Caitlin Curran, Caitlin Dominski, Olivia Michelsen, Olivia Onyett, David Shuppert
Business Manager
Adam Smith
Head of Student Media
Kasey Turman
Faculty Advisor
James Tobin
Business Advisor
Sacha Bellman
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
Dear Reader,
On behalf of the staff of The Miami Student Magazine, welcome to the fall 2024 edition of our publication. For those who don’t know me, my name is Maya Svec and I’m a senior studying journalism and film studies.
I joined TMSM as an assistant editor the spring semester of my junior year. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing, but I was craving something different; I wanted to help shape stories, not just write them. Little did I know this decision would lead me here.
Becoming editor-in-chief wasn’t something I had anticipated, especially after only one semester on the staff. At first, I had doubts. How could someone like me, who’s only been part of this community for a short time, be picked to lead it? I spent hours ruminating over this, reading past issues, trying to understand what made each one so unique. I felt pressure to step up, not wanting to disappoint my staff, the readers and the legacy of TMSM.
The journey to get here has not been easy, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
To me, the stories covered this semester reflect those intimidating realities I once faced to get here. Every story, whether it’s about a stolen bike or the teardown of a historic building, deals with how we overcome adversity. When it was time to read first drafts, it became abundantly clear that every writer brought a vulnerable piece of themselves to the page. That’s a large responsibility to hold as editor-in-chief, wanting to do these stories and the people who wrote them justice.
With that, I want to present to you our cover story for the fifthteenth issue, “Election 2024.” What we’re living through right now might be considered one of the most polarizing moments of our times. Returning writer Evan Stefanik breaks down how Miami students are on the forefront of this fight. Be sure to check out his piece on page 34.
From Sam Norton vividly walking us through his journey on the Colorado Trail, to Kasey Turman reflecting on loss, to Lily Bayer’s inspiring profile of a Talawanda student, this edition represents our community’s resilience and shared experiences that shape us. And these are just a few of the powerful stories waiting for you in these pages.
I would be negligent not to acknowledge the incredible team behind this publication. First, I want to thank our talented team of writers. Each story is a testament to your hard work, and I couldn’t be more proud of the finished products.
Next, a huge shoutout to our wonderful art directors Erin Morgan and Hannah Potts, as well as the rest of the design team. Your designs bring these stories to life and I am continuously awed by your creativity.
Thank you to the editorial team: Elizabeth Martin, Taylor Powers and Elizabeth Smith. Your hard work ensured that every piece was polished, and I’m so grateful to each of you.
Finally, this edition would not be complete without my managing editors Sam Norton and Stella Powers. Thank you both for showing me everything I need to know about leading this community and for your guidance every step of the way. I truly could not have done this without both of you.
It’s been a long road to get here, but words cannot express what being part of this publication means to me. I hope these stories resonate with you as deeply as they have with me. May they inspire, challenge and accompany you on your own path. Thank you for being part of our community of readers – your support makes every issue possible.
Happy reading!
Maya Svec Editor-in-Chief
At TMSM, we are constantly striving to learn and grow, so your feedback is both welcomed, appreciated and encouraged. Please do not hesitate to reach out to the email provided below.
FALL 2024 STAFF
REDEFINING FAILURE
How an injury on the Colorado Trail forced me to change how I view success
by Sam Norton
Design by David Shuppert
Photos courtesy of Sam Norton
It was beautiful.
I awoke to reds, oranges and pinks streaking across the alpine sky, interrupted only by cascading temples of rock on the horizon. That morning, I gained 2,000 feet of elevation, trekking seven miles through pine forest and prairie. Jagged peaks with snow pockets and boulder fields surrounded me, so close I felt I could reach out and touch them. Five days ago, I left Breckenridge, Colorado, and was 175 miles into the 486-mile Colorado Trail.
At midday, I reached a high mountain pass, where more peaks enveloped a small, glossy alpine lake that stood in a field of yellow wildflowers. The pine trees whispered in the breeze as I slowed, the crunch of my soles against the dirt echoing in the meadow. As grasses and flowers gave way to trunks and canopies, I stopped at a trickling stream to refill my water bottle, eyeing the dark clouds forming in the distance.
A middle-aged man crossed the bridge next to me. Sporting graying hair, a kind, wrinkled face and a widebrimmed hat, he cheerily called out to me.
“Hello there! Which way you headed?”
“I’m heading southbound, hoping to resupply at Twin Lakes.”
“Ah,” he said, his smile softening. “I’m heading north. Well, happy trails!”
He was the third person I’d talked to over the past four days.
I hadn’t seen many long-distance hikers like myself during that time, and I hadn’t shared a campsite with anyone. I fought loneliness the first few days after leaving my family at Breckenridge, where I had met up with them to rest from the trail. Yet, on this fourth morning, I began to feel better about my newfound autonomy; I was settling back into a routine, and the views were once again making the rigorous hiking worthwhile.
I considered my mental state as I moved on from the stream. My tired feet sidestepped rocks and roots as I hiked away from the pass. My hiking poles stayed by my side while my mind drifted, mulling over the past few days rather than the rugged section of the trail.
Suddenly, I heard a pop that jerked me back to reality.
My ankle collapsed beneath me.
I crashed to the ground, my bag toppling over and my hiking poles flailing helplessly in my hands. The pain was sharp, and I immediately grabbed my foot, my heart pounding against my chest.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
I rocked back and forth on the dirt, breathless and briefly stunned about what had just happened. My left ankle, the same one I had surgery on four years ago, betrayed me once again. I could see the rock that twisted my ankle lying awkwardly in the middle of the trail.
I have to keep going. I have to finish the trail, I thought to myself.
But what if I couldn’t?
The thought hit me hard. My mind was racing, and panic started to knot in the pit of my stomach. As I struggled to get up, it became clear that hiking may not be an option – my ankle was already swelling. An inkling of fear rose inside me as I wondered whether I could finish. But at the moment, none of that mattered.
I was three miles from the nearest trailhead, with more than 1,000 vertical feet to descend. The closest town to the trailhead was 20 minutes away by car. I had no plans to get there and no way of knowing where I would sleep that night.
And I was completely on my own.
Over winter break last year, I confronted a dilemma that was both professional and personal. My next summer would be my last “summer break” before
graduating, after which my summers would become another season to go along with my full-time job. I could get an internship; that was probably the smartest thing to do to prepare myself for a career. But, I already had internship experience from the previous summer and was itching for something else.
I considered many options, scouring the internet for jobs in national parks or summer camps. I wanted to spend my summers under the open sky, wandering new places and embracing the thrill of exploration. I even applied to a few jobs and had an interview scheduled for a busboy position at a Grand Canyon lodge. Yet, something didn’t feel right – I didn’t want another job. I wanted an adventure.
That’s when it came to me. I was going to do a thru-hike.
A thru-hike is an extended backpacking trip that goes hundreds, if not thousands, of miles. They take weeks to months to complete, requiring the hiker to stop in towns and resupply food and gear. Thru-hikes require an incredible amount of planning and time commitment – it’s a completely different way of living.
It checked all of my boxes. A thru-hike would take up my summer and force me to embrace the unknown, a true outdoor adventure. After more research, I settled on the Colorado Trail, a nearly 500-mile continuous path stretching from Denver to Durango, winding through the southern Rockies at elevations above 10,000 feet. I could complete it before classes started, and I had always wanted to visit Colorado.
From January to June, I fervently planned every detail of my trip. Behind my editing duties at The Student, it was the first thing on my mind (classes became an afterthought). I talked about the thru-hike to anyone who would listen; I wrote an opinion column about it and spent hundreds of dollars on flights and gear. Friends from Miami and home told me they couldn't wait to hear about my adventures out West, and my grandma was convinced I’d write a book about my travels. During those six months leading up to my departure, the Colorado Trail became my personality.
I devoted countless hours to training, hitting the gym and doing intense cardio – a rigid routine I hadn’t held myself to since high school soccer. I scrutinized my gear setup, hoping to cut out any “useless” items and only pack what I needed to survive in the wilderness. I practiced setting up and taking down my tent in my yard and went on multiple short camping trips in June to prepare. At the end of it all, I was ready.
As July came around, it was time to go. For 48 hours, my life was in constant motion as I traveled from Columbus to Denver, with airplanes, buses, dysfunctional Lime scooters and mediocre pizza filling my time. On the morning of July 9, another hiker and I were picked up outside our hostel by a fellow thru-hiker I’d met on Facebook. At 9 a.m., I posed beside the giant “Colorado Trail” sign at the trailhead. I was off!
I spent the next five days in the company of guys I had traveled to the trail with, along with other hikers moving at a similar pace. Elevation gain was slow and campsites were crowded, but I had better cell service than I expected. Hiking the Colorado Trail was a different way of living; I was surviving off of dehydrated food, water filtration systems, 15 miles of hiking daily and (sometimes) flat campsites.
On my sixth day, I met my brother and dad, who had flown with my mom to Colorado and spent three days on the trail with me. I finally traversed deep into the Rockies, sleeping at 12,000 feet of altitude. The burning desire to explore the mountains continued to consume my being, all while sharing these experiences with people I love.
After eight days on the trail without a shower, we met my mom in Breckenridge, where I spent two days relaxing and eating every piece of greasy food I could find. I felt grateful to have a supportive and fun family,
but I knew leaving them and getting back on the trail wouldn’t be easy.
Nonetheless, on my third morning in Breckenridge, I was dropped back off at the same trailhead I left three days earlier. I was 100 miles in with almost 400 to go, and my journey was still getting started. I spent that afternoon hiking above Breckenridge, looking down on the place where I left my family and forcing myself to keep moving forward.
For the next three days, I spent my time split between complete awe of the world around me and sporadic bouts of intense loneliness. I was deep in the wilderness, and for the first time on my trip, I realized how isolating it could be. Yet, at the same time, I was deep in the wilderness, and when the evening sun cast a stunning light on distant mountains rising above a tranquil pine meadow, I was at peace with my life.
It was on my fifth day after Breckenridge that I sprained my ankle, catapulting me from Heaven on Earth to an unforgiving reality. I gingerly hiked one mile down the mountain before pulling off for lunch. I sandwiched myself between a tree trunk and a boulder and slowly ate the rest of my summer sausage and protein cookie while brooding over my situation. If I had walked a mile, albeit a painful one, then maybe I just needed a day off. I decided to continue, but as I pressed my foot against the boulder, my ankle exploded in pain.
I’m not going to finish the Colorado Trail, I thought as I fought back tears.
I stumbled down the rest of the trail, hitchhiked into the small town of Leadville and found another hostel. I spent two nights there, and in between calling my parents, talking with my girlfriend and a somewhat successful walk on the flat pavement, I convinced myself to give it another go on a short section of the trail.
I walked six miles of trail much less treacherous than the trail that had forsaken my ankle, but still found myself stepping cautiously. I still found myself worrying about the extremely remote section of the trail awaiting me beyond the next town. I still found myself terrified of getting hurt even more.
But I also found myself terrified of quitting. I found myself terrified of failing.
Before I left, my mind ran rampant with fantasies and aspirations about my hike. It would be my ultimate adventure. It would change my life forever. I would impress my friends back home and prove to myself
I had set a goal for myself: to complete the Colorado Trail. And Sam Norton achieves his goals.
That beast gnawing at my pride was no longer a threat, but a reminder. A reminder that failure isn’t a means to an end, but a means to a new journey.
Yet here I was, thinking about quitting when I wasn’t even halfway done.
For the past two days, as I was anxiously laying around the hostel in Leadville, I couldn’t bear to face these thoughts. Now, as I hobbled into the even smaller town of Twin Lakes, my ankle throbbing from 6 miles of slow hiking, I couldn’t bear the decision I knew I had to make.
Laughter filled my ears as I sauntered past tourists shopping at a fruit stand. The midday sun shone brilliantly on log cabins and red barns while green mountains draped the surroundings in magnificence that would have held me captive in awe not so long ago. This cheery little town was pressing against my dark thoughts, and I felt like a ghost looking around at the living as they unwittingly moved around, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
I spotted a lone tree and bench a little ways off the main road. I called my dad as tears swelled in the corner of my eyes when I told him I was bailing on the hike. I was scared out of my mind. Scared to accept that my journey was over, but even more scared to continue with a mind and body that were not 100%. The isolation and
physical exertion of the past week weighed heavily, and the logical part of my brain was winning out over my romantic aspirations.
Failure sat on my shoulders like an overbearing presence. Yet, as I gazed across the tall grass prairie in front of me and the wall of snow-capped granite cathedrals that had become a constant companion of mine the past two weeks, my burdens started lifting. How could I be a failure when I had traveled on foot to a place as mesmerizing as this? How could I be a failure with the memories I had already made?
Suddenly, sitting under this tree in a town 1,000 miles from Ohio, I remembered home. My mom called me, telling me how proud she was, reminding me that hiking nearly 200 miles is more than most people could ever do. My girlfriend texted, reminding me I would get to see her sooner than I thought. My brother told me he was glad I could help him move into college now, and one of my best friends from home was happy he could see me more before we went back to our schools.
For two hours, I sat on that bench while the love others had for me, and the love I have for this world, slowly seeped into the hole that the thought of failure had left.
That beast gnawing at my pride was no longer a threat, but a reminder. A reminder that failure isn’t a means to an end, but a means to a new journey. Perhaps failure isn’t always failure, but rather that essential moment in life where we are forced to learn new lessons.
And wow, did I learn some lessons. I learned I get lonely quicker than I thought. I learned that experiencing wonderful moments is sometimes better in the company of others. I learned that I’m capable of pushing myself into new situations. I learned that I know when to listen to my body. I learned that I love adventure and that sometimes adventure comes in the ways I least expect it.
I trudged down a steep river embankment and across a rickety wooden bridge. The trail snaked past a lake overgrown with shrubs and reedy plants, and the leanto I had been staying at for the past two nights was just ahead. After shedding my day pack and wolfing down a protein bar, I left the open-air wooden structure and continued along the lake-side trail until I found the clearing I was looking for.
Three weeks had passed since I left Colorado. My ankle was healed, and I now found myself amid the rugged nature of the Adirondack Wilderness in Upstate New York. If I had stuck to my original plan, I would have finished the Colorado Trail that day.
To encourage myself in the wake of a tumultuous but enlightening end to my time out West, I decided to go on one more big camping trip before the summer was over. The Adirondacks were a familiar destination and not too far from home, so during the second week of August, I once again took off from Ohio with my hiking gear in tow.
Still a little weary about thru-hiking and with a fresh perspective on outdoor adventure, I opted for a different kind of trip this time. I set up camp in one place and took
a lighter load out with me for the day, before returning to the same camp I embarked from. My days were lighter and ended earlier than in Colorado, and I was content to spend the afternoon reading a book rather than pushing another five miles.
This method of hiking felt like a breath of fresh air, as I sat against a tree and opened “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” A charming lake stretched out before me, surrounded by dense woods and draped with luscious green mountainsides and granite cliffs on all sides. I would be going home the next day, and I couldn’t wait for the home-cooked meal that would be waiting for me after being gone for less than a week.
My summer didn’t go as planned. I didn’t have the grand tales I expected to recount to my friends at Miami. Colorado didn’t change my life the way I thought it would. My mind had been forced into a tormented whirlwind, but I came out better than before, full of new thoughts and lessons. As I sat on the ground soaking up the last moments of my summer travels and relishing the vista before me, there was only one thought on my mind. S
It was beautiful.
"Love and Honor" Does Miami really preserve its past?
by Taylor Powers
As a journalism and media and communication double major, the majority of my classes have been in Williams Hall, where the Department of Media, Journalism and Film (MJF) is located. In just three semesters, I’ve had three separate classes in room 227.
Between my classes in Williams, I work in the lobby, forced to listen to the same couple of student interviews and short films playing on a loop on the television. Sometimes, I can be found in 139, an audio-recording studio where I’ve helped produce two podcasts for The Miami Student (TMS).
Or, if it's a particularly nice day, I'm outside in the courtyard: a small nook where stone benches sit surrounded by bush hedges. Roses grow in the center, and a tree in the corner hangs over blocking the sky above. It is small, quiet and secluded. It feels safe.
It’s perfect.
The courtyard has become my favorite place on campus; it's where I run to for comfort. If I only have an hour to eat dinner and don’t want to sit alone in a dining hall, I grab something to-go and sit in the courtyard. If I need somewhere quiet to focus on an assignment, I go to the courtyard. If I need someplace secure to regroup after a draining day, it's the courtyard I head to.
I’ve had a lot of difficult conversations with myself while sitting in the courtyard. Is journalism the right career for me? Do I really want to be in this relationship? Am I doing enough to solve my problems?
I feel hidden from the rest of the world when I’m surrounded by its greenery. I forget about deadlines, commitments and responsibilities. The leaves rustling from the wind block out the sounds of nearby traffic. I don’t even notice the world behind me if I turn ever so slightly away from the entrance.
Design by Caitlin Curran
And, consequently, I’m broken from the immersion when a door opens or someone enters the courtyard.
Like Mary Lennox in “The Secret Garden” by Frances Hodgson Burnett, I find myself drawn to this place, willing to waste hours inside my walled oasis. Like Mary, I’ve discovered my own secret garden.
However, I’ll soon be losing this safe haven, my garden.
At a faculty assembly on Feb. 12, 2020, the idea to move MJF to Bachelor Hall was presented. It proposed separating the campus into “corridors,” placing similar departments near each other to promote collaboration across disciplines. Bachelor Hall would become a “transdisciplinary humanities hub,” said former Provost Jason Osborne in an article by TMS. In addition to English, math and speech pathology and audiology, it would also host the honors program, the Western program, philosophy, language and MJF. After the move, Williams Hall would be torn down.
The decision was finalized, and renovations began at Bachelor Hall this year. The window panes have been torn out. Students walking by hear the noise of the deconstruction. The place is gutted and empty. The familiar, red fences shield the construction.
Classes will resume in the building by the fall of 2026, the start of my senior year. I’ll have to hike 20 minutes each day for my classes when Phillips Hall and Armstrong, the other two buildings I frequent, are much closer to where I’ll be living.
By then, I will no longer have reason to go back to Williams Hall, if it's still standing by then.
Not only will Miami lose my favorite spot on campus, but it will also lose the 65 years of history made in this building.
Williams Hall was built in 1959 for the communication department and studios for WMUB, the public FM radio station licensed to Miami University. The building was originally named Radio-TV but was changed in 1980 to honor Harry M. Williams, who was largely responsible for Miami’s early entry into radio and television.
Williams was the department chair of public speaking and was heavily involved in anything involving speech. He played a key role in the development of the first radio station at Miami in 1947. He assisted with the establishment of national legislation allowing lowpower FM channels and ultra-high-frequency television channels for educational purposes.
Miami received a grant in 1984 to renovate Williams Hall, enlarging classrooms, adding more restrooms and making externally accessible entrances. The building was lowered to allow entry at all floor levels, reducing the parking lot. It was also enhanced to look more like a traditional Miami building.
Williams Hall was notably the home of WMUB for years. WMUB started as a student-run station and became an FM station in 1950. It was an opportunity for broadcasting and journalism students to get hands-on experience with reporting and on-air delivery.
It stayed this way for 59 years until Miami turned over operation to Cincinnati Public Radio in 2009. It's now a full-time satellite of WVXU in Cincinnati. Williams Hall’s transmission tower was torn down in 2020.
Without the tower, the building is easy to miss. Nestled between Bonham House and Phillips Hall, Williams Hall sits sunken, only accessible by a downhill walk. People don’t even know the building exists when I tell them where my classes are. It's not as visible as Bachelor Hall, something Fred Reeder Jr., associate clinical lecturer of journalism, noted.
Contrary to myself, Reeder is excited about moving MJF to Bachelor Hall, which is his favorite academic building on campus. As an English major and Miami alumnus, he spent most of his time there as a student, especially in the courtyard. He only had one class in Williams Hall, a communications course, and he didn’t frequent the building until he joined the MJF faculty in 2014.
Reeder believes the move will be a morale booster for the department, considering the prominent location of
"'Love and Honor' is such a ubiquitous term for our school,” Reeder said. “If you're going to love something and honor something, then you treat it well. You want it around.”
Bachelor Hall. He acknowledges its impact on faculty who feel a deep connection with Williams Hall and admits he is sad about the move, as he gets emotional about buildings and honoring legacies.
“‘Love and Honor’ is such a ubiquitous term for our school,” Reeder said. “If you're going to love something and honor something, then you treat it well. You want it around.”
Reeder believes the dilemma of tearing down historic buildings is a “systemic issue” within our country. He notes how this behavior isn’t often seen in other places, such as Europe, where heritage and building history are treasured.
“You would think Miami, with a history that goes back to 1809, would do everything possible to preserve the history of this campus,” Reeder said.
Williams Hall is not the only building of great significance that has been discarded. Before Yager Stadium, Miami Field was where students gathered to cheer on the football team. It sat at the corner of North Patterson Avenue and High Street, where Pearson Hall is now.
In 1983, it was moved down the hill and became Yager Stadium, taking the sights, sounds and liveliness of a football game away from campus. At its closing, it was the second oldest college football stadium after Franklin Field in Philadelphia.
14 THE MIAMI STUDENT MAGAZINE, FALL 2024
Along with the proximity of the games went the footprints of some of the greatest coaches in football history. Many notable coaches stood on Miami’s sidelines, and removing the field removes where their legacies began.
“Once you take that away, it's gone, and you're never getting it back,” Reeder said.
Terence Moore, a 1978 Miami alumnus, frequently visited Miami Field. He even made a trip back to campus in honor of its closing.
“I was there at the last game at Miami Field in November 1983, and I was also at the first game at Yager Stadium in 1984,” Moore said.
Moore was not only the first African American writer at TMS but also the first African American sports editor. During his time there, he covered different sporting events and watched the legacy of many great players and coaches begin.
Moore was born in South Bend, Indiana, and grew up by the University of Notre Dame. He said despite the similarities between Notre Dame and Miami, there is one distinct difference.
“[Notre Dame] will never, ever, ever tear down an iconic anything,” Moore said. “They're going to keep them. They'll renovate it. They'll restore it.”
Holy Cross Hall at Notre Dame, built in 1888, was first used as a seminary before becoming a residence hall in 1968. Over the next 22 years, it would be home to hundreds of students who formed community and longlasting bonds.
The hall was demolished in 1990. However, instead of replacing it with another building, a gravestone was laid in its space.
“The men who lived in Holy Cross Hall and their families vigorously appreciate and thank the many contributions made by the brothers and priests of Holy Cross to the Notre Dame community,” reads the gravestone.
I’ve become quite fond of this idea. While researching this story, I’ve uncovered numerous buildings at Miami that I didn’t know were replaced. I’m now acutely aware of what is there and what used to be when I walk around campus. The thought of coming back after 30 years and seeing what's still standing feels eerie to think about.
Will my former residence halls still be here, providing a home for students after me? Will Phillips Hall, where my beloved Miami Dance Corps meets twice a week, be untouched, building onto the history of dancers at Miami who flock to it? Will the newsroom be somewhere else?
That’s up to the university.
Currently, three spots on campus are surrounded by construction fences: Bachelor Hall, Millett Hall and the Beta Bell Tower. The fences remind me of Whack-AMole: once one goes down, three more pop up. At times, it feels like Miami is a little too trigger-happy with its construction, ignoring the significance of these places.
Another building Moore visited often was Withrow Court. Built in 1932, it was Miami’s main athletic facility until the construction of Millett Hall in 1968. It had three basketball/volleyball courts, eight racquetball courts,
two classrooms, locker rooms and more. There was a small gymnasium for boxing, wrestling and fencing.
Additionally, it was an assembly hall where special events would be held, like a speech from Michelle Obama in 2012. It was also home to the University Archives, which merged with the Walter Havighurst Special Collections in 2016. It was named after John M.
Looking at all this history, it's easy to quickly jump on the hate bandwagon. I’ll admit that I went into writing this ready to bash the university, to dive headfirst into my research and come out with an almost petition-like piece, pleading with Miami to keep this space I hold so dearly.
However, after speaking with others, I’ve come to better understand the university’s perspective.
Cody Powell, associate vice president of facilities planning and operations, said many things can contribute to a building’s renovation or deconstruction.
“Space is expensive to maintain, so one of our roles here is to look at how the space is being used and make a determination: do we have enough space on campus to support the functions?” Powell asked.
For Williams Hall, one reason is the finances of maintaining the building. Another is the university’s plan to place similar departments near each other to promote collaboration.
“This was our opportunity to be able to take care of humanities and create a space that we'd be proud of for the number of students that are taking classes in there,” Powell said.
What is unique about Williams Hall — and MJF as a whole — is the types of spaces it requires. Video, audio, radio and editing studios are crucial to students’ learning in these majors. Bachelor Hall plans to accommodate that by repurposing the space where the former speech and hearing clinic was into a TV production studio.
“We really feel like we're going to make a state-of-theart facility for [MJF],” Powell said.
Bachelor Hall is one of the most heavily utilized buildings on campus, therefore, Powell said the university wanted the building to be the best it could be.
“To have a building that many students that we have touch not be showpieces is problematic,” Powell said.
When MJF is not using the space, it can be used by other programs for presentations and lectures. This is one of the ways the university intends to promote collaboration and efficiency between departments.
Another attempt at collaboration will be an open area in the center of the building, similar to the living rooms in the Farmer School of Business. When the university added these rooms to FSB, it saw that students would stay there the whole day, studying in between classes.
“Buildings like Bachelor, Pearson ... it had no space like that, and our students would have to sit in the halls and the floor with other people walking over top of their legs, and it was just not the type of space that we think people could be successful in,” Powell said.
The consequence of this idea? The removal of Bachelor Hall’s courtyard. I’ll admit, despite all the history, the hours spent and the memories made in Williams Hall, I wouldn’t be so upset about the move if one condition was met; the Bachelor Hall courtyard was kept. However, this will be gone too.
Obviously, I’m not the only one who feels just a bit negatively about this move.
Rosemary Pennington, chair of MJF, is trying to be optimistic about the move but feels like the faculty will miss having their own spot on campus. Pennington has enjoyed bringing students to Williams and telling them it's their own building. She appreciates having features like the production studios in an area under their supervision.
“I really am going to mourn the loss of a space that we control ourselves and that allows us to sort of establish our identity in this space as well,” Pennington said.
Pennington thinks the move will be a transition for how MJF operates as a department and believes things will turn out okay.
“I think it'll be a good thing ultimately, but it's hard to know,” Pennington said. “We've been comfortable in this place for so long. It's hard to know what the future brings.”
“Love and Honor” is the statement Miami University abides by.
At this point, I find it hard to believe. It's as if Miami intends to remove every little thing that makes it beautiful and unique, everything that makes me want to cherish this institution.
Take a walk around campus and tell me how many building signs you see that say it was built after 2000, as opposed to the ones built before. Will that be different in the next 20, maybe even 10 years?
How can Miami claim to praise history and tradition while getting rid of it in the process? How are we supposed to love and honor what is no longer there?
I don’t think we can.
Despite the terrible plumbing, the bees in the stairwell, the confusing hallways and the short film on the TV that forces me to hear “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac at least five times a day, Williams Hall is my favorite place on campus. I’ve made countless memories within the walls: quick chats with professors in the common space, making jokes with my podcast partner Sarah Kennel during our recordings and, of course, moments of recollections in the courtyard outside.
And my senior year will be spent somewhere foreign to me.
I suppose nothing is meant to last forever, and all things must come to an end eventually. I won’t say I’m filled with excitement about the move, but I can’t say I’m blind to the benefits of it. I definitely don’t feel neutral; clearly, I feel passionate enough to write an almost 3,000-word story. But my heart still clunches when I see Williams Hall, knowing my time there is swiftly coming to a premature end.
Some things just have to go.
But, Miami University, please consider adding a new courtyard to Bachelor Hall. S
How can Miami claim to praise history and tradition while getting rid of it in the process? How are we supposed to love and honor what is no longer there?
PROFILE
He’s completely recognizable. You can’t miss him.
He moseys toward me from the opposite end of the street, carrying two plastic water bottles. I wonder if one is for me.
It’s not.
He has long, curly brown hair tied back in a low ponytail. A signature look, I suppose, because the three times I’ve seen him, it hasn’t changed. Stubble pokes out around his upper lip and chin, but I can tell he never lets it grow out.
His black jeans hang over his brown cowboy boots with a big, silver belt buckle holding them up. His black long-sleeve shirt is tucked in and buttoned to the top.
He takes his black leather cowboy hat off to greet me at the entrance of Kofenya.
The first time I saw Josh, I was scurrying around Walmart on my senior year move-in day, snatching anything and everything from the shelves to capitalize on my parents’ credit card one last time.
“You know, it couldn’t hurt to buy four rolls of paper towels,” I tell my mom. “I also need a lamp or two. I forgot how much space I actually have.”
A broom, two lamps, four rolls of paper towels, a case of Diet Coke, multi-cleaner spray and a jelly mat for the repulsive shower floor overflow our cart as we make our way to check out.
We hop in the only lane open behind similar customers: a mom buying groceries and beer for her son.
Josh stands behind the counter, gearing up to scan barcodes and bag items. He grabs the beer and sets it behind his station without scanning it. He continues scanning Cheez-Its, ground beef and Liquid I.V.
“Mom, he’s talking and moving like the sloth from Zootopia,” I whisper between my teeth.
“This is truly insane,” my mom replies. “I can’t have this happening after how long of a day we’ve had.”
Between each beep of the scanner, Josh pauses to strike up a new conversation.
“So, what are you buying all this stuff for,” he asks the lady.
“Oh, just moving my son into college,” she replies. “There’s always so much to get.”
He grabs a container of B-12 and fish oil and holds them both up in front of his face.
Design by Hannah Potts
“You know I’ve never tried either of this stuff,” he says. “What exactly does it do?”
I laugh, because of course he’s asking. He must’ve stayed on the vitamins for 10 minutes alone.
I take a deep breath and exhale all my negative thoughts about waiting in line and listening to this conversation.
He bags the last item, and my heart skips a beat in preparation for a long-awaited checkout. Yet, instead of going to the register, he turns back and stares at the Bud Light case. A co-worker walks over to his aisle after he gestures for help.
Is a third-party necessary right now?
The coworker scans his credentials and checks out the much-anticipated last item.
I start loading my items onto the conveyor belt and wonder what life is like for a guy working this late at Walmart. Does he have kids at home? Is this his only job? How long has he worked here? Does he get in trouble for talking to customers this much?
“How are you guys?” he says. “Sorry for the hold-up, haha.”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m very ready to go home. I’ve been moving into my house all day. How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “I’m ready to go home too. It’s been a really long day. Do you go to Miami?”
I tell him yes, I’m a senior, and I’m moving into a new house, hence the random assortment of purchases.
“Wow, a senior,” he says. “That means you’re almost done. I’m jealous.”
Jealous? There’s no way he goes to Miami.
“Do you go to Miami too?” I ask.
“Oh god, no,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m still in high school.”
My eyes widen, darting to my mom. High school? I thought he was at least 30.
“Oh wow, do you go to Talawanda?” I ask.
“Yep, I’m a junior there,” he answers.
Junior. Not even a senior. What is going on with this person?
Josh Gill
After small talk about each of my items, he bags the last one and my mom inserts her credit card to pay.
I think we were in his lane for 25 minutes.
As I push the full shopping cart away, I glance down at his name tag.
“Have a great night, Josh,” I say. “Get some rest! And good luck with junior year!”
He thanks me and waves a hesitant goodbye.
“Well, he was interesting,” I say to my mom.
“I’ll say,” she replies.
We walk up to the ordering counter, and I ask him what he wants. He reluctantly glances at the menu and brushes off my offer.
“You’re doing something huge for me Josh,” I say. “The least I can do is buy you a coffee.”
“Well, I only drink blonde roast coffee,” he says, “so, do you think they have that?”
Of course he only drinks blonde roast. What even is blonde roast?
I tell him I’m not sure, but I will ask.
“We have a light roast,” the barista answers. “Is that fine?”
I don’t see why that wouldn’t be fine. Why does he have a preference on roasts?
Josh and I stare at each other for what feels like five minutes. I can’t imagine this decision impacting his life greatly one way or the other.
He finally perks up as the barista’s eyes are pleading at me to come up with an answer.
“Light roast should be fine,” he says.
We grab our coffees and turn towards the seating area. I offer three different tables before Josh finds one he’s comfortable with. We sit and make small talk while I open my laptop and set up the mic.
I press play to the audio recording app and ask if he’s ready. He gives me a slight nod of reassurance as I pull up my first ice-breaker question.
“So, tell me about your family,” I ask.
“Oh, here we go,” he says.
****
His mom works as a surgical tech at a hospital near Oxford.
“Forgive me for not knowing which one,” he tells me as he takes a sip of his light roast.
His dad lives in a small town in Texas and works as a mechanic.
They officially divorced when he was eight. She had married two more times. He had never married again.
“It stemmed from my mom throwing my dad’s leather trench coat down in the basement,” he declares. “And then, you know, he [my dad] probably did something. I mean, I’m not taking sides. I’m just telling you what I’ve been told.”
Josh grew up in rural Texas in a low-income family. His house was isolated, miles from other human connections, forcing him to become a closed-off kid. He didn’t have many friends, so he held on tight to his brothers, Brandon and Tristan.
“It was pretty lonesome,” he reflected.
Josh falls in the middle of his nine siblings: Brandon, Taylor, Thomas [deceased], Alexis, Sophia, Carly,
Addison, Tristan and Lily [deceased]. In no particular order, because even he can’t keep them straight.
In Texas, Josh lived with Brandon, with whom he shares a dad, as well as Tristan, with whom he shares a mom, and Lily, with whom he shared both a mom and a dad. Lily tragically passed away from SIDS just before his parents’ divorce.
Confused and forgotten by chaos and grief, Josh tried to navigate his new normal. After school, he remembers playing Monopoly, a gift Tristan received from his dad. Josh still loves board games to this day.
“I only got to play it with [Tristan] a couple of times,” Josh says, “before he happened to vanish one day.”
Josh’s mom moved to Cincinnati to live near his current stepdad following Lily’s funeral. She abandoned Josh and Tristan with Josh’s dad in Texas until, one day, she picked up Tristan and took him to Cincinnati.
She left Josh to believe that his brother, one of his only companions, had disappeared out of thin air.
This disappearance meant there was no one left to splurge on mansions with, send to jail or dance in piles of fake money.
“I realized, when he left,” Josh says, “he never brought the game with him.”
Eventually, his mom came back for him too. He moved to Oxford at age 10 and began attending Talawanda schools. He once again felt isolated because he wasn’t familiar with the area and didn’t know how to make new friends.
“Once I got to middle school,” Josh says, “I mean, I can talk for like an hour about middle school, but the long and short of it is that it was a big turning point because I met my best friend, Ramsey.”
Josh sat back quietly in class as Ramsey held court.
“He had this certain charisma to him,” Josh explains. “He could be anybody's friend. I always admired that.”
They initially bonded over their shared family trauma but found something they both needed: an immature friendship. They ran around the mall pulling innocent pranks on people, played Fortnite in their basements through quarantine and complained about classmates they didn’t like.
Unfortunately, Ramsey had to move away in the eighth grade because his dad went to prison, and his mom was sent to the psych ward.
Josh is an extraordinary person. He’s wiser than an 80-year-old, looks like a 30-year-old, but is still only a 16-year-old.
After grieving a separated friendship, Josh’s childhood home burnt down in Texas. He knows he didn’t have the happiest childhood there, but he still mourns the loss of it because it was his.
Because of the fire, Josh reconnected with his father, who he hadn’t spoken to in years. Through phone calls complaining about Oxford, middle school and his stepdad, they discovered a shared love for engineering and science.
“My dad’s a little bit of an unofficial chemist,” he says. “He liked to mess around with fireworks, chemicals, stuff like that. He should have gotten a degree for it, but he didn't.”
In his freshman year of high school, Josh made the trip down to Texas to visit his dad. With Irish music blaring in the background — a staple from his childhood — they built a Tesla coil together.
I don’t know what that is either!
“It’s a voltage pump,” he explains.
I still don’t know what that means.
He hopes to visit again soon.
****
It was a long first ice-breaker question.
After meeting Josh for the first time in the checkout aisle, I intended to learn about his life at Walmart. Walmart is the largest employer in the U.S. and sees its fair share of characters, whether it be its employees or shoppers.
I wanted to know what it’s like for a high school student to work in that environment.
But here’s what I really learned from my conversations with Josh …
Josh is an extraordinary person. He’s wiser than an 80-year-old, looks like a 30-year-old, but is still only a 16-year-old.
He’s been dealt an interesting hand in life.
But, he loves to learn. Amongst his rigorous course schedule, AP World History is his favorite, because he’s fascinated by other cultures.
He’s in the robotics club at Talawanda High School and creates art for the school’s coffee shop. He started the chess club but is currently struggling with member retention.
He doesn’t play sports and didn’t go to homecoming because he doesn’t have a “romantic interest,” and Ramsey wasn’t there to go with him. He’s almost three months into his new job at Walmart after quitting on his “devil manager” at the local McDonald’s.
He buys his own groceries and cooks all his meals because he can’t stand the “crap” his mom and stepdad eat. He’s extremely hydrated. I watched him put down six water bottles in the few hours I spent with him.
He wears cowboy hats and belt buckles to work and according to his supervisor, he’s started bringing around some sort of cane.
You never know what to expect with him.
He has five gold stars on his Walmart name tag. Two have fallen off, he tells me, so he should really have seven. He gets one from his manager every time he does something good. I remember looking around at the other employees’ badges.
Josh had the most stars.
He uses phrases like “forgive me” unwarranted, and is frequently nervous during our interviews because he doesn’t want to disappoint me or my eventual story.
He’s courageously kind and so damn curious.
He’s saving money from Walmart to sign up for a school trip to Ireland – to bask in a new culture and listen to real Irish tunes.
He knows he’ll go to college, regardless of what his family members have done in the past.
In fact, he’s shooting for MIT.
And if I’m betting on anyone to get there, I’m betting on him. S
Learning to be me: My sophomore year journey to SELF-DISCOVERY
By Molly Fahy
People often say that college was the best time of their lives. My family, older friends and teachers all said high school was terrible. “All you have to do is make it through,” they would say. “After high school, you can go to college and find your place in the world.”
I never understood what they meant. My high school experience was honestly fantastic. I had good grades, a close friend group, leadership roles in many of my extracurriculars, and was one of the stars of our drama club. How could my life possibly get better?
When I accepted my offer to Miami University, I was ready to begin that new life of adventure everyone had told me about.
The truth is, that wasn’t the case.
When I moved into my residence hall my first year, I was scared out of my mind. I dreaded when my parents would leave, and I’d be on my own. As an only child, I had never been far from them. When the moment finally came and I was left standing outside my dorm, I had never felt more alone in my life.
Circumstances did not get much better in the days that followed. Earlier that summer, I signed up for one of Miami’s pre-semester programs. It allowed me to move in a week early, which I had thought would be a great way to meet people. That dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
The students in the program only wanted to talk about drinking and partying. As someone who is not big on the partying scene, I felt like an outsider.
THE MIAMI STUDENT MAGAZINE, FALL
As if that wasn’t enough, I had to hear all the girls wax sonnets on missing their long-term boyfriends. Meanwhile, all I could add was that I dated a guy for a month during my freshman year of high school and had been single ever since. Based on the looks they gave me, I can only assume that being single for more than four years was alien to them.
After a painful week of small talk and trying to get used to my new life, classes finally started. Fortunately, I didn’t have to keep these new “friends” and used my coursework as a scapegoat to not talk with them anymore.
Homework kept me company on the weekends; textbooks were what I hung out with.
Then, I only had one close friend. We met through our Learning Living Community class, and we both traumabonded over how awful it was. We always grabbed dinner together and had weekly movie nights.
Although I had a friend, I still kept to myself. I never went anywhere besides my club meetings. It took a long time for me to connect with people there. I would excuse myself from going to parties; instead, I’d stay up late, ensuring my homework was done perfectly.
Design by Olivia Michelson
After high school you can go to college and find your place in the world
I never understood what they meant
After some time, I made a few friends through the clubs I joined, but some part of me always felt alone or disconnected. I found it difficult to connect with people in my classes, and I found myself looking down to avoid eye contact with people.
I kept this pattern up for the rest of my first year, bouncing between socializing with the handful of friends I managed to make and dealing with the crippling sense of being alone.
When I went home for summer break, all my high school friends talked about how much they missed college. Meanwhile, I was questioning whether I had made the right call to not transfer to a different school.
Then, inexplicably, as the summer days dragged on and I celebrated my 20th birthday, I suddenly got the feeling that everything would be okay.
That summer, I focused on building up my confidence. I performed in my local community theater’s production of “Beauty and the Beast.” I was Silly Girl #5 and spent a whole summer fawning over the guy playing Gaston. Although my best friend from high school and I did the show together, I made a concerted effort to branch out and make new friends from the cast. Doing this made me realize that being authentic helps me figure out who truly appreciates and respects me as a friend.
Once I figured this out, and the closer I got to my movein date for sophomore year, the more content I felt. I knew what I needed to do to make myself more comfortable. So much so that the only person in my family that was calm on move-in day was me.
Even though branching out and making new friends wasn’t the only thing that changed me this summer, I still didn’t fully understand why I suddenly felt okay with returning to school. Was it that I had become closer to my college friends over break? I spent a lot of time texting with friends I had made my first year, checking in and catching up. I even went on a shopping trip with one of them before school started.
Or was it my newfound confidence, knowing that I could be my authentic self and make friends? After reflecting on my experiences over the summer and talking to my friends and family, I realized that at a university of nearly 20,000 students, I didn’t have to try hard to impress everyone I met.
When sophomore year began, I immediately noticed I was acting differently.
One day in class, I realized I was actually having a conversation with my seat neighbor.
I never used to do that. I always tried to get through class as undetected as possible. I only socialized with my classmates if I was forced through a group project or class discussion. Yet, this year seemed different.
Within the first few weeks, I made two new friends in my world politics class. I even advised a first-year student, telling them that the professor wouldn’t mind if they went to the bathroom during our 200-person lecture and gave them directions on how to get there.
For the first time since I arrived at Miami, I felt like I would be okay here. I had my friend group and the activities I liked. I didn’t miss my family as much or feel the need
to go home as frequently. I finally felt like I had found my place in the world, and that I truly belonged here.
I now walk down the street with newfound confidence. In fact, I have so much confidence that not only do I make eye contact with the people I pass, but I give a little smile as well. (And the crazy thing is, most people smile back!)
I don’t worry so much about how I look or what clothes I’m wearing. It doesn’t matter that my hair looks nice or if I have an acne spot the size of Mt. Vesuvius. What really matters is that, for once, I feel comfortable with who I am.
I no longer need to hide that I wear my old theater shirts or that my hair hates Oxford’s humidity.
I finally felt like I had found my place in the world, and that I truly belonged here.
I’ve let go of the fear of missing out on parties or events I never really wanted to attend in the first place.
I can sit in my room and do homework, read a book or catch up on the mountain of TV shows on my “to watch” list. People may think I’m odd, but quite frankly, I don’t care.
It’s not that my personality drastically changed or anything. I’m still me in the sense that I’m still the happiest, nicest, most opinionated person you will ever meet. It’s just that I’m more comfortable letting my true personality shine through.
I’ve realized that in a sea of 20,000 students, I shouldn’t have to worry about fitting in or conforming to everyone else – doing that only made me miserable.
Last summer, I realized that embracing my quirks and doing what truly makes me happy is what defines me. There’s no point in hiding who I am just to impress others.
Miami students probably don't care what I look like or what my habits are, so why should I?
I can now be unapologetically myself, confident that everything else will be okay. S
Design by Caitlin Dominski
Photo courtesy of Ellen Long
Editor’s Note: This information was collected prior to the election results.
The 2024 U.S. presidential race was one of the most revolutionary elections in the nation’s history. Donald Trump, who has cast himself as a controversial leader, went up against new opponent Kamala Harris, who, notably, already has experience in the White House.
Far from the political epicenter of Washington, D.C., lies the small town of Oxford, Ohio, home to one of the most crucial voter blocs in this year’s election –college students.
Like campuses nationwide, Miami University buzzed with political activity leading up to Nov. 5. Local partisans and civic-minded citizens stood on sidewalks with clipboards, knocked on dorm room doors and guestlectured in classrooms. Their relentless determination boosted student voter registration, prompting them to participate in politics like never before.
Historically, the demographic of voters ages 18 to 29 has had the lowest turnout, according to political science professor Kevin Reuning. Close to 4 million Generation Z voters were eligible to vote but had not yet registered on the last day to do so in Ohio. However, 2024 marked the first time the current generation at Miami could choose the president.
Out of a random sample of 25 students in Armstrong Student Center, 11 voted for Harris, eight voted for Trump and six either declined to vote or voted thirdparty. Half of those who voted mailed in their ballot and the other half planned to go in-person.
Only five of these students voted for anything else besides the President. Those with no intention to read the entire ballot mostly cited not understanding what to vote on and why.
Senior Mollie Duffy, the Associated Student Government’s (ASG) secretary of governmental relations, founded the Democracy Bus before last year’s general elections. Her project shuttled students to and from campus to vote in-person or drop off absentee ballots. Despite its convenience and proactive marketing approach, it only attracted a handful of students.
“The biggest impact was letting students know that there was an election,” Duffy said. “It was a living way to encourage students to make a plan and vote.”
Her effort exposed a lack of education as the top challenge to student voting.
Offices at the university strived for students to get active in this election. Senior Maddie Hayden, a SEAL ambassador for civic engagement, networked with other campuses for inspiration in the democracy-related
training sessions and workshops she put on. Her popup on the campus seal on National Voter Registration Day welcomed an impressive number of first-years. She pushed students to vote by giving free stamps, correcting ballots and driving them to the Butler County Board of Elections (BCBE) each week, specifically targeting lowturnout demographics such as those in Farmer School of Business and STEM majors.
Besides students’ general unawareness about what her service offers and does, Hayden discovered most of them only knew their decision for president, not for anything statewide or local.
“Miami can be a bit more sheltered from the broader issues in Butler County,” Hayden said.
Other confusions point to House Bill 458’s changes to the voting code that enforce stricter voter identification. Now, if a voter cannot provide an unexpired Ohio photo ID, the state government requires them to use a passport or other physical form, which students often have a harder time obtaining.
Junior Daniela Morales works 10 hours a week as a democracy fellow for the Campus Vote Project and advocates for looser restrictions on Ohio’s voter identification laws.
“It’s a law that was created to disenfranchise students in particular,” Morales said. “It creates a lot of mixed emotions among the student body.”
Elizabeth Wardle, co-president of voter services in Oxford’s chapter of the League of Women Voters (LWV), opposes the policy because it leads to out-ofstate students not voting. About a month into registering individuals to vote, she realized most believed they must replace their original license to vote here. Instead, they should cancel their registration in their home state.
She blames state election boards and the Secretary of State’s website for complicating this task.
“You will not easily recognize that you could register to vote,” Wardle said. “You should just be able to go online and do that. It's a struggle for them to know what's available.”
LWV writes a comprehensive voter guide for every election. It features important information about issues, questionnaires from federal to local candidates and much more. Accessible online, this year’s packet sprung up at farmer’s markets, Oxtoberfest and in a variety of student spaces. The league recruited up to 10 student members this year and enabled King Library’s HOWE Writing Center undergraduate consultants to receive
and send students’ ballots. It improved voter registration beforehand by placing its blank form in 8,000 new students’ orientation packets, according to Wardle.
When LWV tabled at MegaFair, it ran out of the form three times.
“Miami is a huge part of our work. It’s easier to get the word out here because we’re so local,” Wardle said. “Suddenly, younger people are interested in voting as a democratic right again. It used to be boring.”
The presidential election helped skyrocket student voting this year. It granted LWV greater access to student organizations and classrooms, spurring a stronger political presence at Miami. John Forren, executive director of the Menard Family Center for Democracy, views this evolution as a chance for more civil civic engagement.
“American society is very polarized right now, not only in points of view on issues, but even in the lack of connections to people who disagree with us,” Forren said. “In college, students have a real opportunity to build bridges to other people.”
To set itself apart from similar attempts by other universities, the Menard Center spreads across Miami as an independent entity rather than functioning in one department. It assigns up to 25 civic summer scholarship students to research projects commissioned by the state department, attracts audiences of about 300 to its semesterly Janus Forum debate and facilitates up to a hundred yearly non-partisan programs, events and courses.
Partisan student organizations, such as the College Republicans (CR) and College Democrats (CD), aim for the same goal as Forren’s institution. The two coexist by opening meetings to students of any major or political affiliation and both witnessed a higher active membership this semester. CD President Patrick Houlihan hopes to combat political stigmas on campus.
“Miami gets an unfair reputation of being too conservative,” Houlihan said. “But the vast majority of people are friendly to the Democrats’ belief system. It’s natural to be curious during such a big election.”
Victoria Rivas, CR director of communications, agrees that Miami fosters a healthy, educational environment, considering she entered college with little political knowledge. However, she notices students sometimes hesitate to contribute to it.
“We need to be cautious with friendships and certain topics we can't get into because they might be touchy,” Rivas said. “There's a lot of people on campus that feel one way politically and are afraid to speak up.”
Students like Morales and Hayden avoid partisanship altogether. In the Campus Vote Project, a student told Morales that people feel pushed away or annoyed when they encounter it from voter registration proponents. Houlihan said that includes the one frequently spotted at the Phi Tau Delta gates and outside of Armstrong, a full-time hire by the Ohio Democratic Coordinated Campaign. Hayden’s students talked to her about their difficulty finding a neutral space on campus.
Throughout its history, Miami has remained a tamer campus in terms of activism. Compared to other collegiate protests about the Israel conflict, it only surfaced participants in the dozens, not the hundreds. Students’ overall disengagement with politics worsens with social media because it convinces them to censor or misconstrue their opinions. Kevin Reuning, an associate professor of political science, studies the interaction between media and voters.
“There's more concern from young people about saying the wrong thing because it’s really easy to go viral on social media,” Reuning said. “That has changed how students perceive politics.”
Political atmospheres influence voter ideologies. Factors like the coronavirus pandemic revealed how unsettling politics can be for students like those Morales sees.
“People have doubts and those are pushing them to vote,” Morales said. “Students are voting because they have a fear for the future of our democracy.”
For college students, voting means manifesting an ideal post-graduate life. They tend to discuss the high cost of living, insecurity coming into the workforce, the housing crisis and student loan procedures on the federal level.
Local candidates, like Democrat Chantel Raghu for Butler County commissioner, wanted to earn students’ attention. Her campaign hired some as employees or interns for door-knocking and data entry and communicated with their organizations on campus.
“It’s challenging with local politics because a lot of students don’t know how it affects them,” Raghu said. “They’re just as important as the presidential election but are widely misunderstood. Especially for students moving into the community, they’re in a black hole of what’s going on here.”
As Oxford’s vice mayor, part of Raghu’s agenda was to replace the city’s lead pipes for cleaner water. Due to federal legislation in the Inflation Reduction Act, she could now allocate funds to this goal if she wins her election.
Hayden said students should care because ultimately, all voting is local. Morales, an out-of-state student, feels the same and updated her registration to impact her new location.
“There’s been issues of people that have lived here for years feeling uncomfortable with out-of-state students voting within this county, but students contribute as much as them and are entitled to vote wherever they want,” Morales said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It's more of a question – where do you think your vote is going to matter?”
Absentee ballots, usually more popular for out-ofstate students, decreased at the BCBE since the 2020 election. Ohio praised BCBE as a top board in the state, according to BCBE’s deputy director, Eric Corbin. It recently onboarded 40 extra poll workers or parttime positions to handle the growing enjoyment of in-person voting.
Corbin said he informs voters of their best practices. For example, he reminds voters to modify their address ahead of time, or else he deals with many provisional ballots during each election.
Controversy over voting fraud arose this year as HB458 passed and the Ohio Secretary of State purged 160,000 alleged false voters from its rolls. Houlihan and Rivas both voted in person for pride and ritual, but Houlihan thinks mailing the vote keeps it safer, while Rivas worries about interference.
Until the next election, Miami prepares to uphold fairness and freedom for its students. Duffy pursues voting curriculum in required UNV101 classes and hopes ASG legislates Election Day as a national holiday for increased student accessibility.
“Recognize your privilege of democracy,” Duffy said. “When students turn out in large numbers, it sends a message to candidates that they need to prioritize student issues.”
The election season chaos carried into student life because politicians sensed the significance within the average college student.
vote,” Reuning said. “You can change the election if you campaign to low-intensity voters.”
But regardless of whether student voters educated themselves on each vote, the future of the government hung in the balance before Election Day. When Harris rose to candidacy over the summer, Rivas and her Republican peers felt shaken considering how other Miami students reacted to the change. She quickly adjusted.
“Kamala got a lot of the younger people, but I think as people watch the debates, it's eye-opening. I think they help us out a lot more,” Rivas said. “We still have high hopes, but we have to keep putting in more effort and registering people to vote.”
Houlihan echoed her sentiment as the election neared. He and his fellow Democrats focused on the rest of the ticket in order to make a difference rather than spending optimism on an ideal President.
“Ohio is not necessarily in play for Kamala Harris,” Houlihan said. “Of course, we're excited that Kamala is on the ballot, and we think that she's a really great candidate, but it is more important to lean fully into reelecting our senator, Sherrod Brown.”
He stresses the details on the ballot to his members, explaining that a vote means more the closer it comes to home. Most voters only care about electing the President, therefore excluding the seemingly smaller issues affecting a student’s everyday life.
“The hardest thing to do is make students more aware of the power of their vote and its importance,” Morales said. “Local politics play a pivotal role.”
Students at Miami envisioned the next four years of their lives in this election. The whole country depended on them – and it all started right here on their campus. S
Vignettes
/vin∙yets/ plural noun
A collection of brief stories that provide a glimpse into the lives of different students
Crimps, curls and coils
By Cheyenne Worrell
In the fall, Miami’s campus is a beautiful mix of red-brick buildings, sprawling green lawns and trees turning amber. But for me, a curlyhaired student, it’s not just about navigating classes and social life — it’s about surviving the humidity.
I always try to start my day optimistically, leaving my dorm with fresh curls scented with pineapple creams. I’ve spent a good chunk of my mornings twisting and diffusing my hair, ensuring the coils are defined and springy. There’s always a single brief window — those few perfect moments when I look in the mirror and think, this might be the day my curls stay flawless.
I head across Academic Quad towards the Armstrong Student Center and contemplate whether it’s a muffin or protein bar day. But before I even hit the first brick path, I feel it.
That dense, sticky Oxford air grabs at my hair, tugging at my curls like an eager toddler. I can almost hear the frizz crackling, sending my hair levitating upward. The confidence I had when I left my room is fading, and by the time I step into the shade of the Academic Quad entrance, I can feel the once-cooperative coils morphing into something else. Something less defined and much more chaotic.
When I pass other students, I glance at the different hair textures around me. There’s
Design by Hannah Potts
always envy when I see the straight-haired girls — no flyaways, no endless fight against the moisture. Their hair gleams in a perfectly smooth ponytail or falls sleekly down their backs. It’s as if the Miami humidity has no interest in them, but it seems to be in love with my curls, refusing to let them be.
In class, I try to focus on the lecture, but then — lord help me — I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window. My hair has officially taken on a personality of its own. The definition is gone, and I’m left with a halo of frizz that reminds me of those cotton candy clouds you see at fairs. It’s distracting, to say the least. I pull out a scrunchie and try to gather the mess into a bun, but curly hair doesn’t just “gather,” it rebels. Strands stick out in every direction, laughing at me with every tug or attempt to smooth out.
By the time I head back to my dorm, I give up. I’ve already lost. My hair, once a carefully defined crown, is now a fluffy, disobedient and stubborn cloud.
But there’s something else, too — a small sense of pride. Despite the chaos, my curls are a part of me, just like this campus. I’ll wake up tomorrow and do it all again, knowing full well the humidity will win. But for those brief moments, when the curls bounce perfectly, it’s all worth it. S
Embracing discomfort
By Olivia Patel
No one likes being uncomfortable.
It’s in the definition: The word itself is associated with terms like “unease” and “awkwardness.” However, there is nothing more important in the world than experiencing discomfort. It is the discomfort in life that helps us sort out what we like and dislike, and discover things about ourselves we would otherwise ignore.
One of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever experienced was going to Shanghai, China when I was 8 years old to visit my dad at his new job. The discomfort I felt was off the charts; I was a child in a (scary) foreign country visiting a family member who had been temporarily displaced in my life. While this was one of the first times I truly felt uncomfortable, it was also one of the first times I felt alive.
I experienced new things, saw places that startled me and most importantly, found my curiosity.
The food, people and culture were all shocking to me. I had never before seen a way of life so different from mine in every way – and I loved it.
I used public restrooms that were hole-inthe-ground disgusting and felt watched at every moment by the hundreds of thousands of cameras placed on every city block and in every park. I tried an array of street food including fried frog, duck eggs and honeycomb on a stick and experienced both the bustling city and the quiet, more rural outskirts.
It was this trip that started my passion for undergoing new things. Since then, I have moved away from home for college, independently studied abroad, visited over 19 countries and found my calling as a journalist.
All thanks to that little pesky feeling of being uncomfortable. S
“Friends”
By Ayla Peden
A girl stands stock still, staring at the photos of her best friends. They hang on the wall in a geometric pattern, which she measured to a tee. As she stares, her eyes begin to sting.
“What’s wrong?” her roommate asks.
What’s wrong? Everything. Everything is wrong.
What’s wrong is that when she was a kid, she was always too quiet to have close friends.
What’s wrong is that when she did have friends, they were always closer to each other than to her.
What’s wrong is that she was always so anxious about how these people saw her that she would shut down completely –turning away the people she wanted to be closest to.
What’s wrong is that when she reached high school, she finally found friends who she thought would be her people. The people whom she would tell stories about to her children someday – the people who would be with her through her first breakup and to celebrate her first real job.
Sadly, they treated her like a burden rather than a friend.
Any time she spoke about something personal, they acted as if it wasn’t important. It wasn’t enough. They would knock her down until she could barely lift her head for air. But she would. She would lift her head, crawl back up and face them again. Because they were older and more powerful, she kept on trying.
She wanted them to like her so badly that she would do almost anything to make it happen. Their homework, their errands, anything. Alas, her efforts went to waste, so she slipped away.
What’s wrong is that when she was a junior in high school, she became friends with two seniors who loved her for her dry humor and her knowledge of random facts and embraced her faults.
What’s really wrong is that they are not here with her, and she has to make new friends all over again. She has to feel selfconscious again. She has to hide parts of herself again. And that is the part she hates the most.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, blinking back the tears. S
Back to square one
By Kethan Babu
I missed the University of Michigan transfer application by one week.
I committed to Miami University on a whim and made my decision one day before the deadline. I knew going into my first year that I needed to get out of my comfort zone and out of my shell. Looking back, this was easier said than done.
When I looked around campus, it was clear there wasn’t a huge Indian population in Oxford. This wasn’t a huge problem, since my high school was also predominantly white. But when I walked to classes or sat in Armstrong Student Center, I’d be lying if I said I liked being the only Indian guy around.
I searched for excuses to leave my dorm room, and Farmer classes certainly kept me busy, but I found myself with a lot of alone time during my fall and especially spring semesters. I wrote a little for The Miami Student (TMS), but there were still several nights that I sat on my bed with nothing to do but ask myself if I’d made a mistake.
By March, I was done with Miami. I didn’t love my classes and hadn’t made many friends. I started looking into the transfer application for the Michigan School of Business and began preparing my transcript and the documents I needed to send.
Little did I know, I had confused the transfer deadlines for Michigan’s School of Business with its Literature, Arts and Science school. I missed the deadline by one week, and was back to square one.
Without much choice, I gave Miami one more year. I was tired of pretending that I liked Miami, so I made it my mission to get it together for my sophomore year.
My main goal for the year was to stay as busy as possible. I signed up for 18 credit hours, added journalism as my second major
and began writing for TMS even more. I joined several new clubs, including the debate club and Miami Television News, and I interned with the athletic department.
Finding any reason to not be in my dorm helped, but I also wanted to work on speaking up.
I used to hate talking. With strangers, classmates, professors and even people I knew somewhat well, I would get uncomfortable. When people mispronounced my name (which happens almost daily), I’d let it slide without saying anything.
But throughout my second year at Miami, I made an effort to change that. In class, I went out of my way to talk to those around me. In the newsroom, I would try to talk with anyone at the same table. A lot of times, it was about working through that anxiety and telling myself it’s better for me as a person.
I started applying that ideology to activities like going to social events or attending things I usually wouldn’t. I must’ve done something right, because the difference between who I am now and my first-year self is like night and day.
I doubt I’m the only person who has or will go through similar moments of isolation or fear. I’m not in a position to give advice to anyone, but if I could go back in time and help 18-year-old Kethan, I’d tell him to find an organization and commit to it 100%.
I’m not superstitious or religious, but I like to think there was a reason I missed the Michigan transfer application. Maybe it was a good coincidence, because I don’t know what my life would be like if I never came back to Oxford. S
By
Stella Powers
Design by Olivia Onyett
Growing up, I wasn’t really sure what “queer” was.
My family was always supportive, but I wasn’t surrounded by it in my everyday life. Media representation of queer individuals was limited, and it wasn’t until late in high school that I finally saw representation that actually resonated with me.
In middle school, I was afraid of it. The people I chose to surround myself with acted as though homosexuality was something to be frowned upon. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. My beliefs didn’t exactly align with theirs, but they were my friends. What they were saying couldn’t have been too terrible, right?
For our sixth-grade science project, two friends and I designed advanced glasses that differed from standard prescription glasses. I have no recollection of how these worked (I’m pretty sure they didn’t) or the science behind them, but we ended up winning second place, so we must’ve done something right.
The project itself was fun, but the process of getting to the finish line was messy. As three middle schoolers, we weren’t the best at being rational or agreeing with each other. Part of the assignment was designing a logo for our product, which led to some conversations regarding what was “appropriate.” At that age, I wasn’t aware of a rainbow being used as a symbol of pride. Instead, I thought they were fun, cute and colorful, and would look cool above the glasses for the logo.
I suggested this, but it wasn’t well-received. One of the girls in my group told me we couldn’t use a rainbow in our logo because it meant gay, made her uncomfortable and went against what she believed in.
At this point, I hadn’t even started questioning my sexuality. I never really had crushes, except for the guys I heard other girls saying were cute. When people asked who my celebrity crush was, I always answered “David Bowie,” because he was the only male celebrity I could think of. Elementary school me definitely got some weird looks for that one. Looking back, the honest answer would have been Jade West from the show “Victorious.”
Despite not really understanding what my friend was saying about the rainbow, I knew something was off. But I didn’t say anything – honestly, I never thought much of it until recently. Earlier this semester, I called the other girl from that trio to catch up, as she’s still one of my closest friends. During our conversation, I asked her about it to make sure that’s actually what our former friend had said. She confirmed it, and now, looking back, I find it hard to believe she said that. It’s something that stuck with me, and honestly, I think it might be part of why I was so scared to admit to myself that I wasn’t heterosexual. I was terrified of what my friends might think.
The thought first crossed my mind in seventh grade on my way to study hall. I can’t remember exactly why or how, but I know I sat in the back of the class that day. I vividly remember thinking to myself over and over, “I can’t be gay,” while holding back tears. Looking back, it sounds dramatic, but it was truly scary. I even struggled to tell my parents, who I knew would be nothing but supportive. I was so terrified that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my therapist – I made my mom come in and tell her for me.
My first real exposure to the LGBTQ+ community was a second cousin of mine. She was the first person in my family to come out as queer, and talking to her helped me understand my identity. I started to feel more comfortable with it. I remember her telling me how she loved the person I was becoming. I wonder if she knew how much that meant to me. However, she lived in California, so staying in contact was difficult.
At a family wedding, she told me how interesting it was that we were the only two openly gay people in our family. We spent a lot of time together at the wedding; bonding and talking about different music (lots of Kesha and Lady Gaga talk). It was comforting knowing I had her by my side.
The COVID-19 pandemic was a big turning point in understanding my identity. Having the isolated time to focus exclusively on myself was definitely a contributing factor. However, the pandemic was also right around
I remember her telling me how she loved the person I was becoming. I wonder if she knew how much that meant to me.
I will forever be grateful to Kate McKinnon.
when I got into “Saturday Night Live,” (SNL) and discovered Kate McKinnon.
McKinnon has been a role model of mine for some time now. I thought she was funny, so I watched a lot of her filmography and interviews. I remember watching an interview where she discussed realizing she was gay after watching Ellen DeGeneres. She talked about how DeGeneres inspired her and was her first real introduction to the idea of gay people being on TV and helped her realize that she could do it herself.
McKinnon mentioned being a lesbian in a few of the interviews I watched, and looking up to her was part of what made me realize that I was, in fact, a lesbian. For a while, I thought I might have been bisexual, but in my case, I think I was scared to admit that I’m not attracted to men at all.
I started tuning into “SNL” as it aired every week at 11:30 p.m., and at the time, McKinnon was on the show. One night, she led the cold open with a bit called “What Still Works.” In the sketch, she interviewed various figures (portrayed by her cast mates), such as Marjorie Taylor Greene, a GameStop investor, O.J. Simpson, Mark Zuckerberg and Tom Brady. By doing this, she hoped to figure out if anything in the United States actually still worked. It’s a hilarious bit, and she concluded that most things she investigated, except for maybe Tom Brady, did not work. At one point, she interviewed Jack Dorsey, who asked McKinnon if his beard worked. She replied, “It’s working in terms of keeping me a lesbian.”
While it was meant as a quick joke, it was one of the first times I heard someone refer to themselves as a lesbian on national television. It meant even more coming from someone I admired so much. Her openness about her identity was something I rarely saw in the media I
consumed, and it helped me not only feel comfortable with who I am but proud to embrace it.
I will forever be grateful to Kate McKinnon.
In more recent years, I have discovered different music artists who sing about their experiences as part of the queer community. I had been listening to Girl in Red for a while and later found other artists like Reneé Rapp, Chappell Roan, Towa Bird and more. Recently, Billie Eilish, someone who I have been a longtime fan of, has begun singing about her queer experiences as well. When I was younger, the closest thing I had to LGBTQ+ music was “I Kissed A Girl” by Katy Perry, which, although fun and catchy, does more harm than good and feeds into stereotypes.
I remember when “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga came out. That was my first introduction to genuine, positive queer music. The song’s message was to be proud of who you are because you were born that way for a reason. It’s powerful.
Just love yourself and you’re set/ I’m on the right track, baby/ I was born this way.
This past May, I dragged my dad to see Chappell Roan in concert. I saw her as an opener for Olivia Rodrigo in March, but her music immediately spoke to me, and I needed to see her again — especially since that set didn’t include “Good Luck, Babe!” The song describes an experience Roan had as a queer woman and how denying feelings doesn’t make them go away. I desperately needed to hear it live.
My dad has pretty much become my go-to plus one when it comes to my lesbian artists’ concerts. When it was time for “Good Luck, Babe!” I asked my dad if he could record it. I love having videos to reflect on from concert experiences (yes, I actually watch them), but unfortunately, filming can often take you out of the moment. For this song specifically, I needed to be fully there, fully present.
And I was.
Being in a crowd full of fellow queer people screaming the lyrics was one of the most impactful, powerful moments of my life. It taught me to be proud of my identity. I don’t know if I ever told my dad this, but while he was recording, tears streamed down my face as I looked at the beautiful community I was surrounded by.
You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.
I left the venue feeling complete. I felt whole, and I felt seen. Thank you, Chappell Roan.
Over the past few years, canonically queer characters have become present in many different television shows and films. In season three of “Stranger Things,” they introduced Maya Hawke’s character, Robin Buckley. Toward the end of the season, Robin came out as a lesbian, admitting to Steve Harrington that she was attracted to girls.
It was one of the first times I saw a gay character on screen whose whole storyline wasn’t centered on their sexuality, and their sole purpose wasn’t for comic relief – it was refreshing.
This has become more common since then, but Robin was one of the characters who first introduced me to positive representation of queer fictional characters in television. It was especially impactful being in a show that I’d already been watching for years.
For the past few weeks, I have been watching Marvel’s “Agatha All Along.” Kathryn Hahn’s Agatha Harkness and Aubrey Plaza’s Rio Vidal have a charged romantic history that’s prominently featured in the series. The second-to-last episode features the first lesbian kiss in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, a huge milestone.
The show has a variety of queer characters and stories, but it’s not what the show is centered around. Instead, the characters are just normal people who happen to be queer. This is my favorite type of representation – I love it when LGBTQ+ characters are normalized instead of just being the stereotypical, funny side character. It’s more real. It’s more genuine.
As much as I love fun, silly queer films like “But I’m a Cheerleader” and “Bottoms,” the entire focus of those movies is being gay, and the storylines are centered around just that. Now, a lot of films are starting to incorporate queer characters without making it the main focus of the film. It’s still not perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction.
Becoming confident in myself and proud of my identity wasn’t an easy journey. Growing up, queerness wasn’t something talked about, so I never understood it. As I’ve gotten older, music, television and film have worked as vessels to help me understand who I am.
If I could go back in time and tell seventh-grade me one thing, I would tell myself that everything would be okay. I would tell myself that it isn’t something to be afraid of – it’s something to embrace.
Besides, I’m on the right track, baby/ I was born this way. S
Design by Caitlin Dominski
Nowadays, shopping at the thrift store feels like visiting a graveyard for fast fashion. Finding vintage pieces or quality secondhand clothing requires flipping through hangers and hangers full of Shein and Romwe items.
Meanwhile, scrolling through TikTok can feel like watching the birth of this overconsumption. Influencers lug big boxes full of Shein items – a site where consumers can buy extremely cheap new styles – dumping bags of clothes on their floor as they prepare to show viewers their haul. One can’t help but wonder where these pieces will end up in five years and how they will impact the shopping habits of their hundreds of thousands of viewers.
Upon a trip to the Oxford Goodwill, it was apparent that similar pieces had already ended up there. Flicking through the racks was already difficult due to the sheer amount of clothing squeezed on.
Although I left with a few good finds and quality sweaters for the fall, I found Shein, FashionNova and Zara along the way – all of which were items reflecting very recent styles. Colorful striped shirts I remember seeing in abundance in 2019, collared baby tees that took off in 2020 and dainty florals were all present.
Many of these trends were ones I used to participate in. As I’ve moved toward building my own style and thrifting many of my clothes, I have understood why these trends would quickly become so unappealing to myself and others – the fashion cycle and sequence of early to late adopters has sped up to unprecedented levels as social media pushes rapid trends.
People are no longer satisfied with their clothes in the long run because there are endless trends to buy into, and an infinite audience to push the piece out of style.
An early adopter is someone who invests in trends near the beginning. It then reaches general audiences and moves to late adopters – or people who catch on to the trend late. Increased communication speeds associated with social media allow influencers to act as early adopters who can pump out new trends to general audiences and late adopters, making trends reach the obsolescence stage faster.
Not only are trends becoming more rapid, but they are becoming more abundant. The volume of information that can be accessed by our generation on social media is unlike any other. Platforms such as TikTok and Instagram feature infinite scroll models.
No matter how much you scroll, there is always more to watch, more to consume. TikTok has even opened a shop feature within the app, where content creators can link and review cheap items purchased from the shop.
People are no longer satisfied with their clothes in the long run because there are endless trends to buy into, and an infinite audience to push the piece out of style.
I once purchased a jacket from Goodwill – a plain brown sweatshirt zip-up with Renaissance-style art in a darker brown. When I arrived home to wash it, I noticed the Shein tag on the back. I shrugged it off and threw it in the dryer, because who cares? I liked it, and secondhand is secondhand.
No less than two days later, I saw it featured in a TikTok video as an “overconsumption staple.”
I bit the bullet for a while and wore the jacket anyway, but when I did wear it, I couldn’t help but wonder how people perceived it. Now it seems overconsumption itself is becoming uncool.
However, instead of combating overconsumption, the fear of judgment for following microtrends has made the problem worse, causing people to toss pieces when they become popular. The trend of quickly discarding popular items for a new version can also be seen outside clothing, a good example being reusable water bottles.
In 2019, Hydroflasks were all the rage. Every store had them, and every class would be interrupted by at least one of the sticker-covered stainless steel bottles clanking onto the ground. However, they soon became associated with the infamous VSCO girl microtrend, becoming more of a meme than a regular reusable water bottle.
But the trendy water bottle trope doesn’t end there. The rise in popularity of Stanley tumblers has been a similar process. Different colors and special editions become pieces in many consumer collections. On Valentine’s Day, consumers stormed Targets in a frenzy, trying to get their hands on one of the special red and pink Stanleys before they sold out. According to Country Living Magazine, this happened within minutes.
This has been exaggerated by the addition of Stanley straw charms and mini bags that can be strapped across the tumbler, as well as influencers posting their multi-colored collections. The cup is even associated with its own “preppy girl” microtrend. Although I never participated in the Stanley trend, I have to admit it’s partially because of the cup’s reputation as a poster child for overconsumption.
These niche styles, which ebb and flow and are often associated with specific clothing items, have been innumerable in the past five years. These microtrends also push articles of clothing into a box and quickly force them to be seen with certain connotations or in a negative and time-specific light. “Trend predictors” on TikTok have even claimed that something as simple as bows will soon go out of style due to the oversaturation of the “coquette” style.
An article by NBC, “Microtrends are killing personal style and making shopping a nightmare,” echoes this sentiment. It says that consumers are simply unable to keep up with these quickly rotating trends, making shopping frustrating and feeling confident in an outfit nearly impossible. As brands seek to profit from these trends by recreating whatever is popular online, personal style takes a hit.
Styles of clothing become specific to certain time periods rather than someone’s own unique taste. An outfit that was popular in 2020 could be easily picked out. Consumers might look at it and cringe because it seems so out of style from today’s popular clothing. However, that was just four years ago.
Interestingly, the main way that people online have combated this trend is by commodifying it into the opposite: “underconsumption core.” It
has become a trend for people to promote how eco-friendly or disconnected from consumerism they are by posting specific objects or lack thereof online. However, a concern with this attempt is that it pushes underconsumption as an aesthetic rather than a genuine movement or philosophy.
But, there’s reason to think real change can be made. Despite the concerning trends of fast fashion and overconsumption, I see the thrift store as a place of rebirth as much as I see it as a graveyard.
When people ask me where I get my clothes, the answer is usually someplace secondhand –and the reaction is almost always positive. I often hear that others love thrifting just as much as I do, and visiting secondhand stores far and wide has become a common way for me to bond and spend time with friends. The idea that more and more people are having fun giving clothes a new life fills me with optimism.
I’ve found that filling my wardrobe with a foundation of basics – a few skirts I love, my favorite pair of jeans, black tights and a few plain black and white tops – allows me to branch out and compliment these pieces with more stylized secondhand items. Layering up is another easy way to combine these basics with fun secondhand pieces. I find myself waiting for winter to come around so that I can pull out my mom’s old leather jacket and my collection of thrifted coats.
Finding ways to accessorize also allows me to make an outfit feel interesting without relying on microtrends. My friends know that I love plaid headbands, chunky white socks with Doc Martens and layered silver necklaces. The only feeling that beats being trendy is finding a style that is uniquely yours. Shopping with a friend who can grab something off the shelf and know without question that you’ll love it is always a moment I enjoy.
Not being afraid to experiment with outfits and curate our own unique styles is a way for us to turn our backs on fast fashion trends, and invest in pieces that will stay in our wardrobe – not our landfills – for years to come. S
EXPERIENCE
My sophomore year of college was supposed to be perfect. I was no longer figuring out the ropes of college, and I had integrated myself into the Miami University community. I had just been accepted into the Farmer School of Business, shockingly scheduled my classes four days before they began, and found myself stuck with 8 a.m. classes every day except Friday.
The business school is a little more than a 20-minute trek from my apartment in Heritage Commons. My morning commute consists of walking through the midst of the sorority girls rushing to Starbucks, walking up the hill that leads to the Miami sundial that is backward and upside down, walking past Armstrong Student Center and down High Street.
On the first day of classes, I woke up with small spots of dry blood layered onto my face and pillow, oblivious to the nosebleed during the night. It was a great way to start the day, running the pillow under cold water to find little progress in removing the stain. I didn’t have time to worry though, I urgently needed to leave for class.
Considering the distance from my apartment to class, I rode my bike. My girlfriend told me that leaving at 7:55 a.m. would be enough time to make it to my 8:10 class, but I didn’t listen to her and left early.
I was excited to start my first day of classes. A summer of never-ending requirements to transfer into
the business school was finally paying off. I had initially applied to Miami as a business undeclared major, but I switched to journalism when I discovered my love of writing. Now, I am back where I would’ve been last year had I decided to be consistent (for once in my life).
I went down three flights of stairs that morning and headed to the bike rack, only to find that my bike was gone. Reality didn’t hit me at first — I stood there, stunned and confused, hoping it would somehow reappear in front of me. But it didn’t. Deep down, I knew it had been stolen.
And just like that, on the first day of sophomore year and business school, I was off to a horrible start.
My bike was given to me in high school as a senior year present. During my first year of college, I took it everywhere. Miami doesn’t allow most first-year students to have cars on campus, so having the bike was instrumental in running errands and getting across town.
My first-year residence hall, Dennison Hall, was as far east as one can get on campus, situated near dense woods and hiking trails. I wouldn’t just use my bike to get to and from class; I’d also take it along the trails and explore the scenery.
Design by Erin Morgan
My bike saved me in many instances, whether I was waking up 10 minutes before class (a common occurrence) or on the days I needed to get my allergy shots across town (that’s another story). In my reporting, I needed my bike, like when my editor Sam Norton had me go to Kramer Elementary School across town for an event. A 10-minute bike ride was preferable to a 40-minute walk.
During my first year as a journalism major, I switched to the Farmer School of Business. I have always been a good writer, but I had a deep interest in investing and money-related topics. Writing for the Wall Street Journal or Barron’s was my dream.
While I loved my journalism classes, I wanted handson experience in the business world rather than purely theoretical knowledge with a second major in economics. The goal was to be a business journalist or a stock analyst, combining my interests and talents.
Switching my major to finance wasn’t easy, with all the requirements to transfer into the business school. I needed to take business calculus over the summer, which slowed the process until late summer.
When I finally met all the requirements, I was in a panic. While my other friends who had completed summer classes got their transcripts weeks before school started, I got mine only one week before. I was nervous I wouldn’t be able to transfer, leaving me stuck at square one.
However, I applied and was accepted into the business school – what a relief! I got an appointment with my new academic advisor and scheduled classes four days before the semester started.
I was left with limited options and forced to choose from classes no one wanted. I started by scheduling my First-Year Integrated Core, a collection of four classes that led to the notorious client challenge project required by all business students to complete.
My section had one open seat left. Along with my other classes, my schedule ended up having 8 a.m. classes Monday through Thursday and classes ending at 6:25 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Although my schedule sucked, I was determined to make this school year a good one.
I was going into my sophomore year with a semester internship with the Oxford Free Press and my assistant editor position at The Miami Student (TMS), two jobs that required a decent time commitment.
This was going to be a busy semester.
The first week of the school year, I was already swamped with work. The Oxford Free Press had me writing about the most random topics imaginable. My first story on the owners of a former fraternity house involved cold-calling this guy who kept throwing me in a loop. I wrote my first sports story featuring the Talawanda volleyball team (I didn’t even know how a set in volleyball worked).
What I thought would be an internship reporting on business and other community events started off with some strange reporting. At TMS, I wrote several stories over the summer and one during the semester about Brian Niccol becoming Starbucks CEO, one of my favorite assignments. I proceeded to not write for a month afterward, completely swamped and having trouble adjusting to this new school year.
I spent many late nights, staying up until 2:30 a.m., only to wake up five hours later, completely drained of energy for my classes. Monday through Wednesday felt like a sprint, with almost all of my internship work taking place during those days. At TMS, I also needed to prepare for bi-weekly print production, having stories edited and ready.
Every Wednesday, I worked non-stop from 8 a.m. to 10 or 11 p.m. My story deadline at my internship was at 5 p.m. every Wednesday. Between my three classes that day, I had no time to waste. I’d be glued to the computer, writing and editing, getting as much done as humanly possible.
After the 5 p.m. deadline, I would go to my Greenhawks section meeting, followed by TMS newspaper production, which would take several hours. I had to find time to do my work there and finish the assignments I had due that night. But it sure was a relief when it was all over.
Some weeks were worse than others, but times got tough. My girlfriend started to notice a change in how I was acting: I was brusque, inattentive and wholly focused on my work to even find time to take care of myself. I was constantly stressed and felt exhausted from an unmanageable workload.
Whenever I wanted to enjoy my weekend, hang out with friends or spend time with my family, I felt guilty. I knew I was putting off work and would regret my decision later. My mental health was on the back burner, and I was not putting my total effort into my schoolwork, leading to my first bad grades.
Regardless, I still managed to get by. But that all changed when I thought I would have to resign from my job at TMS.
While focused on my group projects and internship responsibilities, I mistakenly found myself neglecting my duties for TMS, which was partially my fault and partially a miscommunication between my superiors and me.
As assistant editor, I am responsible for editing all stories in my section, helping writers, stepping in when necessary and taking on stories that need to be covered.
Last year, I would make my edits on Monday and Tuesday before the senior editors would look at the stories, and I was perfectly fine with my deadlines. This year, they wanted assistants to have their edits in by Sunday each week, but I wasn’t aware of this.
So, each week, I would be told that I didn’t have to make edits because the senior editors had already reviewed the stories.
It was the day after my birthday when I was told that I needed to step up my game and start fulfilling my role as an assistant editor. I was heartbroken because I knew everything they were saying was true, but I felt helpless in the end.
I thought I would have to resign from my job if I was going to manage this semester, and I didn’t want to do that. TMS has always been a great outlet for me to make new friends and pursue important stories that I love.
After looking at all the colleges I applied to and checking out their newspapers, I knew TMS was the one I wanted to be a part of. I saw hard-hitting news, such as Jason Osborne's resignation scandal, which made me realize that the people in this organization were serious journalists.
I looked up to many of the upperclassmen in the newsroom. I thought they were incredible and wanted to follow in their footsteps. When I was promoted to assistant editor in the second semester of my first year, mind you, for a section I hadn’t written for before, it felt incredible that these people I looked up to believed in me and wanted me to play a larger role in the paper.
Letting that go would be detrimental, and I hated letting people down, but I knew if I couldn’t keep up with my responsibilities, I’d have no choice but to let it go.
After meeting with my senior editors, we realized the miscommunication and discussed the circumstances leading to this issue. From then, I took a weekend to go home and escape the chaos of college. Since then, everything has gotten better.
Although I still have lots of work, I meet all my deadlines, balance my obligations properly and have increased my grades. My predictions of utter catastrophe didn’t come true, and I’ve been much happier.
Some other great news came when I was covering a story about national solar tours for my internship. That Sunday, I interviewed Carla Blackmar, an Oxford resident, about the solar panels on her roof. While we were talking, she mentioned she had a spare bike in her garage and, knowing my situation, would let me use the bike until I graduate.
Finally, I’ve been able to get an extra 30 minutes of sleep and save tremendous time on transportation.
The kindness of individuals is what’s gotten me through this rough patch in my life. Thanks to those like Carla and my girlfriend, along with the editors who gave me a chance to redeem myself, I have come out of this situation stronger.
When times get tough, you can’t just give up and let it consume you. That’s exactly what I did when I let go of the thought of my bike getting stolen and started speedwalking to class.
Despite the setback, I made it to class on time. The incident even made for a great icebreaker when I had to introduce myself to my business classmates 6,000 times over.
Losing my bike taught me that things go wrong, but you have to keep moving forward. As I’ve faced other challenges this semester, I remember that first day. I could’ve stood there, mourning the loss of a $600 bike, but instead, I chose to start walking, focused on my destination and the path ahead. There was no time for self-pity.
Despite everything, my first day of sophomore year turned out to be a good day. I made new connections and reconnected with old friends. Walking gave me more time to reflect and appreciate my surroundings in ways I couldn't when riding my bike.
Although my stolen bike has taught me valuable lessons about resilience and setting priorities straight, I would still like it back. S
PERSONAL HISTORY
Design by Caitlin Curran
I’ve always thought I’d discover something about myself on some grand coast-to-coast road trip. Maybe I thought the shadows between the cliffs of the Washington mountains held all the answers to my lifelong questions. Maybe I read “On the Road,” by Jack Kerouac one too many times. Maybe I just had too many questions I didn’t want to answer myself.
Whatever it was, the mountains that called my name for years would finally hear my response as I gazed at them through a car window on my way from Seattle back to Oxford.
Through a stroke, or many strokes of luck, one of my best friends since middle school, Grady, moved to Vancouver Island for the summer to play box lacrosse; which is some maniacs' idea of basketball, lacrosse and arena football combined. Grady is a freak athlete who should be talked about in circles outside wherever he is. One of the things he’s despicably good at is box lacrosse, which is exactly why he had the privilege of moving as far west as possible to play a game I didn’t even know existed five years ago.
He was set to drive home in the middle of August, starting the Monday after my internship ended.
Grady is one of those people who exudes confidence in a way that makes you want to believe him. Over the years, I’ve learned not to believe his every word because even his bullshit comes out clean. Nevertheless, during
the three years I’ve been away from him, I forgot about his ways and believed it when he said he had everything planned.
“Yeah, get the flight that gets in at noon. I’ll be down there by then,” he said before I booked anything.
“Here’s where we’ll go,” showing me a Google map with four stops between Seattle and Oxford.
Up until the week before, I thought everything was a-OK. But one phone call reminded me of who he is.
“Yeah man, I’m out surfing on the island right now,” he said in a slight Canadian twang. “So, I forgot to book the ferry trip back to Vancouver. But I think I can wake up in time to get a spot on the first one back and still make it to Seattle by the time you land.”
I knew. I just knew I wouldn’t see Grady at noon in Seattle. Hell, I didn’t know where in Seattle he would meet me.
To be fair, the trip was planned in about two weeks because of changing dates and availability, mostly because one of our great friends, Jonathan, said he might be able to make the trip with us if the dates changed. Sadly, they didn’t. This would’ve been a great time to have Jonathan’s level-headed reasoning because he’s constantly surrounded by Grady’s ability to talk a wall into moving.
The two of them get mentioned in the same sentence more often than not. They’ve been going to the same college in Detroit while playing lacrosse together for the past three years, so they’re usually associated with each other.
They always seemed so close in high school. They both have a brain for math and science that makes you question why you’re even given the same problems as them. It didn’t help that there were things only the two of them knew, which made their conversations impossible to follow at times.
“Oh yeah, that pocket is just too shallow. It’ll never hold,” Jonathan would say about some lacrosse stick I couldn’t even describe if it was in my hands.
Without Jonathan, I was hoping Grady had it all figured out, but regardless, I knew nothing would get in the way of spending five days seeing a world I’d only imagined.
I bought the ticket Grady suggested, packed a bag, discovered the bag was too big for Delta’s sacred standards, packed another bag and tried to sleep.
My flight was scheduled to leave Cincinnati at 6 a.m. But because I’ve only flown three times, I asked my best friend and roommate Ben when I should get to the airport because he’s been on more flights than I’ve been on road trips.
The only flight I could base it on was one I took from Minneapolis, Minnesota to Anchorage, Alaska, after my senior year of high school. All my best friends were on it for our senior trip, something I didn’t know could impact a life like that one did.
Five high schoolers and one dad were supposed to go to Alaska for a seven-day hike and other adventures before we’d all slip into the real world, or whatever college is supposed to be.
We never made it through the seven days.
After a day of travel, another of driving from Anchorage to Wrangell St. Elias National Park and one of hiking, my four friends and I became forever intertwined. Ben had organized a trip with his brother Andrew and his dad David and decided to bring Grady, Jonathan and I along for the trip to commemorate our senior year.
It was going incredibly well. The days in Alaska were some of the most beautiful and thought-altering of my so-far short life, but not all thoughts should be changed.
After the first day of hiking, we woke up next to a glacier to start another day of trekking into the wilderness, which we would cap off with a short climb up a mountain. We bushwhacked for what felt like forever. The branches would whip off Jonathan’s hands straight to my face, but once we made it out of the brush, it was all worth it.
We found a glassy lake so clear it looked like you could scoop up the purest sip with your hand. Our trail weaved in and out of the contour of the lake and led us to our campsite for the night.
With our packs off and the sun still high in the sky, we backtracked to the mountain base and started to climb.
Rocks slipped from under our feet so often that it felt like every step forward was a step back, but surely enough, we got up to where the trees stopped and snow patches emerged. David slowly fell behind but would make up for it by working harder when we took breaks.
As David passed me, I asked Ben if his dad needed help, but he reassured me there was no way he’d stop
I couldn’t see over the ridge yet, but I heard Ben and Grady start to climb down as Jonathan and I sat and waited. Andrew made his way down to us before we sent him down with a first-aid kit. We couldn’t see David.
After an eternity of waiting, Ben called for us to climb down. Just as we got to the edge of the ridge, I saw David’s body on the edge of the loose rocks. As Jonathan and I sent rocks tumbling from climbing down, no one guarded David from the rocks. He didn’t move.
I knew what happened.
After tears, phone calls to Ben’s mom and the park rangers and a hike back to camp, our lives were changed. We got a helicopter ride back to where we started the hike and made sure to bring everything with us, but sometimes you leave something behind that you can’t see.
That day, we left our childhoods behind and got pushed straight into the world.
Andrew said something at the end of the trip I’ll never forget. He said, “We’re not just friends anymore. We’re all brothers.”
That’s all I could think of when preparing for another trip out west with my friend. It was the first flight since the long haul from Anchorage to Cincinnati and the first time I’d see those stunning mountains that can leave shadows on your life after climbing down with one less person.
Maybe I was thinking about it because of one night this summer when Johnathan and I stood in a kitchen, finally talking about everything we felt from that day,
We both felt the weight but didn’t talk to anyone in depth the way we wished we could. We stayed in that
That’s what I knew and hoped would happen between
I got to Seattle at noon just like Grady told me to, but he was nowhere near. He didn’t get the ferry he thought he could, so he wouldn’t be in sight of the Space Needle for another hour or two.
This was great news for me. I was stuck in a city I’d never been to in a part of the country I’d dreamed of visiting.
Since it’s Seattle, I got on a train to the best coffee shop I could find. I don’t even drink coffee.
Once I got off the train, I lugged my full-to-the-brim backpack down a couple of blocks to grab a tea that might revive me from my long trip. I woke up at 4 a.m. in Ohio, changed flights in Atlanta with five minutes to spare, and slept just a little more than an hour somewhere between Georgia and Idaho to make it to Seattle just 13 hours after I woke up.
On every street, I could see the bay peeking out, almost calling me to explore and see what I knew would be there: the clashing of mountains and ocean. Naturally, I booked it from the coffee shop to the closest pier to make sure I spent every minute taking in something that could be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Grady called me by the time I made it to the second pier to say he would be another hour or so away and he could meet me wherever I was. I told him and he said we should grab a salmon sandwich from the Pike Place Market before hitting the road. I started my way over there, taking in as much of the view as possible.
When I finally saw Grady, I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes, when I see someone after a long while, I have everything to say. This time I had nothing. We hugged, talked about the market and ate before leaving Seattle.
I started off driving but not before moving the seat up what felt like multiple feet. Grady is a giant from my perspective. Well over 6 feet tall, he and I would do a dance of moving seats forward and backward for thousands of miles.
Just getting in the car reminded me of the trips he, Jonathan, Ben and I would take to so many places in high school. We were the big four. We traveled in a pack and loved every carefree minute of it.
Now, Grady and I are getting in the car to head back to college, our jobs and everything that comes with being 21, which is more than I ever could have imagined.
As we drove east while the sun kept speeding west, we talked about everything from our summers to our future goals now that we’ve been knee-deep in life away from home. Slowly, the conversation morphed into what I thought it’d be: how we were actually feeling.
I don’t know how it started, but I remember telling him what my life was like growing up. I spilled everything from how my parents raised me to how I thought I killed one of the best role models I’ve ever had in David right before moving away from everything I loved.
I laid it all out and he dished it back.
I hadn’t talked to Grady for more than half an hour since last summer but now the words streamed out of my mouth into the void that was the space between the driver and passenger’s seats. It wasn’t anything like how we talked in high school, the beginning of college or even last year. Some wounds had stopped bleeding long ago and had become scars we could now point out with knowledge of how they fit on the map that is our bodies.
I would’ve loved to have talked about how we were going to bike Uptown to the next summer concert or how we would ask Jonathan and Ben if they wanted to meet up at Cook Field to play football, but we were past that. Four years past that.
Somewhere in the conversation between the tears and hard truths I realized I chose the right friends. Ben, Grady and Jonathan morphed from these friends who are the funniest people alive and the only people I’d be willing to share a bed with to two-way safes that I can store my deepest fears and emotions in.
Too long after the sun went down, Grady put the car in park outside a hotel in Kalispell, Montana that showed its age in decor and layers of paint. After our eight hours of travel, we could do nothing but drag our bags upstairs and collapse in a single questionably-colored bed where we would spend less than eight hours.
We had four more days of driving to go. Tomorrow,
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