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THINGS WE COUNT ON
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A collection of “This I Believe” essays by the graphic design Class of ’19 at Maine College of Art
12 57 11 9 13 15 Table of Contents
Introduction
A Souvenir of Self Kristen DeVico
A Slice of Heaven Dylan Quinn
43.3026° N, 70.5673° W Audrey Noyes
31-gallon Bins Margo Halverson
Red Tag 50% Off Maggie Cote
I am the artist with a story to tell. Adrianna Stewart
By The Numbers Steph Henry
THIS I BELIEVE, Inc., was founded in 2004 as an independent, not-for-profit organization that engages youth and adults from all walks of life in writing, sharing, and discussing brief essays about the core values that guide their daily lives.
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This I Believe is based on a 1950s radio program of the same name, hosted by acclaimed journalist Edward R. Murrow. Each day, Americans gathered by their radios to hear compelling essays from the likes of Eleanor Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, Helen Keller, and Harry Truman as well as corporate leaders, cab drivers, scientists, and secretaries—anyone able to distill into a few minutes the guiding principles by which they lived. These essayists’ words brought comfort and inspiration to a country worried about the Cold War, McCarthyism, and racial division. In reviving This I Believe, executive producer Dan Gediman said, “The goal is not to persuade Americans to agree on the same beliefs. Rather, the hope is to encourage people to begin the much more difficult task of developing respect for beliefs different from their own.” thisibelieve.org
In this intro, there are 3 paragraphs, 11 sentences, 179 words, 315 syllables, and 919 letters.
BE
fore I started high school I had long hair that I wore in braids a lot that summer. I was anxious about going to a new school with six hundred faces l didn’t know. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror awkwardly with my long braids, camp t-shirt, and glasses. I felt like a stupid little kid so I took a pair of scissors and cut my braids off as a way of divorcing myself from the awkward girl that stared back at me.
A SOUVENIR OF SELF Kristen DeVico
I got eight inches of hair cut off in the spring of my Sophomore year in college. My hair was long then; I had been growing it since I was a freshman in high school. This haircut was prompted by ties with Steve, my boyfriend of the past year. This had been my longest relationship since I started dating five years–and countless dead ends–earlier. Now, I realized I’d rather be alone than keep on settling. Steve loved running his hands through my hair, so that was the first to go. As I sat there in the hairdresser’s chair, I looked at the piles of brown hair strewn around the chair. Some sections were lighter from bleaching it the summer I turned seventeen. Now, lying there on the floor, it dawned on me that this hair is a sort of souvenir from my worst adolescent experiences. What I mean is that on a microscopic scale this hair was being created during events I’d rather
In this essay, there are 5 paragraphs, 25 sentances, 396 words, 562 syllables, and 1684 letters.
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I believe in dramatic haircuts that let you leave behind bad memories. Just like a system in a book might assign a different color to a different section, changing my look is symbolic to me for starting a new chapter. slice I have no more hair to cut off without exposing my ears that I am self conscious of. So, I let it grow out knowing that at some point in the future it will be time to start a new chapter and I will get the satisfaction of cutting it off the But in the meantime, growing my hair out is not nearly as satisfying as cutting it off. I’ve really come to love the encouragement to move forward that cutting my hair provides. KD
IT There was a small place in my hometown called The House of Pizza and it was the only pizza place in town. I remember my first experience with the HOP like it was yesterday.
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A SLICE OF HEAVEN Dylan Quinn
started for me at a young age, the craving set in after my first slice. I’m not talking about drugs or anything like that, even though sometimes my need for it might be the same as a drug addict. I’m talking about pizza, or what I believe to be the best kind of food out there. I remember my first piece of pizza like it was yesterday. There was a small place in my hometown called The House of Pizza and it was the only pizza place in town. I remember my first experience with the HOP like it was yesterday.
The smell as soon as I walked through the door, the cheese, meat, and grease filling the air with delicious aromas. I looked up at the glass case of the freshly baked pizzas, with the lights beaming down on them, making them almost glisten because of all the grease. My mouth began to water, as “the” cashier lifted that heavy slice of pepperoni out onto a thin paper plate barely able support it and plopped it to down onto the counter. I grabbed
the
In this essay, there are 5 paragraphs, 21 sentences, 386 words, 570 syllables, and 1606 letters.
booth against the wall and began to chow down, not waiting a moment for my mom or dad to join me.
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Something stuck with me after this experience at the Pizza Shed, a few years later my mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I replied “A pizza delivery driver”... I don’t know what I was thinking but in that moment it must have been my dream. I mean what’s not to love? The freshly baked dough covered in cheese and sauce and your choice of a literal infinite amount of toppings, all baked into a perfect pie of serenity. Everything tastes better on a pizza, no question. I’ve had things I totally dislike on their own like anchovies, eggplant, and other types of vegetables for example; that I would devour an entire pizza of. It’s something about how all the flavors come together while the pizza bakes away in the oven that just makes it so good. If it was forced upon me and I only had one type of food I could eat for the rest of my life,this I believe would hands down be pizza. DQ
I
remember driving down the roads near Wells with my dad, his left arm was always burnt from the sun and he would be wearing one of his many sunglasses. I would hear the seagulls before I could smell the salt water as we drove toward the quiet beach. He always knew where the less crowded beaches were. He would sing under his breath whatever country song was playing on the radio and would make faces in the rear view mirror to make us laugh.
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43.3026° N, 70.5673° W Audrey Noyes
jump My sister, Lilly and I would jump over the waves or digddeep hole in the s e sand, while dad dug ep hole his toes in the sand and watched. Beach days used to involve packed lunches and random facts Dad knew about sea animals. Lilly and I still go together to the beach in the summers, and every time I feel like we are younger again—like back before we both grew up, or graduated high school— before we didn’t know how expensive college or rent was, or before Dad got sick.
Now when I go to the beach, it’s usually my friends and me because Dad usually is caught up in work and doctors appointments and Lilly is 284 miles away. Beach days have turned from Dad’s PB&J with a bottle of water from the local gas station into red coolers with Mike’s hard lemonade and store-bought sandwiches. Digging giant holes in the sand and exploring tide pools has changed to Lilly nagging me to photograph her posing on top of rocks for her Instagram. Even though the company and activities have changed, I still hold onto the memories of when Lilly and I were kids. Like when we found a jellyfish under a rock on Wells beach or when Dad fell asleep in his chair and got one of the worst sunburns I have ever seen. In this essay, there are 4 paragraphs, 20 sentences, 453 words, 650 syllables, and 193 letters.
Walking on the sand, laying in the sun, or letting the waves take control, strip away the stress of col lege , bil ls, and sick nts. pare
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Feeling so small next to such a ocean reminds me that the things that keep me up at night like work, school, and opinions of others are not worth the worry. Constant k an change and rushing around between w o r can drain me emotionally so I always look forward to laying still on a blanket and “recharging” under the sun. Only worry involving nobody getting sand on the blanket. My age, who I’m with, packed lunches, and stressors have changed and will continue to evolve as the years go on but my belief in beach days…will forever stay the same. AN e ge a
MY
mom says she hates the smell of thrift stores, but she usually agrees to come along with me and my sister Vanessa whenever we go to Goodwill, Savers, or any other podunk thrift store we stumble upon. Out of everyone in my family, Vanessa and I have been bitten the hardest by the thrifting bug. She used to think they were disgusting and would refuse to even enter a thrift store until late middle school when her friend introduced her to the “save” in Savers. I started off with flea markets, which is what sparked my interest in purchasing used items.
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RED TAG 50% OFF Maggie Cote
Usually my mom shops for cheap books so she has something new to read before going to bed. Vanessa is always on the hunt for obscure and humorous t-shirts in the men’s department. One of my favorite finds features a photo of a man with a and the vague words R.I.P. Big Willy. I usually look for ugly sweaters, biker shirts, and old magazines. I like collecting magazines and books to use in my art by co up d cutting them an makingllages. I find this transformative process to be enjoyable and intuitive; I feel as though I am making use of something that otherwise would have been discarded or forgotten. I believe in the fun of thrifting, and that it offers an opportunity to revitalize something outdated. One time, while driving back from a visit with our grandparents in Rhode Island, my two sisters and I stopped at a Savers we passed. I purchased a Ouija Board—it was five bucks and glowed in the dark—and a
In this essay, there are 3 paragraphs, 19 sentences, 335 words, 532 syllables, and 1486 letters.
mug for ninety-nine cents. The board game seemed to be from the 90s and practically like new, instructions and all. I imagine that someone twenty years ago used it once, got spooked, and never touched it again. I find enjoyment in envisioning the life these items once held; and like to think that I will made good use of them. Buying something used does not make it less practical, and thrifting is an exciting and effective way for rehoming clothing and other objects.
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After my sisters and I got home from Rhode Island, I sent a friend of mine a photo of the mug I bought. It had
and a pattern of pink bunnies picking flowers, their gait and posture eerily human-like. “Oh, that’s awful,� was her response. But I already knew that. MC
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31-GALLON BINS Margo Halverson
ere’s a lot of stuff in the world. An antique dealer told me this in my basement as he picked up, turned over, then put down piece after piece of my mother’s, father’s and grandmother’s—now my—stuff. My ment basewas stacked floor to ceiling with 42 translucent 31-gallon blue-lidded plastic bins categwith ories of: mom, dad, Jack, Cora, Charles, me. Subcategories were: work, play, need, worth-something, or memory. The underlying theme was that each past calendar, shoe, ring, broken toy, bulging address book, or math worksheet held a life. This became a problem. Space dictated that I needed to deal with my anointed high-level significance of objects I either knew intimately or knew nothing about except that they were saved. Plus, now I want to be surrounded by the present, by potential and life which could include a ping-pong table if I could just make the space. I went for the easy stuff first. I got rid of fabric from projects I didn’t complete in 1974, letters written and bad art I’d made from relationships I no longer remembered and worn ballet slippers from gym class. Then I moved on to what froze me. As I
In this essay, there are 5 paragraphs, 22 sentences, 406 words, 629 syllables, and 1864 letters.
held a lone blue willow chipped plate I could hear mom say: ‘That was my mother’s’. While I unwrapped one silver-plated wedding gift of hers and dads after another I pictured us sitting at the counter polishing them carefully. Her concentration and careful repacking of each piece tightly in plastic wrap signified a value way out of proportion with actual worth. Mom grew up in poverty and apparently lived with the fear it would return and maybe in awe that it didn’t. Her buying and saving two cashmere white coats, a dozen long evening gown gloves, each broken bit of costume jewelry, diamond cocktail ring, golf glove, a box of bobby pins—equally saved, packed and neatly labeled reminded me that this saving cycle was mom’s keeping and remembering, not mine. Along with all the the stuff, I inherited her stories but don’t own them. Now, after months and hours unearthing, editing, and distilling stuff to fit my own description of want or need, I believe that the significance of objects, like the faded tissue paper stuck to a prom corsage, is wrapped foremost with the weight of its story. Next I get to assign my own value to a lot of stuff in the world. MH
HE
called me a whore. He was high on crack. It was Thanksgiving. I tried not to let his behavior ruin my appetite, but sometimes, it did.
o ch
When I was seventeen, I dropped out hig hs of and moved out of my parent’s house. I worked three really, shitty bottom of the barrel jobs. The first was at Chick-Fil-A. Like most places, I didn’t quite fit in there. My jet black hair and angsty attitude resulted in a lot of religious coworkers telling me they were “praying for me”. To the customers I served, I was required to say “it’s my pleasure”. I had a car I purchased from Craigslist and a really tiny, dingy $350 a month apartment. At night, I fell asleep to the sound of my neighbors watching TV through my thin walls. This was my sanctuary. Despite what my parents thought I was capable of, I supported myself.
I am the artist with a story to tell. Adrianna Stewart
“Everyone wants a slut at the party.” 30 missed texts by 9am. After high school, receiving an education “wasn’t for me”. I worked at a pizza place, MamaMia’s, where I met Nick. He was going to be a doctor. I had no idea why he even looked in my direction. “Nob wan ody ts you, y.” anywa I texted back that I was not ignoring him. I excused myself from the table. Nick ran marathons for fun. He bought me a paint set for Christmas. He saw things in me I did not see in myself. I made the decision to go back to school. I started selling my paintings at a coffee shop called “The Cracked Mug”
In this essay, there are 7 paragraphs, 55 sentences, 568 words, 811 syllables, and 2381 letters.
ol
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“Do you think you’re too good for us?” Crying in a Cracker Barrel restroom stall, I held back from telling him that I deserved better.
about my weight or my skin. I am the sister who shows up at 3am to console my brother. I am the friend who buys you a new car battery, because I’ve been there. I am the worker who busts her ass to give my future kids better. I am the artist with a story to tell. This I believe. AS
After two years at a community college, I earned received my associates degree. Nick and I broke up, but are still friends. I applied began to apply to schools around the country for a fresh start and. I received a scholarship from Maine College of Art, in Portland, Maine. With the time I had left in Indiana, I started volunteering and being more involved in my community. At the coffee shop where I sold my artwork I started speaking publicly about drug use, eating disorders and depression. I was trying to reach an audience that was going through the same things as me. I have. I want to give people a different voice to listen to besides the ones that tell them they are worthless, crazy or not good enough. I want to be the example of a person that is not defined by statistics or my parents mistakes. I want to help them find the strength that I have finally found in myself. The last time I talked to my father, it was Thanksgiving, he was high on crack, and he called me a whore. I believe my father’s words define our relationship, but they don’t define me. I am not the person who left with no explanation. I am not the yelling and screaming in the middle of the night. I am not the man who sold his 11-year-old daughter’s Beanie Baby collection in order to get money for drugs. I am not the missed birthdays. I am not the comments
MY
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By The Numbers Steph Henry
three siblings and I grew up poor. My mom supported us by herself. After my parents divorce, which I barely remember, my father kept everything. The house, the furniture, one car – we were lucky enough to get the other car, a beat-up green station wagon which we lived out of for a few months when I was seven. We lived in a convent for about a year and a half after that. Eventually, when I was nine, my mom got an office job and all five of us moved into a three bedroom townhouse with one of her six brothers. Even though she would never admit it, I knew she never wanted us to have to p deal with the financial hardships she went su e d through. She always told us, “Keep your gra so you can go to college and get good jobs.” So, I started to equate my grades with my self-worth. Any grade lower than an A felt like a tremendous failure that I would never, ever recover from. I developed an awful habit of comparing myself to others. I let what other people were doing dictate where I believed I should be in life and whether or not I was catching up. In the last two years my greatest challenges and accomplishments have had to shift focus. About a year into college, my mom became unemployed. My dad had already been unemployed for six years. I was already in college at this point; obviously prioritizing my GPA, as I had always done. Suddenly, I had to move out on my
In this essay, there are 4 paragraphs, 29 sentences, 445 words, 705 syllables, and 1985 letters.
own
and start paying rent, utilities, insurance, and tuition and I couldn’t take out loans without a cosigner. Any resemblance of a safety net disappeared. Paying for all of this included having two jobs on top of taking 18 credits a semester. My quality of work slipped, my grades followed. I beat myself up over it every single day for weeks. After spending some time reevaluating the assignments I had completed and the amount of hours I had worked throughout the semester, I realized that my accomplishments can’t be measured in numbers alone. Five years ago, I never would have imagined myself being totally financially independent. My priorities had to shift to accommodate my financial situation, and this has become a good thing. I have learned more about what to expect in the future than anyone has ever taught or told me. I believe that the things we accomplish cannot be strictly measured or judged by numbers. If you are doing the best that you can, and you are happy with your circumstances, that’s pretty substantial evidence of success. SH
THINGS WE COUNT ON
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WHEN
I first read through this collection of stories, I was surprised to find how much we quantify the things that we believe in… 8 inches of hair, 50 percent off, 3 jobs, 18 credits.
I think there is a certain reliance on numbers because they aren't subjective and they can't be misinterpreted. I thought about my own relationship with numbers and I find they are metaphorical for how I live my life. I plan tasks very definitively, things on my to do list are not labeled “do this soon” but rather “do this Friday at 5pm”. Numbers make the abstract facets of my life become more concrete and I feel more comortable with things that aren't going to change (this I belive). KD
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MORE INFORMATION Things We Count On was printed on the 19th day of the 4th month in the year 2018 at Maine College of Art using a TASKalfa 3252ci printer on 60lb Hammermill paper. Composed using Akzidenz-Grotesk designed by Hermann Berthold in Germany in 1898. Š Kristen DeVico – Portland, Maine 2018
13 11 ABOUT THINGS WE COUNT ON
Things We Count On is a collection of essays by the graphic design Junior Class of 2019 at Maine College of Art. The essays are based on a 1950s radio program called “This I Believe”, hosted by acclaimed journalist Edward R. Murrow.
In 2004, “This I Believe” was revived as an independent, not-for-profit organization, This I Believe, executive producer Dan Gediman said, “The goal is not to persuade Americans to agree on the same beliefs. Rather, the hope is to encourage people to begin the much more difficult task of developing respect for beliefs different from their own.”