a small silver baseball.

It’s a symbol of the sport he grew up with, the one that helped keep his family together through tough times.

He doesn’t take it off. He tucks it into his uniform during games, so it doesn’t fly up and break his teeth.

Every morning Gabe wakes up, holds the baseball in the palm of his hand and hopes to have a good day.

Gabe, 20, is about to begin his sophomore season as a pitcher with IU baseball. In 20 appearances as a freshman, he had a 3.56 earned run average with 46 strikeouts on his way to a 4-0 record.

After he started hanging the baseball around his neck, Gabe changed his starting routine a little bit. Before he steps on the mound for the first time in a game, he kisses the silver trinket, knowing his dad is still there with him.

His dad’s ashes are inside the necklace, close against Gabe’s chest. * * * When Gabe spent time with his father, Douglas Bierman Jr., his favorite thing to do was getting lost in the six acres of land that was behind his home in Elizabeth, Indiana. Every time Douglas cut down trees or set up bonfires, he asked Gabe to come along.

“He was a fun person to be around,” Gabe said.

The two enjoyed things most father and sons do: sitting around a fire pit, spending time outdoors, playing catch in the yard. Douglas was a pitcher himself when he was younger. He played at Floyd Central High School and the University of Southern Indiana.

Douglas lived 30 min-

ALEX DERYN | IDS

Sophomore pitcher Gabe Bierman looks down at his baseball glove Oct. 19, 2019, at Bart Kaufman Field. Bierman will play his second consecutive season for IU in 2020.

utes away from his son.

Gabe lived with his mother, Andrea Bierman, in Jeffersonville, Indiana. Andrea and Douglas divorced when Gabe was a baby.

His father wasn’t around often when he was growing up. Douglas was a struggling alcoholic at the time, and it ruined his marriage.

He loved Gabe and his older sister Mekenzi, Andrea said. “It’s just the alcohol took over.”

As a kid, Gabe didn’t really understand what was happening with his father. He’d visit him, but Douglas wasn’t a big part of his life.

Despite being a former baseball player, it wasn’t Douglas who introduced Gabe to baseball. His grandfather, Greg May, took him to the ballpark starting when he was 6. Gabe instantly fell in

love with the game.

But as he grew older, Gabe realized his father needed to change. Douglas was never at any of his games.

His grandparents were the ones taking Gabe to travel tournaments and doing everything needed for him to get the right exposure. They took him across the country, even driving to games as far as Jupiter, Florida.

Douglas didn’t get sober until 2013. After that, there was hardly a baseball game he missed.

“There was a time span where life was just different,” Andrea said. “The bond they built once he became sober was a very good, close relationship. The one he always wanted to have with his dad.”

When Gabe entered high school, he began to show potential. He was a key part of

the rotation at Jeffersonville High School as a freshman and caught the eye of thenIU head coach Chris Lemonis.

He visited IU in the middle of his freshman year, and he knew instantly it was where he wanted to be. Gabe verbally committed that summer.

As Gabe headed into his freshman year as a Hoosier, the coaching staff completely changed. Lemonis accepted the head coaching position at Mississippi State University and Jeff Mercer became IU’s coach.

Gabe wasn’t worried about it. He knew Mercer from his stint at Wright State University and the success that followed him everywhere. This was still the place Gabe wanted to be.

The 103 miles between

IU and Jeffersonville gave his family the opportunity to visit him whenever they could.

Gabe wanted them to always be able to see him play.

His relationship with his father was the strongest it had ever been as he started his collegiate career. A group of 9-10 of his family members would try to attend every IU home game, even if Gabe wasn’t playing.

The baseball games became a family event. They would all caravan or carpool to the games when possible.

Gabe and baseball brought both sides of his family together.

Douglas would stand up toward the top of the stands to the right of home plate. It was just a few rows behind Andrea and the rest of his family. Not next to her but close enough Gabe could

see them both. Douglas was a rambunctious parent at baseball games.

Every time Gabe would pitch, Douglas would yell from the stands: “ROCKET FIRE.” He knew each pitch that was coming. Douglas saw himself in Gabe on the mound — the only difference between them as pitchers was their throwing hands.

“He definitely inherited his dad’s talent,” Andrea said.

“Dougie felt it, seen it, said it.

He just was fascinated. He was saying all the stuff he was doing. He was amazed. He said, ‘I see him going and walking where I wanted to be.’”

In the spring, Gabe earned his first recognition as a collegiate athlete. He threw 1.1 scoreless innings against the University of Kentucky and three days later had three perfect innings at Michigan.

Douglas didn’t make the trip to the May matchup with Michigan, but he watched it back home. Not being there didn’t dampen his excitement.

While watching his eightstrikeout performance against the Wolverines, the best outing Gabe had ever pitched, Douglas texted Andrea about what he was seeing.

“HE JUST DID SOME MAJOR LEAGUE SHIT THERE!” Gabe was named Big Ten Freshman of the Week after the performance. When he found out about his award, Gabe sent a picture to his dad with the announcement.

Douglas was the first person he could think of telling.

“Bad Assss!” his dad texted back. “Your my MVP everyday buddy. Congratulations !!” * * * One day after earning his award, Gabe pitched two innings against the University of Louisville.

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ALEX DERYN | IDS

Above: Gabe Bierman’s mother, Andrea, wears a bracelet with her family members. The bracelet includes family photographs with Gabe’s father, Douglas Bierman Jr. Bottom right: Sophomore pitcher Gabe Bierman stands on the pitching mound Oct. 10, 2019, at Bart Kaufman Field. “I wanted to keep the same mentality and routine,” he said when discussing the decision to continue to play for IU after his father’s death in May 2019.

It was a home game for IU, and Douglas wasn’t going to miss it. Louisville was ranked No. 7 in the country and provided another opportunity for Douglas to see his son.

Normally after games, Gabe spends time with his family catching up, but that night’s game lasted nearly five hours.

Douglas had to get home because he had to work early the next day at the concrete and construction company he owned. The two didn’t have much of a conversation after the final inning.

Douglas hugged Gabe and told him how proud he was of him and that he loved him.

They said their goodbyes.

Next on the schedule was Rutgers for the final Big Ten series of the season. His family planned to come up for the three games over the weekend.

Game one was set to begin that evening and for Gabe, the gameday began like any other. He spent two hours hanging out with his friends on the couch watching TV. He was staying at his friend’s house because he moved out of his freshman dorm the week prior.

His family likes to get to Bart Kaufman Field an hour or two before the game. It’s enough time to socialize and get to their seats before the first pitch.

Around 1:30 p.m., Gabe received a phone call from his grandfather asking to meet at the field. Gabe was

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Indiana Daily Student | 2020 FRESHMAN EDITION | idsnews.com

confused because it was nearly five hours before the game was scheduled to start.

After Greg wouldn’t tell him what was going on, Gabe decided to call his grandmother to try to figure out what was happening.

All she would tell him was to meet up with his grandfather.

Greg, who was on a fishing trip that morning in Loogootee, Indiana, was the closest family member to Gabe at the time.

By the time Gabe made his way to the stadium parking lot, his grandfather was already sitting there. Greg got out of his car and stood at his grandson’s Chevy Trailblazer.

Gabe had the door open and his grandfather leaned over with his arm pressed against the car. It was difficult for Greg to put together the words. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to tell his grandson.

Douglas had a heart attack that morning while pouring concrete and collapsed. He died with his ticket to the upcoming Rutgers game in his wallet just two days after he last saw Gabe.

He was 49.

“I didn’t see any of this ever happening to me,” Gabe said. “My dad always told me, ‘Yeah I’m healthy, I’m feeling good.’” * * * Gabe called his mother.

She told him yes, it was true.

He began to cry, and his

grandfather hugged him in the parking lot. After a few minutes, Gabe walked the few feet into the IU clubhouse. The coaching staff was waiting for him.

The first person he saw was Mercer. Gabe didn’t say a single word. He hugged him and cried.

“Why is this happening to me?” Gabe asked.

“You can’t do that to yourself,” Mercer told him.

With the Rutgers series set to begin in a couple of hours, Mercer told Gabe to take some time away from the field by himself and think things through. After the staff told the team what happened, Gabe went up and hugged each of his teammates.

Gabe called his family and said he wanted them to be there with him. He ultimately showed up to the game 45 minutes before it started and went through his normal warmups. He sat with his team in uniform for the first two games of the series but didn’t play. He wanted to be with his team.

Gabe wanted to show his team he was strong, that losing his father didn’t affect his place on the team. He just wanted to play baseball. He knew that’s what his father would’ve wanted.

“Everything worked where he has great support there at IU,” Andrea said. “He feels at home. It helps him get through each day having people around him, supporting him.”

Gabe expected to play two days later. Earlier that morning, he told the coaching staff not to hesitate to put him in.

IU won the first two games a combined 18-9 without him.

A win in the final matchup would secure the Big Ten regular season championship for IU. “We weren’t really planning on using him or putting him in that situation,” IU pitching coach Justin Parker said.

Gabe sat in the bullpen, waiting for his opportunity.

He was waiting to hear his name but wasn’t sure he would.

Thoughts of his dad kept creeping back into his mind.

He took deep breaths and tried to stay focused.

With IU leading 8-3 heading into the seventh inning, Gabe entered the game. As he jogged out to the mound, he cleared his mind. All he needed to do was secure nine outs to clinch the title.

At that moment, he knew everything was going to be all right. All he had to do was play the game he loved.

The coaching staff paid close attention to him. They wouldn’t hesitate to pull him if he got himself into a bad situation.

In between each inning, Parker looked Gabe straight into his eyes, nodded, smiled and told him to finish it.

“You could see this is what he wanted,” Parker said. “He wanted the ball; he wanted the game. He could kind of feel it, we could feel it as a club.”

The ninth inning came around. One more out, and they were champions.

Gabe threw a fastball toward the middle of the plate and caught the batter looking. When the strike was called, he turned around, clenched his right hand, pounded his chest and screamed in celebration.

His team sprinted toward him.

After the team dogpiled on top of him, he ran over to his mother and hugged her. Gabe then handed her the baseball he threw for the final out. She said they would give it to Douglas to hold in his casket.

“You just knew his dad was out there with him,” Andrea said.

“You just knew.” * * *

Gabe attended his father’s visitation three days after he won the regular season title. Nearly 500 people came and went, but Gabe never left the casket’s

side.

During the viewing, his family put Gabe’s IU logo baseball hat on Douglas along with the game ball.

When Andrea was setting up the funeral, Gabe thought of the idea for a necklace to carry Douglas’ ashes. He wanted to always have his father with him. Gabe was gone for a month playing summer baseball and his family surprised him.

His sister Mekenzi had the idea to separate the ashes among five marble-sized silver baseballs. Gabe, Andrea, Mekenzi, his brother Myles and his stepmother Molly each wear one around their necks.

Gabe decided to put the baseball on his chain that already held a silver cross.

From time to time, Gabe looks at his necklace or his text messages and remembers his father. He believes his father would be proud of the person he’s become, and the baseball player he hopes to be.

When IU takes on Louisiana State University on Feb. 14, it will mark the beginning of the first full season Gabe is set to play without his father. Every time he steps on the mound for the Hoosiers, he just wants to throw some rocket fire.

“He kind of looked at me and I kind of looked at him like we were a duo,” Gabe said.

“We were kind of the same person, but we weren’t going down the same paths.”

This story was originally published Feb. 13, 2020.

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SPORTS

A Hoosier baby is born Baby PJ Constantine got a front row seat to the IU U women’s basketball this season.

By Will Trubshaw wtrubsha@iu.edu | @Willtrubs

Paul Constantine Jr. was born to roam the sidelines with a Division I Top 25 basketball team one day. That day came only a few short weeks after he was born.

They call him PJ, the curlyhaired, dimpled, 6-month- old son of IU women’s assistant basketball coach Janese Constantine and her husband Paul, a former IU football strength and conditioning coach currently in the same role at the University of Alabama.

PJ is what you might call a natural-born leader. His style has already become popular with his mom’s boss, IU women’s basketball head coach Teri Moren.

Several times this past season, while boarding the team bus chartered for their next stop on the road, PJ would start talking and wouldn’t stop.

“That’s right PJ,” Moren would say.

“Tell ‘em to get ready, it’s game time.”

PJ would then let out another “WAAAAAAAA” in response.

PJ has spent almost half of his life, about four months, eating pregame meals with the team, watching games from the sidelines and becoming a part of the Hoosier basketball family.

As much as PJ was a part of the team, the Hoosiers were equally a part of helping nurture PJ in the first half year of his life.

As director of player development Bree Schomaeker said, “It literally takes a village to raise a child.” * * * Most babies’ early moments are recorded by their parents, documented via home videos or still photos.

These cinematic masterpieces, which can be used later in life to embarrass the child in front of a date, often show the baby being cradled by family, the baby’s first bath, first haircut or first crawl.

In PJ’s case, it will include photos from baby’s first Big Ten basketball road win, first victory over rival Purdue and first trip to historic Hinkle Fieldhouse in Indianapolis.

The photos at Hinkle were the first of many PJ and mom would take. PJ rode up with his mom to Indianapolis for then- No. 12 IU’s 64-53 win over Butler on Dec. 11, 2019.

It was one of Janese’s first games

back from maternity leave, and PJ, sitting by the bench, was just shy of 3-months-old.

Three weeks later, PJ was on a plane with his mom and the rest of the team as they departed for their first Big Ten road game of the season at Rutgers. The plan was for PJ to travel to Rutgers and then accompany mom afterward on a flight to Florida to watch dad and the IU football team in the Gator Bowl. That would cap PJ’s road adventures for a while.

Except the basketball team won by double digits in hostile territory at the infamous Rutgers Athletic Center.

PJ missed the next two games on the road at Iowa and Maryland.

They’d prove the only two road losses the Hoosiers would suffer all year.

Upon PJ’s return Jan. 23 at Penn State, IU won big again 76-60, improving to 5-2 on the road.

“After that it was like ‘Yo, PJ’s a good luck charm. He’s undefeated, he’s like 3-0. You’ve got to bring him on the next one,’” Constantine said.

“It really wasn’t an option after that.”

PJ was a staple, showing up at practices frequently and at every one of IU’s remaining road games. IU won all of them.

The Hoosiers finished the regular season 10-2 away from Simon Skjodt Assembly Hall. In the eight road games PJ attended, IU went 8-0. * * * Bree Schomaeker embraces many responsibilities to compliment her role as player development director. When PJ came along, she didn’t hesitate to pick up a few more.

Along with director of basketball operations Liz Honegger, Schomaeker often helped change PJ’s diaper or put him to bed while Constantine watched film and held PJ in a baby sling either behind the bench or on it at games.

“I knew Janese was kind of itching to get back,” Schomaeker said.

“When she had PJ, she was watching film, always asking how practice was going. I was like ‘J, whatever you need, I got you.’”

Schomaeker and Honegger were not the only ones lining up to help. Assistant coaches Glenn Box and Rhet Wierzba, sports information director Megan Kramper and many of the players offered to carry bags, diapers, or PJ himself throughout the season.

The willingness to help started at

PHOTO COURTESY OF JANESE CONSTANTINE

IU assistant coach Janese Constantine holds her son PJ high after a win at Williams Arena in Minneapolis. Janese and PJ made a tradition of posing for a photo with the scoreboard after every road win.

the top with Moren. When Constantine was planning to return, she met with Moren to discuss how things would operate with PJ. “Her words to me were ‘J, don’t worry, don’t stress,’” Constantine said. “PJ’s a part of us, he’s going to be a Hoosier baby.”

Moren has had experience with her teams becoming extended families. As an assistant at Butler, one of Moren’s colleagues brought their baby to work frequently.

At IU, both Wierzba and strength coach Kevin Konopasek often brought their sons to games, practices and weightlifting sessions.

“It made me feel valued as a coach that she knew that I wanted to be the best mom I could be, but I also still wanted to be the best coach I could be,” Constantine said. “As a mom, it showed me you can still work and you can still be career driven and you can still love your job, and it doesn’t take away from you being the best mom, the best wife you can be.”

This open and welcoming atmosphere often played out on the floor among the players.

“Those kids were treated like

family out there,” Constantine said.

“Those kids stuck together through everything. They were there for each other, they knew how each other felt, they knew the pulse of the team. Our team, I felt like, was inseparable.”

Junior guard Keyanna Warthen knows this feeling better than most.

Coming from a family of nine siblings plus nine nieces and nephews in Florida, Warthen dealt with homesickness after leaving for college.

Warthen has had a close relationship with Constantine from her earliest days as a student at IU. Getting to see Constantine with PJ by her side this season was special for Warthen.

“That’s the first thing I do when I get off the plane, I go see my nieces,” Warthen said. “So having PJ around just filled that spot with my nieces. PJ just brought that type of joy. When I do feel like I’m homesick, PJ gives me that peace of mind.” * * * PJ didn’t travel with the Hoosiers for any of the Big Ten tournament games – go figure, IU lost to Maryland in the semifinals – but he was packed and ready for wherever IU would have played in the NCAA

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tournament.

Then came the coronavirus. The tournament was canceled March 15.

While they might not have any mementos from the postseason, the Constantines do have an abundance of scrapbook material from the regular season.

After every road win, PJ and his mom posed for a victory picture somewhere on the court with the scoreboard in view.

One picture in particular stands out. After the Feb. 22 game at Williams Arena in Minnesota, Constantine hoists her candy-stripe- clad son in the air and smiles. He somehow manages to smile back even wider and brighter than his mom.

In the background on the jumbotron, the final score reads 75-69 Hoosiers.

For IU, it was another win in a historic season. For Constantine and her Hoosier baby, the team meant a little more to them.

“My village here,” Constantine said, “was pretty awesome.”

This story was originally published May 17, 2020.