The Miami Student Magazine | Fall 2022

After that is our short story section called “Vignettes,” which gives readers a glimpse into the lives of five Miami students. From doing the dishes to bodybuilding to the pu ritans to academic burnout and working as a cashier, these stories teach us about the often overlooked parts of life.

Next is a personal narrative from the magazine’s Man aging Editor, GraciAnn Hicks, about a traumatic event at her summer internship. In “A Life Almost Taken, Mine Forever Changed,” Hicks walks us through her experience as a journalist working just buildings away from the at tempted murder of famous author Salman Rushdie.

Megan Miske earns the cover story spot with “Time to BeReal.” This reported piece reflects on various student opinions about the hot new social media app, BeReal, and aims to discover if it is as authentic as it may seem.

In the following story, Devin Ankeney writes about the complicated and personally conflicting experience of buy ing their first gun. Read all about it in “Dancing with the Second Amendment.”

Third to last is “Just Him and a Motor,” a profile from Henri Robbins. This profile teaches us about professor J. E. Elliott’s lifelong love for riding motorcycles.

“Entering the Red Zone” by Assistant Editor Claire Lordan comes next. In her reported opinion story, Lordan explains that first-year college students are at a higher risk of experiencing sexual assault or violence and pleads for schools to take action.

Finally, there is “My Traveling Words of Wisdom.” In this story, Charlotte Hudson shares excerpts from her trav el journal and explains how rereading each entry has al lowed her to better understand who she was, who she will be and who she is now.

While I have a long list of people to thank, I want to start by acknowledging all of the writers who volunteered their time and talents to The Miami Student Magazine this semester. Each of you has so much passion for your sto ries and your commitment to them will not go unnoticed. Thank you for making this issue possible.

Another massive shoutout goes to the editorial team: Managing Editor GraciAnn Hicks and Assistant Editors Meta Hoge, Hannah Horsington, Claire Lordan, and Jes sica Opfer. This publication would not be the same with out the knowledge, passion and curiosity that all of you brought to the table week after week. I am so profoundly grateful that you are a part of this team.

Finally, I’d like to thank our art director, Macey Cham berlin, and her incredible team of designers. Seeing the final art come together for the first time never gets old. An other thank you goes to the excellent photographers who worked with us on this issue. Together, all of you bring this magazine to life.

Overall, I cannot express how proud I am to be the Ed itor-in-Chief of this publication. Significant changes and new additions were made easy and possible because of every hard-working writer, editor, designer and photogra pher on this staff. You all are simply the best.

With that, it is my great honor to present Issue XI of The Miami Student Magazine

Now, get to reading!

Skyler Perry Editor-in-Chief

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DO

The Face Behind the Fursuit

“I’m a furry,” she said.

My stomach dropped. I remember fear bubbling up as I looked away.

That’s what Sam Flake, a then first-year psychology major from southwest Ohio, told me. We were at a First 50 Days event at Miami University coloring premade tem plates with markers when she mentioned the fact and asked if I wanted to move in with her.

I had known her for only a couple of weeks, and now she was smiling at me in that nervous way people do when wait ing for an unknown answer.

“Uh … why are you telling me that?” I replied.

Sam posts her works-in-progress (WIPs) and recent com missions on her Instagram and Twitter @sheenitude. Sam’s pages are relatively popular — she’s gathered over 15,000 followers on Instagram and has about 5,000 followers on Twitter. Her YouTube page, Kyla Wolf, where she posts her WIPs and tutorials, has just under 7,500 subscribers.

She spends weeks detailing hand-sewn suits to be shipped all around the world. Her work is done through commissions only and the suits go for more than $5,500. While she only takes a handful at a time, each one can take up to months to finish.

Now, she didn’t tell me all of this infor mation just because she felt like it.

is to imagine furries as a kind of fandom, akin to something you would see around anime, comic books, or video games.

Furries’ interests just happen to overlap with the animal kingdom.

People who identify with the furry community usually create their own “fursona,” which is a character that has a unique identity and personality. Some people commission their fursonas to be made into fursuits, which are full-body outfits comparable to those of sports mascots. They are cre ated so that the customer can act out their fursona.

That’s where Sam comes in.

Sam isn’t just a furry. She’s a fursuit maker and a suc cessful one at that. Her business, Soul Enterprises, has gar nered quite the following over the past six years.

She wanted me to know because we were considering moving in together, and that would mean occasionally having the husk of a neon-colored animal hanging around, which would be a bit of an adjustment for any roommate.

I agreed to move in anyways.

Life with Sam was about what I expected. She worked constantly; her sewing machine was always whirring in the background of our lives. Sometimes I’d sit in bed and watch her work. We’d chat about what it was like going to conven tions, how to create fursona, or the problems she was having with a customer. Or she’d sit in silence, listening to music while she worked.

But no matter the distraction, her hands were always steady, intricately feeding the sewing machine or fastening one piece of fabric to another with a quick stitch. It was all about the details.

Illustrations by Erin Morgan & photos by Abby Bammerlin

We moved out after the pandemic caused shutdowns across the country. Miami sent its students home, so we went our separate ways. We still talked over text and occa sionally Facetime, but our conversations had become more about the world and less about fursuits.

But three years later, when I told Sam I wanted to write about her fursuits and her furry identity, she cringed.

“I don’t like saying it’s part of my identity,” she said. “I mean, it is, but I don’t like saying it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“It’s just weird,” she said.

Sam wasn’t born into the furry universe. She didn’t just wake up one day and believe she was an animal — that’s not really how most furries discover the community.

For her, it started as a fun way to expand her art. When she was 14 years old, she stumbled upon some YouTube vid eos of a dance competition at a furry convention. At first, she was really put off by it.

“I was like, ‘This just looks weird. Why are these people dressing up like that?’” she said. “Which is fair.”

But then, two of the suits caught her eye. She started watching more videos created by these furries, and they in spired her to expand on her art.

Before long, Sam decided she wanted to explore sewing. Her mom was the sewing expert in her household, so natu rally, she was the one Sam turned to for help. She’d pester her mom repeatedly to show her a specific stitch until she finally gave in.

“She'd show me once and she's like, ‘Okay, go practice it a hundred times,’” Sam said. “It was horrible, but that was my practice.”

When she started creating suits, her mom couldn’t help anymore. Sam turned back to YouTube, but she could only find one video explaining how to make a head. For every thing else, she was on her own. Another problem Sam had was that she couldn’t exactly ask for help at her local sewing club on how to create a fursuit without getting a few eyebrow raises.

But slowly, using dress patterns and templates of her design, she developed her own method of bring ing fursonas to life.

She fixated on it, and what started as a casual interest in drawing became a full-fledged business. She’s created over 40 fursuits since 2016.

It’s important to note that not all furries are in it for the same reasons. Sam rolled her eyes when I asked her how she deals with the bestiality stereotype furries are given.

“I think it can be really hard to break down the stigma around it just because people want something to shit on,” she said with a laugh. “And furries are really easy to shit on.”

By and large, she doesn’t see her community focusing on sex. That side does exist, but it’s the minority.

There have been instances of online scams when buying and selling suits, as well as people abusing animals. But in Sam’s mind, there are bad people in every community.

“Our bad side is just more well-known,” she said.

She doesn’t tell many people about her hobby. She’s guarded around the topic. While her family knows and sup ports her, she’s told only a handful of close friends. She waits people out, weighing how they’ll take it.

“I usually sugarcoat that I'm gay until I know the person is OK with it,” Sam said. “I sugarcoat a lot of my normal per sonality traits because I’m autistic. Those two things already are really big parts of myself so it just doesn't make a huge difference to hide one more thing.”

Unfortunately, Sam’s fears surrounding the publicity of her hobby are justified. Since she started her business, she’s received so many death threats that she lists them off casual ly as if they’re grocery items.

“I've gotten people telling me to kill myself,” she said. “I've gotten people telling me that they're gonna come kill me or they hope I die. They hope I get in a car accident, peo ple telling me that I'm the scum of the earth, I'm the worst person alive, and that all furries should die.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed.

“All I do is, a few times a year, [I] dress in an animal cos tume and run around at a convention,” Sam said.

Before joining the community, Sam was quiet. She was the kind of kid who would dread speaking in class. When the teacher asked a question, she’d sink into her chair, eyes pointed to the ground, and try her best to disappear.

But then she started developing her fursona: a playful, spunky wolf character named Kyla who was the complete opposite of Sam's outward expression at the time.

“When I was in-suit during my first convention, I could act however I wanted, [I could act] like an idiot just having fun, and everyone loved it,” she said. “And everyone recipro cated that. And it was like, ‘Oh, shit, I can just have fun and everyone's digging it.’”

It took a few more years, but today, bits of Kyla’s person ality have become part of Sam’s.

When she gets to a new class, she scopes out new faces: potential friends. She lights up at mentions of shared hob bies, hailing down a slew of questions to find a closer con nection.

This is the process for many furries who have just dis covered the community: A feeling of isolation and rejection turned into acceptance and tolerance.

Now Sam can create that feeling for her clients as well. As an artist, she feels a sense of pride every time a customer sings her praises. Her work is not only appreciated but ad mired.

The excitement her customers feel when they unbox their new fursuit is understandable. For many, they feel comfort able only once the mask goes up.

“The character you're dressing up as is most often your idealized self or your true self,” she said. “And so when you put that on, you get to be that person. And no one knows any different.”

At the end of our interview, I started to wrap up our con versation. We laughed at a joke one of us made as I began to stand to leave.

“Oh hey, when is this piece coming out?” Sam asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I replied. “Maybe November or December. Why?”

“Oh, I was just worried about my professors seeing it and thinking, ‘Oh Sam …’”

Her voice trailed off. She smiled her ner vous smile, the same one she had the day she told me she was a furry.

I smiled back at her.

“That’s what the piece is for,” I said. “Maybe they’ll see it and think it’s cool or at least learns a little more about the community.”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe.” S

Small Actions, Big Transformations

How clearing brush and climbing a mountain altered my world view

By

Sam Norton

Pickaxe in hand, I gazed at the massive blackberry bush in front of me. Concentrating on one spot, I swung and con nected right at the base. I stomped on the other end of the pickaxe and finally had enough leverage to yank the thorny, invasive plant out of the ground.

I turned around and tossed this bush onto a huge pile of other plants that my team and I had collected for the past two hours. We were clearing out a small stretch of forest along the Snoqualmie River, just south of the Cascade Range in central Washington.

I was sweaty, covered in burrs and sore from the same repeated swinging motion. It was only 10 a.m., but I was already hungry for lunch.

The dense vegetation of the Pacific Northwest en closed us, and after two hours of removing bushes, we were starting to see only small changes for what felt like a lifetime of work. As I geared up for the next bush in line, I wondered what the point of it all was.

Illustrations by Erin McGovern

GIVE offers trips to students all over the world, with a focus on sustainable volunteering. It works with local communities on specific projects to benefit those in need.

As an environmental science major and honors college student, I originally planned this trip to fulfill honors requirements and explore what ecological volunteering looks like. Although I initially intended to go alone, my girlfriend eventually decided to join me.

Despite her coming along, I was still nervous to travel farther from home than I ever had before and meet a bunch of new people I had to live with for a week.

After waiting nearly two months over summer break, I was finally about to begin the trip I had planned for months. Walking up the stairs of a random hostel in Se attle, I knew it was time to meet new people and adapt to a new city and state. I wondered about the kind of people I would meet and was slightly nervous that they would be hard to get along with.

Yet to my tremendous surprise, the people that greeted me that night were 20 exuberant college students with in fectious energy and friendliness. I was initially taken aback, but I quickly relaxed and engaged with them. I could feel myself starting to shed some of my preconceptions.

The next morning was early, as we had to commute an hour to our first volunteer site. My sluggishness quickly evaporated as I became immersed in conversation with my new companions and captivated by the views outside.

As we wound through highways and backroads alike, we were all amazed at the lush mountains that seemed to follow us wherever we went as we traveled north from Seattle.

With everyone coming from different parts of the country, it was incredible how our paths led us to this trip. I quickly learned that our reasons for volunteering were similar — mainly driven by a love of the outdoors.

We started removing blackberry bushes the second day. After arriving at the park, we grabbed the needed tools, hiked a short distance into the woods, where we soon reached the riverbank, and began hacking the thorny beasts out of the ground.

I was curious why removing invasive plants was so important, especially after seeing the effort it took. It felt insignificant when I looked down at the small part of the river and saw just how much vegetation there was. As we ended, our leader explained the purpose behind our work.

I learned that removing invasive plants clears more area, allowing the trees to become healthier and grow taller. This provides more shade to the river, raises oxy gen levels and is better for native salmon that return to their breeding grounds each year.

In that moment, everything clicked for me. I was amazed at the chain of positive environmental effects that could be triggered by removing what did not belong from an ecosystem, even if it was just one bush of an entire species.

On an ecological and personal level, it was incredi bly encouraging to see how this seemingly small effort from a bunch of college kids could substantially impact the world around us.

On the second day of volunteering, we removed invasive shrubs in an open field near our lodging. A constant buzzing filled the air as we worked under the powerlines that created a scar cutting through the otherwise pristine wilderness.

Despite this reminder of civilization directly overhead, nature still seemed to swallow us. Towering mountains in the distance rose above man's creation, and the expansive view looking down the hillside seemed to stretch on forever.

I was encouraged while working as we all discov ered a newfound resentment for the invasive plants taking over these precious ecosystems. We pushed each other to go after the biggest and baddest shrub we could find.

It was certainly not pretty or easy, but during this hard work, I got to know many of the other volun teers. We talked about anxieties related to college, past bad relationships, what it's like to scuba dive with dolphins, and many other intimate parts of life.

It felt good to talk in a judgment-free environment. Despite only knowing them for 48 hours, I felt wel comed and appreciated by the other volunteers.

These small conversations shaped the mood for rest of the week. I realized that I enjoyed these little moments of learning and growing with each other — something I had not expected when I landed in Seattle. ***

We stayed in a cabin in the middle of the woods for most of our trip. Although there was a crew there to serve us, ev eryone seemed to jump at an opportunity to help in any way possible. We cleaned dishes, chopped firewood, and swept without being asked.

One night, several volunteers and I decided to play the card game, “Apples to Apples.” What started as a way to pass time ended with most of us crying with laughter as we forced the judge to read out the description of every card.

It was one of those moments that you don’t even under stand what was so funny when looking back. All that matters is that, at the moment, it was one of the funniest things I had ever been a part of. In just a few days, these people from across the country I had never met became my great friends through these shared moments of joy.

I still find myself thinking back to those moments with fondness and admiration. It reminds me how important it is to surround myself with people willing to do the smallest things to make a difference. I now do my best to always find joy in helping others.

At this point in the trip, it seemed as if every waking moment was filled with laughter and sincere happiness. This environment was something I had not experienced since I was a kid in summer camp, and getting to create these bonds at this point in my life was surprising in the best way.

I saw change not only in myself but in my other friends. I was beginning to understand how important the intimate moments we had been sharing were.

On our third day of volunteering, we again worked on removing invasive blackberry plants along the Snoqualm ie, just a few miles upriver from the first day. That same afternoon, we went tubing down the river.

As we floated down the current, the tranquility of being on the water and the beautiful scenery of the Wash ington wilderness was a wonderful break from our hard work. Our leader reminded us that without the efforts of those like us who worked to keep the river healthy and clean, we would not be able to enjoy these activities.

We felt very proud to see how our work benefited the environment and the people who want to experience na ture as it should be. I have found that I am most at peace when surrounded by nature, and everyone should be able to have that experience.

On one of the last days, we took a break from volun teering to spend the day hiking to the top of Thorp Moun tain. I was excited at the prospect of reaching the nearly 6,000-foot summit to see the incredible views of Mount Rainier that the route is known for.

On previous hikes, I often only found satisfaction in completing the journey as quickly as possible instead of taking the time to appreciate the actual hike itself.

Yet, I forced myself to step back and slow down on this day. My girlfriend asked me to stay with her and others who didn’t want to race to the top, and I agreed.

We started our hike and began falling behind those in the front. I found myself experiencing a different aspect of this adventure. I was able to hold long conversations with others at this pace, and we stopped more often to appreciate the stunning nature that surrounded us even at the lower elevations of the mountain.

We were surrounded by a beautiful, pristine forest that could have come from a fairy tale. I felt humbled as I looked up at a canopy composed of towering pines, and I was taken aback by the delicate blanket of ferns and mosses that sprawled across the floor.

The combination of peace and wonder that I feel in places such as that forest always tugs at my heart and brings me back to nature. I felt truly grateful in that mo ment to experience these wonders of our planet.

As we got to the more strenuous parts of the hike, we started to struggle. There was light-hearted joking and complaining about the hike's difficulty.

feel afterward and lied a bit about how much elevation gain was left.

As I pulled these words from within myself, the physi cal pain was second to the fun we all had together on this trail. I struggled to catch my breath as my lungs began to sting and legs started to burn, but we kept at it.

With sore calves and tight chests, we eventually got to a clearing where we were greeted with a sign that informed us we had a short, though steep, final stretch. After a water break, we pushed through a dense forest and finally made it out.

Like walking through a portal to another world, my breath was taken away by what my eyes beheld. The grand magnificence of Mount Rainier filled my view. Its snow-capped peak, cascading slopes, ridges and sheer massiveness still captivate me today. Its grandeur entranced me as I continued the trek, and I had to peel my eyes away to take in the beauty that immediately surrounded me.

Sprawling fields of wildflowers blanketed the slope, their bright colors in beautiful contrast to the scraggly green grass. The trail zigzagged back and forth as it con tinued up. At the base of the mountain, I saw a deep blue lake stretching across the landscape, perfectly framing the splendor of Mount Rainier. It took me a few minutes to snap out of my awe and finish the journey.

At the summit, Mount Rainier dominated the horizon to the south, while the jagged Glacier Peak and the end less green of the Okanogan-Wenatchee forest carved the landscape on all other sides. Nothing stood between us and God's majestic creation.

I realized on top of that mountain how good it felt to be a source of encouragement rather than racing against myself to the top. Suddenly I didn’t feel so small but rath er amazed that I could impact this incredible world and its people for the better.

It was the culmination of so many different moments throughout this trip that showed me over and over again how small actions could lead to huge, fulfilling change. I descended that mountain overjoyed, happy at how much I felt I had changed in just a few days, and proud of how our group, fondly named “Team Trail Mix,” stuck through our tough hike together.

***

A couple of days later, I was deeply saddened when I said goodbye to those I had become so close with over such a short period. I truly felt that I had connected indi vidually with every single other volunteer at one point or another, and I still miss our time together.

Yet when I look back on this trip, what tends to fill my mind more than the views from hikes is the small moments I experienced and the people I interacted with. I now realize that I can enact incredible change within myself, the environment and others, even if the changes seem small.

But that’s the thing: Small changes are everything.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so small but rather amazed that I could impact this incredible world andits people for the better.

PUPS WITH A PURPOSE

The life of service dogs in training and their student handlers

By Madalyn Willis

While dogs may be man’s best friend, they can also take on other roles like sniffing out danger, herding animals, or searching for people. In addition, some dogs can be trained to act as service animals.

According to ShareAmerica, the U.S. Department of State’s platform for sharing American stories, there are approximately 500,000 service dogs in the United States. Some of the dogs’ tasks can include guiding people with visual impairments, signaling certain sounds for those who are deaf, retrieving items for people with mobility issues and alerting about possible cardiac episodes or seizures.

Illustrations by Katie Preston & photos by Sarah Frosch

Training dogs to perform such tasks takes a generous amount of time and effort, but some students at Miami University have made the commitment through an orga nization called Paws for a Cause Miami. Members of Paws for a Cause Miami help raise and train service dogs while on campus. Through this experience, these dogs are given the opportunity to learn how to support someone.

There are many service dogs in training (SDIT) on Miami’s campus who will hopefully go on to improve someone’s quality of life. Before the dogs go to their forever homes, the SDITs also provide many of their student handlers with someone to play with after a long day of classes and exams. Student handlers, like senior zoology, neuroscience and Spanish triple major Cassidy Waldrep, are often recognized around campus because of their SDIT.

In addition to co-fostering a 6-month-old English cream golden retriever named Palmer, Waldrep is also the secre tary for Miami’s chapter of Paws for a Cause. The organiza tion’s goals include educating Miami students about SDITs and training these dogs to the best of their abilities.

“Even though it might look from the outside that we’re just a club that lets you take a dog to class, that’s not even close to the goals of our organization,” Waldrep said. “Yes, our members do love dogs, but they also are passionate about helping others and raising awareness for the service dog community.”

Paws for a Cause Miami is always actively fundraising. The money is used to pay for monthly socialization ac tivities for their dogs, which include trips around Oxford and larger outings, such as visiting the Cincinnati Zoo and Newport Aquarium. Fundraising money is also spent on additions to the service dog park behind Cook Field and general philanthropy surrounding SDITs. Waldrep estimated that the organization has about 300 people and 14 dogs on campus.

Jessica Schmitz, a sophomore primary education major, fosters a one-year-old goldendoodle named Apoc. Schmitz was introduced to Apoc during her first year through Paws for a Cause Miami, where she would often help take care of him throughout the day. Miami has a rule that service dogs in training are not allowed to enter the dorms, so she could not take Apoc full-time until winter break came along and she returned home. Once she did, their relationship flourished, and Schmitz has been training Apoc ever since.

Schmitz said that a college campus is a great environ ment to work with an SDIT.

“There isn’t anything specific about being on a col lege campus that causes [an SDIT] to fail, and I'd even say that being on a college campus gives them a better chance, as they are constantly being socialized and going to classes, dining halls, etc.,” Schmitz said.

Schmitz’s professors have also been more than wel coming about having an SDIT in class. Paws for a Cause Miami members always email their professors before the semester starts to ask permission to bring a dog to class.

“We will honor their wishes if they don’t want the dog to come to their class,” Schmitz said. “But in my experience, professors have always been super excited about the possibility of an SDIT coming to their class.”

Because being an SDIT handler is a lot of responsibility, it takes students some time to become full-on trainers for Paws for a Cause Miami.

First, students must apply through a parent organiza tion; the most commonly used one is 4 Paws for Ability. Questions on the application normally ask about previous experiences with animals, why the applicant is interested, and how much time they have to commit to a dog.

Next, students must complete a Miami Canvas course wherein they learn about training and how to socialize the dogs. Students then have to attend either a Zoom class or in-person training that further emphasizes what handlers need to know.

When things get difficult, handlers try to remember what motivated them to start working with an SDIT. Schmitz is inspired to keep working with SDITs because she loves seeing them succeed and get placed with a forev er owner.

“These dogs will go on to change the lives of the families they are placed with and will allow their child to have a new sense of independence,” Schmitz said.

Kennedy Miller, a senior organizational leadership major, helped train a Newfoundland golden retriever mix named Kustard from 10 weeks to 16 months old. Miller said there are negatives and positives of having an SDIT on campus.

“It takes so much time,” Miller said. “Everywhere you go, your dog goes too. Sometimes you have to miss things that are a part of the ‘college experience.’”

These students are constantly responsible for the care of their dogs. Leaving them for hours isn’t a choice, and not everywhere accommodates them.

Some typical college scenes, such as bars and parties, aren’t appropriate for these dogs because it’s loud and students try to pet them. If handlers can’t find someone to help watch their SDIT, they may have to miss out.

For this reason, Miller says it's essential for fellow SDIT handlers to lean on each other for support and guidance throughout the process.

“It is comparable to being a single parent trying to juggle having a child and doing well in college,” Miller said. “It can suck, but it’s worth it in the end. Another challenge would be that you put your entire heart into this pup and have to give him up in the end.”

Both strangers and friends often commend Miller for all the time and effort she puts into Paws for a Cause Mi ami because she brings awareness to the need for service dogs.

“The biggest benefit is the final product, which is the moment the child first lays eyes on their forever dog, and the little wins each family has because that dog is success fully doing his job,” Miller said.

Another Paws for a Cause Miami member, junior criminal justice major Bry Schleifer, said every day with an SDIT is different. Schleifer is currently training a one-year-old purebred labrador named Zach. Schleifer originally became involved with training service dogs during her junior year of high school.

“Being involved has been life-changing,” Schleifer said. “It has brought me close with so many people of all ages and [has given] me a community and purpose in high school. When I saw that I could continue in college, I knew I had to because it was my life in high school and I was not ready to part with it.”

Zach enjoys sleep and usually lets Schleifer sleep until 9:30 a.m. Depending on the day, he will go outside before or after breakfast, which is served when he wakes up. Zach doesn’t have a designated lunchtime and is fed training treats throughout the day.

Schleifer doesn’t bring him to class if there is a lab activity or on exam days because Zach tends to get fussy. When Zach does become fidgety, she will give him a bone or get up and exit class to give him a chance to move. Luckily, Schleifer’s professors love her SDIT; one even gives him a treat every day before class.

John Jeep, a professor of German and linguistics at Miami, enjoyed having an SDIT in his classroom.

“In a German class, the student had a dog in training,” Jeep said. “It was a welcome diversion for the students, but there was a restriction on petting as part of the train ing regime.”

No matter where SDIT handlers go, whether in class or to a restaurant, they often deal with people wanting to pet their dog unexpectedly.

Students should always ask handlers before petting, offering treats, or approaching an SDIT.

“Zach is still very excitable, so having people random ly come up and pet him while he is working is extremely distracting to him,” Schleifer said. “We also face many challenges because not many students know what our organization is and don’t always respect our boundaries with our dogs.”

Schleifer also stressed the importance of remember ing that SDITs are far from perfect because they are still animals.

“You won’t meet a puppy raiser who hasn’t cried because of their dog, who hasn’t joked about returning them,” Schleifer said. “Raising a dog is exhausting, but it is worth every second of it when you see someone get their eyes back.” S

Vignettes

/vin.yets/ plural noun

A collection of brief stories that provide a glimpse into the lives of five different students.

Illustrations by Macey Chamberlin

Riley Peters

I’m over the sink with a sponge in my hand doing my least favorite chore.

I’ve always hated doing the dishes — wet food left on the plates, milk rotting in cereal bowls.

My mother actually enjoys it. She says it’s “calming.”

That never made sense to me.

I always thought that when I liked to do the dishes I’d start to become a grown-up.

I last saw my parents when they helped move me into my very first house. My name was on the lease. I made the rules. I had the code to the front door. From the outside, I looked like a true grown-up.

But I felt like an imposter. Like I was living in someone else’s house who would soon come home and hopefully take care of everything.

A call to my mother: “How should I wash a comforter?”

A call to my father: “My car is making a funny noise.”

A call to my mother: “How do I make a doctor’s appointment?”

A call to my father: “Can I have that one recipe?”

All of the unnoticed, unspoken things my parents did were now left to me. I was stuck in limbo — not yet a grown-up, but not a kid anymore.

I wondered when I’d finally become an adult and how I would know it had happened. It wasn’t until one day, months later, when I was washing the dishes and humming that I caught myself thinking …

“This is nice.”

A quiet transition into adulthood.

I was no longer stuck between adolescence and adult hood. No longer an imposter in someone else’s house.

Calls to my parents were now about the material of my classes, the jobs and internships I wanted, and my plans for the future.

And suddenly, quietly and peacefully, doing the dish es a few times a week didn’t seem so bad.

Dishes Building her Body

Evan Stefanik

Nickole Sandoval hurls a final rice cake wrapper into the trash can backstage before going on stage for her first bodybuilding competition.

In her dressing room mirror, she looks for proof of the only food she ate for half a year: ground turkey, egg whites and chicken salads. Her perseverance shows when she flexes.

An expensive tan from head to toe makes her shine like a bronze statue. She beams with the same pas sionate smile as her bodybuilding idols on Instagram. Nickole’s coach approaches and instructs her how to pose before adjusting her $450 bikini to fit tighter around her muscles.

Once her coach manipulates her posture and lets her relax, Nickole tries to stretch out any tension in the next-door gym space.

Although she is thick-legged from cardio and buff from lifting weights, she maintains a nationally-quali fying hourglass figure. She had to tone her body to the extreme for this competition and now survives at her leanest.

She used to face frequent near-paralysis on her couch, suffering intense physical fatigue from her con stant exercise. Training meant spending many of her nights rehydrating and staring at the ceiling instead of partying with friends.

As an educational psychology master’s student and lifelong athlete, Miami University’s recreation center has allowed Nickole to meet fellow bodybuilders who have encouraged her to compete.

When she feels ready, Nickole takes one triumphant breath, raises her chin, and steps onto the stage. Along the way, she catches a whiff of the uneaten box of do nuts that waits for her on the vanity.

“You know, the Puritans were pretty brutal,” he said as he looked up from a gray hardcover titled “New England Legends and Folklore” and uncrossed his legs.

You would instantly believe him if he said he was a direct descendant of the Puritans. His curly brown hair, his freckles and his skin — only slightly tanned because of a parks job he worked over the summer — say it all.

He was aware that he was descended from New En glanders, but there were so many things he didn’t know about his heritage until he researched with the help of Ancestry.com and Google.

He didn’t know that his ancestor from 11 genera tions back was the second wife of William Bradford. He didn’t know that three of his ancestors were signers of the Mayflower Compact. He didn’t know that his mom had known about his heritage for ages and had never bothered to tell him.

Back in Session

Lexi Whitehead

After building up a 4.3 GPA throughout his first three years in high school, Ryan Helms ended the first quarter of his senior year with a 0.6.

Ryan had been skipping school and not doing his work.

Having been accepted into the University of Ala bama with a full-ride scholarship, he saw no end-goal in continuing to try in school, so he started avoiding class and missing assignments.

Between six Advanced Placement classes, an after-school job and having to study what felt like a random spattering of subjects, Ryan didn't feel focused.

After years of being in his school’s gifted program, taking the highest-level classes and competing with his peers for the best grades, Ryan was burnt out and realized he no longer wanted to suffer for his grades.

Things got slightly better when he made it to college in 2014, but they still weren’t perfect. He was glad to take a more focused set of classes for his engineering major, but he couldn’t break the habit of skipping classes.

Shr-Hua Moore

He didn’t want to know about his father’s ancestors.

His dad left before he was born. However, he didn’t notice until he was six and realized that all his classmates had two parents instead of one. Besides a phone call every once in a while and a birthday present that’s always a few days late, his father is just another stranger.

While he isn’t mad at him anymore, he also isn’t eager to meet him.

“He’s just a person that I happen to share 50 percent of my DNA with,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Maybe his obsession with the Puritans was a way to get out of doing his chemistry homework — or perhaps it was easier to learn about forefathers long gone rather than the father who had never been there for him in the first place.

Ryan spent three years at the University of Ala bama, then he took three years off to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. He spent his time working at a rock climbing center and thinking about what career would fit him best.

He thought about attending trade school during that time, but after people in trades dissuaded him, he decided to go back to college for a business degree.

He got a two-semester associate degree from Cincin nati State Technical and Community College, then he transferred to Miami University this year. He didn’t get into the Farmer School of Business like he wanted and is currently a University Studies major.

Although he isn’t in Farmer, he can still take busi ness classes and focus on reapplying.

The focus of his business classes and his choice of a thematic sequence in geography means he’s taking classes he likes. After almost 10 years, Ryan feels like he has an end-goal. Sometimes he still struggles to motivate himself to study, but day by day he’s working to build better academic habits.

Behind the Counter

Jake Ruffer

Students foraging for pretzels, Gatorade and ramen noodles wander into the Emporium market in Arm strong Student Center. They seize upon their finds then plunk them down onto the counter.

“Go ahead and tap whenever you’re ready,” the blonde girl working the register says.

The customers pay and walk their snacks out the door while she remains a cashier.

They won’t learn that she doesn’t really think of herself like that — she actually prefers stocking the

zoology and picked up a second major in environmental science. Her Spanish minor comes naturally.

On Saturday mornings, she gets up before 10:30 a.m. to help clean up trash around town with Zero Waste Ox ford. She plays guitar, swims breaststroke for Miami’s club Redfins and likes to watch anime.

She loves her mini labradoodle Cooper and her betta fish Bubbles. She says it’s always a good day if she’s seen some bugs. Sometimes her friends send her pictures of the insects they see on their walks to class to help her

The best day of her life was when she hiked up Ca dillac Mountain in Maine and watched the sun rise over the bay with her mom.

She says that the people she helps out at work can become like regulars, coming in during her shifts each week. And yet, with everything there is to know about Emily Davidson, many of them won’t even stop to learn her name. S

A Life Almost Taken, Mine Forever Changed

By GraciAnn Hicks

*Trigger Warning: Description of Violence, Mention of Anxiety, Depiction of Panic Attack

A red brick-paved path leads the way to the covered outdoor amphitheater where hundreds of people sat in anticipation of award-winning author Salman Rushdie’s lecture. On the way there, audience members could catch glimpses of Chautauqua Lake as they passed by well-maintained Victorian-style houses with lush flowers lining their perfectly decorated porches — porches that often hosted audience members animatedly discussing the events they attended that day.

With green Chautauqua Institution seat cushions in place, hearing aids adjusted and children or grandchil dren handed over to the boys’ and girls’ club, audience members could settle in to enjoy the 10:45 a.m. Friday lecture.

Rushdie and Henry Reese, founder of Pittsburgh’s City of Asylum, a non-profit organization supporting exiled writers, were introduced to the audience. Before Reese could begin the interview, a man from the audi ence rushed on stage.

While those sitting higher up in the amphitheater couldn't see what had happened, those who sat closer could see the man pummeling Rushdie.

Police detained the attacker. Rushdie lay on his back, blood pooling under his head. News that something terri ble had happened began to spread through the grounds.

Meanwhile, I was a few buildings over, sitting at my desk in the newsroom of The Chautauquan Daily, the newspaper that serves the Institution. A photographer entered the newsroom and announced to the group that someone had attacked the morning lecturer. Things like this didn’t happen at Chautauqua.

Processing the trauma caused by an attempted murder at my place of work

Illustrations by Erin Morgan

I looked up, and suddenly they were rushing for the door. It was only then that I heard why the photographer had returned: Someone had rushed on stage during the lecture with Rushdie. I quickly joined a group of interns

The amphitheater was a two-minute walk from the newsroom. We made it in maybe 30 seconds and saw hundreds of people spilling onto Bestor Plaza, frightened and crying. For 150 years, children had laughed and played on the plaza; musicians had performed here, and people had lingered to discuss the lectures they'd just

As I took in the scene, it began to sink in that some thing terrible had happened. The amphitheater was blocked off with police tape when we reached it. As we stood around trying to find more information, we saw our Editor-In-Chief, Sara Toth, sprinting across the plaza

More than a dozen of us followed her and crowded onto the porch of the office. Sara had her signature coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other by the time we caught up. We stood in silence, awaiting her guidance.

is not an average newspaper. It’s owned by the Chautauqua Institution; it’s a house organ. In the off-season, Sara and her husband Dave Munch, who acts as photo editor for the paper during the

Sara was candid with us, sharing that she was strug gling against two different instincts. As a reporter, she wanted to tell us to get after the story as soon as possible. As an employee, she didn’t know what was safe or what

As we talked on the porch, Sara confirmed that Rush

Sara told us we could always report on the community reaction later. At this point, the Institution was under lockdown, and she wanted us inside the office. During this conversation, the first outside news report poured in from Associated Press. A writer happened to be in the audience, not even to cover the event, and less than 15 minutes after the amphitheater was evacuated, they

The air on the porch was heavy with defeat. For another news source to report on the story first felt like failing as journalists.

We accepted what Sara said and spilled back into the office. I sat at my desk in “editors’ island” and tried to return to my work. I didn’t get far before I began writing a reflection on the day to process and record my experi ence. I only wrote 98 words before more updates came in from another photographer.

He had also been covering the event and had charged the stage as soon as the man attacked Rushdie. A group of interns crowded around a computer to look at his pictures.

I hesitated. Then I eventually went over to look for myself. I had seen powerful photos before, including several that showed war refugees and national crises, but I had never been so close to a tragedy, then viewed it through a camera lens.

In the pictures, I saw blood spilled around Rushdie’s body, confirming our fears that he had been stabbed.

The attacker had brought a knife into the amphithe ater and tried to kill an internationally renowned author in front of an audience of hundreds of people.

I couldn’t look at the pictures for very long.

Because the photographer was a Chautauqua em ployee, the Institution technically owned the pictures. He couldn’t send them to major news sources until he had Chautauqua’s OK. If he’d had permission, his pictures likely would have been on the front page of The New York Times the next day. He might have even won awards for them. But all he could do was stare at the screen.

I became overwhelmed with feelings of uselessness, and I asked the other intern from Miami University, Skyler Black, to talk with me outside.

We both felt that as journalists we should do some thing. We could not accept sitting in the office while a tragedy that was making international news unfolded in our place of work. Still, we didn’t know what would get us in trouble.

We also didn’t know if we would be safe to report. I worried that the man who attacked Rushdie might not have been working alone.

As we stood outside the office, Arden sprinted toward us.

“My mom just called and told me the Everett Jewish Life Center is on fire!”

I froze. Reporters and photographers began to run toward the building, one of the many religious spaces on campus.

If it was on fire, then this was a calculated attack on all of Chautauqua, which prided itself on being an interfaith safe haven. I was afraid and stayed back in the news room. I once again felt as if I were failing as a journalist, and I reasoned with myself that others could get the details.

I called my dad. I had been texting my mom and dad updates the whole time, but I couldn’t tell them over text that there was possibly a literal terrorist attack happen ing where I worked. Shortly after I got off the phone with him, the interns returned to the office. The “fire” was a false alarm.

What terrible timing.

After confirming that the Institution wasn’t under attack, I returned to my conversation with Skyler, and a few others joined us. We all agreed that waiting around wasn’t an option, but we didn’t know where Sara was, as she had been running around trying to find more information.

“I just don’t know how someone

I decided to take charge. We walked back into the office, and I approached Dave.

“I’m going to level with you, Dave,” I said. “You have a room filled with journalists who want to report on this story.”

He seemed flustered and scared, but I pushed him because we felt we had a duty to fulfill.

“I don’t want my wife to get fired. I don’t want to get fired,” he said as concern wrinkled his eyebrows.

I assured him that we didn’t want that either and asked if he knew what we could do. He eventually con ceded and said we could go talk to people but not bother them too much.

So, we headed out to report on the community's reaction as a team. We passed the main entrance to the grounds; the line of cars trying to leave and return was longer than we had ever seen. The Institution had been on lockdown, but it now allowed people to enter and exit.

Vans with reporters were already positioned outside the gates. I felt disgusted that they could bother a com munity processing trauma, even as we were about to do the same thing.

As we walked through the grounds, talking with employees and residents, the scene felt apocalyptic. The roads were normally filled with people on their way to events, leisurely strolling as grandkids rode ahead on bikes and their dogs stopped for bathroom breaks. That day, the roads were empty, except for several visitors walking or driving toward an exit with suitcases in tow, with no intention of returning to Chautauqua.

Meanwhile, the art vendors who occupied Bestor Plaza every Friday sold their products as usual.

“I don’t understand how they can act like nothing happened,” Skyler said angrily.

After talking to people milling about the plaza, we re turned to the office and were instructed to put everything we had gathered from reporting into a shared document. Sara told us that we would not publish a news story about it until the following day, when it would appear in the weekend paper. The Chautauquan Daily is foremost a print publication with a mostly graying or grayed audi ence, so articles are never published exclusively online.

Instead of returning to editing, I began searching through our massive bound archive with all newspapers from the summer of 2010 when Rushdie had visited Chautauqua before. I eventually found an article that Sara had written when she was an intern.

In 1989, Iran’s leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, issued a fatwa, which is a legal ruling from an Islamic leader, that called for Rushdie’s death. This fatwa result ed in previous attempts to assassinate the author. Mere months later, though, the Ayatollah died.

During his first lecture at Chautauqua, Rushdie had been asked about the fatwa, and he responded: “One of us is dead. … You know what they say about the pen being mightier than the sword? Do not mess with novelists.”

Though Rushdie’s own life had been at risk, he felt confident enough in 2010 to boast of his own survival over the Ayatollah’s. According to Sara’s article, he made this statement on the very stage where an attacker had tried to kill him today.

My chest sank under the horrible irony.

Around dinner time, we ordered food from a local pizza place, which was a Friday tradition, but the tradi tion felt stale. Most of us didn’t have much appetite even though we hadn’t eaten in hours. The food didn’t offer the normal chance for casual lunchtime conversations; it was purely fuel to keep us moving forward. I placed over half of my wings into our shared newsroom fridge and returned to work.

could do something like this.”

After editing the remaining pieces for the weekend paper, I left twelve hours after I arrived. Twelve-hour days weren’t uncommon for a copy editor, but that day felt infinitely longer.

I returned to the house I shared with six other interns. With heavy footsteps, I climbed the stairs, walked into my shared bedroom and burst into tears, feeling thankful my roommate wasn’t there.

It was a primal release of emotions that had been building the entire day. I hadn’t properly processed any of the shock, hurt or anger that a man being stabbed at your place of work brings.

I called my mom and talked through my feelings. While on the phone, I received an invitation from girls in the other intern house to come over and drink. I didn’t think it would be a wise decision for me. I told my mom, and she agreed and told me to go to bed.

The moment the call ended, I contemplated going to sleep. I truly felt as if I had been awake for 24 hours. I knew it would be a bad decision to go, but my friends — the only other people who had experienced the day’s events as staff of The Chautauquan Daily — wanted me to come.

So I drove to the other interns’ house anyway because I didn’t want my last memories with my co-workers to be of us scrambling about the grounds to report on a trage dy. I didn’t want my bittersweet goodbye stolen from me.

When I arrived at the other house, people were party ing as if nothing had happened. There were four strang ers there: out-of-town friends of one of the designers who had planned to visit that day. They hadn’t worked at Chautauqua the whole summer. They didn’t under stand what an event like the stabbing meant for a place like that, or what it meant for us. They just wanted to get drunk with their friend.

So I tried to join them. If everyone else could have fun, I thought I could as well.

I don’t remember the exact moment things changed, but one moment we were laughing, the music was blaring and I was enjoying myself, and then I was in a friend’s bed having a panic attack.

As I lay under her quilt, a tsunami of tears flooded from my eyes, and my shallow breathing came fast.

I was inconsolable. I kept repeating, “I just don’t know how someone could do something like this.”

Skyler and some of her roommates tried to comfort me, to calm me down. They did everything they could imagine from having me talk to a crisis hotline to calling my mom at 3 a.m. I’d have moments where my breathing would slow enough for me to croak out a few sentences, but I couldn’t stop hyperventilating.

While I shattered under the pressures of the day, people continued to party out in another room. I felt like an embarrassment: a pitiful story they would tell their real friends when they returned to their university in a few days.

I reassured them I was fine and tried to sleep as they returned to the party. But I couldn’t shake the panic attack; it was unlike any I’d had before, which usually didn’t last longer than 20 minutes.

It was one thing to read about terrible, violent events in the news, but to have one happen in such close proximity, in my place of work where parents had never before worried about letting their children walk around or ride bikes alone and where they thought nothing bad could happen — it wrecked me.

I have always been an idealist in denial. I’ll say that I’m a realist, but it always broke my heart to expect any thing other than good from people. It wasn’t that I had never dealt with terrible people or been hurt badly; I just needed to remain optimistic because the alternative left me unable to function. My worldview had been shattered, though. If someone could try to kill somebody they didn’t know in front of hundreds of other strangers, maybe people aren’t generally good.

As I wept, I felt every ounce of idealism exit my body.

After three hours of what felt like fighting for my life, I screamed out for help, but nobody couldn’t hear me over the music. Since my friends had left me, I had become convinced that I would die.

The worry that I would die was a sick psychological trick my brain was playing on me, compounded by my fears, a shortage of oxygen and an abundance of alcohol in my blood.

Eventually, my friends returned, and I conveyed my concerns to them. They tried to convince me that I didn’t need to go to a hospital and talked me out of calling an ambulance. However, I couldn’t be bargained with.

Before we walked out to the car, they cleared the kitchen of the partiers and helped me put on my shoes while I kept my head down sheepishly.

A friend who hadn’t had a drink in hours drove me to the local emergency room. They gave me anxiety pills, Vistaril. I began to calm down, and at about 5 a.m. I went home.

The following day, all I did was lay in bed, hardly mov ing or eating, and I kept checking all the news sources.

I had to go into the office on Sunday like normal to edit articles for Monday’s paper, and I was supposed to leave Monday, so I thought about not going in at all. I couldn’t fathom walking back onto the Institution's grounds. I joked about getting to the entrance and break ing down, but I really thought it was a possibility.

I forced myself to go anyway because the other copy editor was out of town, and I couldn’t let Sara edit the paper alone.

Sunday was another 10-plus hour day. The office was mostly empty except for a couple designers, Sara and myself. I asked one of the designers what her favorite Disney movie was and proceeded to put on “Tangled” while we worked.

We needed the comfort of something that brought us joy as children. We needed to be reminded of a time when nothing like this could happen to us.

I left on Monday as planned and returned home with only four full days until I would move into the house I would live in during my junior year at Miami.

I wanted to hide from the world. I didn’t want to return as a broken person to my Miami friends who I hadn’t seen in months. I was damaged, and it wasn’t their problem. I already felt like I had burdened my fellow interns and my parents enough with my grief.

I felt weak. Stupid. Pathetic.

Nobody else broke down the way I did.

People told me that everybody processes things differ ently, but I couldn’t believe it.

Before leaving for Miami, my mom and I went to Walmart to purchase a few last-minute items. As we walked through the store, I felt more anxious than ever in public. It was a busy place filled with strangers who might do anything.

I felt completely out of control, just like I was at Chautauqua — like anyone could hurt me and there was nothing I could do about it.

I have always struggled with control but seeing how very little I actually had made me feel unsafe going to places that normally wouldn’t be a problem.

I talked with a pastor from my home church, and I cried. A lot. I left feeling a little lighter, but I still felt as if nobody understood exactly what I was going through.

I didn’t understand it myself. I wasn’t attacked. I wasn’t even in the amphitheater when it happened. Yet I was entirely robbed of any sense of security I felt in completing day-to-day tasks.

I understand now that my reaction was valid. But I will never understand how people are capable of such evil. I still carry the trauma with me in unexpected ways, like when I drove to Columbus, Ohio, for fall break and saw that a car had flipped over the median and was upside down.

As I drove past it, my eyes welled with tears. I didn’t know those people and couldn’t see any blood. Yet anx iety crept in. Pressure built in my chest, and my knuck les turned bright white as I gripped the steering wheel harder.

That could have been me. That could have been any one I knew.

Weeks after I drove past the crash, while I was on a phone call with my mom, she told me that my aunt and cousin had been in a bad car accident. Both situations only reaffirmed what the attempted Rushdie murder has taught me: We have no control over the bad things in life. I’m still in the process of mourning this fact.

I’ll likely always carry the trauma, but I’m moving forward. S

Time to BeReal

A look into the trendiest new app and the pressures users face on social media

By Megan Miske

Almost every social media platform allows the same affordances to users when they post a picture: They can choose exactly which image to post, edit it and apply filters before selecting the perfect time to make it public.

These platforms, like Instagram, allow for users to build their follower base into the millions, become influencers and post content for anyone to see. However, a new social media app was recently developed with the promise of doing something completely different.

“Time to BeReal: 2 mins left to capture a BeReal and see what your friends are up to!” the app chimes.

BeReal is a social media platform where once a day at a random time every user is prompted to take a picture using their front and back camera within a two minute window of time. The app was founded in 2020 and is currently number one on the Apple app store charts for social networking. With no filters and no editing allowed, the concept is simple: Take a picture wherever you are,

Madison Rickabaugh, a junior middle childhood education major, said she has enjoyed using the app so far. She uses social media, like BeReal, to stay connected with her friends that she doesn’t see very often.

“I think it’s a really cool concept,” Rickabaugh said. “It doesn’t show [just] the highlights, it shows people’s daily, realistic life.”

Rickbaugh still uses Instagram despite disliking ele ments of the social media platform. She believes that the tradition of people only posting when they look good or are doing something fun needs to change. She also thinks that users need to take more responsibility when it comes to posting realistic pictures of themselves.

“I think at one point in my life, [Instagram] did have a negative impact [on me],” Rickabaugh said. “I follow a lot of mental health accounts now, and I make it more about seeing my friends.”

Before she changed the way she used Instagram, Rickbaugh felt like people only painted themselves in a positive light online, and it often made her feel insecure.

Illustrations by Hannah Potts

Evidence of people wanting a more authentic social media platform started in July 2022 after a petition called Make Instagram Instagram Again started circu lating the Internet. The petition, created by influencer Tati Bruening, encouraged Instagram to go back to the basics of being just a photo sharing app that is used among friends.

As the petition gained attention, it was reposted by celebrities like Kylie Jenner. Today, it has over 300,000 signatures.

“There’s no need to overcomplicate things, we just want to see when our friends post,” Bruening wrote in the petition. “The beauty of Instagram was that it was INSTANTaneous.”

Andrew Peck, an assistant professor of strategic com munications at Miami University, said the creation of a seemingly more authentic platform was a good business move for BeReal.

“[Users] are fed up with how inauthentic, polished and filtered Instagram has become,” Peck said. “[BeReal] feels authentic and a little bit free of corporate influence.”

While BeReal seems trendy and different right now, Peck thinks it is difficult for social media apps to remain authentic and cool. As he put it, social media companies have to constantly keep running to keep up with the interest and demands of their audiences.

“The concept of coolness is a moving target,” Peck said. “Once something becomes mainstream and there are more ads, [the app] becomes less cool.”

Despite BeReal’s popularity, some social media users like Bayley Gilligan, a senior strategic communications major at Miami, have not downloaded the app.

Gilligan said he hasn't downloaded BeReal because he feels it infringes on his privacy, and it doesn’t seem like the app is as authentic and earth-shattering as it is made out to be.

“I thought the app was a lot more close-knit, but I’ve noticed how many people that my friends have added on the app,” Gilligan said. “I personally don’t care to see what everyone is doing and how that compares to my life at that moment.”

Gilligan is still on other social platforms like Instagram and Twitter. While Gilligan said he doesn’t feel a lot of pressure to download the app, he does occasionally feel left out when the BeReal notification goes off everyday.

“As soon as I came back to Oxford this fall, I imme diately noticed that most of my friends had BeReal,” Gilligan said. “One of my roommates will say ‘Time to BeReal,’ and they will stop what they are doing to take the picture.”

The concept of the app going off once a day, causing some people to stop what they’re doing, has become the butt of many jokes. A recent Saturday Night Live skit even joked that someone would stop in the middle of a bank robbery if their BeReal notification were to go off.

Ron Becker, a professor of media and communi cation at Miami, agreed with some of the sentiments shared by Gilligan. It wasn’t shocking to him that people have begun to want a more authentic social media experience, but he wouldn’t say that BeReal is authentic, because he thinks people will always find a way to filter and frame their life.

It shows you that every day is something special.

Even though the picture was taken a few months ago, it really makes you wonder where all the time went.

“The camera itself is offering a version of a repre sentation of your reality that is not the same as your authentic complex life,” Becker said. “Even if you're walking around and you're taking a photo when BeReal tells you, it's only capturing part of the environment that you're in at that moment. It's only probably capturing part of your clothing. It’s only getting one angle of you.”

Because BeReal has features that show other users how many times someone retook their daily picture and how late after the two-minute time frame they posted it, Becker also finds BeReal to be intrusive.

“If the app works to make us respond to it when ever it signals to us to do something, that is a unique authority that is more intrusive than Instagram would be,” Becker said.

Despite these beliefs, Becker believes that there are pros to BeReal, like that it draws more attention to the fact that other social media apps encourage people to present a curated version of themselves. He said, how ever, that there is no foolproof way to stop people from curating their lives.

“If you still want to look like you're having an exciting life, if that is really important to you and you're using BeReal, that could create a perverse incentive to con stantly be having a good life,” Becker said. “That is an amazingly intrusive and manipulative aspect of it.”

Considering the app is only two years old and newer still to most users, some people like Hannah Lewis, a senior strategic communications and arts management double major, wonder if BeReal will be able to stick to its original mission and values.

“I’m curious to see if BeReal will conform to other social media platforms, like if you are able to post videos or repost someone else’s BeReal,” Lewis said.

Something that Lewis has enjoyed about the app is the ability to privately view her old BeReals. She compared the concept of BeReal to a video she saw on Facebook where a man took a picture of himself every day for seven years. At the end, he had a picture archive of a significant part of his life.

“It shows you that every day is something special,” Lewis said. “Even though the picture was taken a few months ago, it really makes you wonder where all the time went.”

Regardless of whether or not BeReal is accom plishing its mission of authenticity, it is making waves throughout the world of social media.

TikTok recently introduced a feature called TikTok Now that imitates the concept of BeReal, but with video. According to the platform’s website, TikTok Now allows users to capture a short 10-second video or static photo once a day, simultaneously with other users, and share it with their friends.

As the concept continues to grow and change, and some users continue to gravitate toward a more authen tic social media landscape, people will have to wait and see if BeReal has the answers they are looking for. S

Dancing with the Second AmendmentMY PARADOXICAL EXPERIENCE AS A FIRST-TIME GUN BUYER

By Devin Ankeney

It was a regular Thursday. I had two journalism classes, got some homework done and enjoyed the sunny, breezy, cool-but-not-cold weather. When my last class of the day ended, I hurried out the door at the first moment I could. Not two hours later, I found myself holding a Hatfield SGL .20-Gauge Break-Open Shotgun. ***

I’ve seen the same headlines many people have: the same number of children dead, the same number of mass shootings and the same number of proposed bills in any given state to combat or promote gun ownership.

But, like most of those who have spent their entire life on the left side of the political spectrum and in disagreement with the common interpretation of the Second Amendment, I had never held a gun before. I’d only ever seen one, strapped to the waist of a cop or in between the front seats of a police car.

After many years of understanding politics and spending time in New York and Ohio, my stance on gun laws was neither set in stone nor comprehensive. I cer tainly think gun usage is out of hand and that there are far too many guns in this country, but I can’t say I know exactly what should be done about it.

What I do know is that I'd be talking out of my ass until I found out more about it. I had to admit I was curious, even though I didn't want to own a gun, load one, or shoot one. But I did start wondering: What exactly is it like to go out and buy one? Is it really as easy as I’d heard? Is there some higher power, some hidden enlightenment, that comes from the possession of a firearm?

I yearned to know what it was about these con glomerates of plastic, wood and metal that drew people in, that made them so passionate about being legally allowed to possess either one or 30. It’d always felt like an “Us vs. Them,” an anti-gun vs. pro-gun culture, but I wondered if it had to be that way. So, I embarked on a journey to understand gun owners.

Maybe it was the snowflake in me, or maybe it was the fact that I’m only 20 years old, but it terrified me: To go into a gun store, point, and say, “that one, please!” was a painful thought. It felt like a complete bastardiza tion of the self in one fell swoop.

I couldn’t shake the memory of learning about Sandy Hook, Parkland or Las Vegas.

I didn’t know where to look for a gun. I figured most people started out the same way: by looking up “guns” and checking out the nearest places. So I did the same. I was scared of setting foot in what I imagined in my head as the temple of doom.

With that in mind, I knew I had to dangle my feet in the water first. I needed to know the type of places I was dealing with before actually picking the one where I would make my ultimate purchase.

I started with a pawn shop in Richmond, Indiana. Thought I’d give it a shot. It’s 45 minutes down the road anyway.

I pulled up to what looked like it used to be a corner 7/11 in the small, poor city.

Illustrations by Caitlin Dominski

“‘If you voted for and continue to support and stand behind the worthless, inept and corrupt administration currently inhabiting the White House that is complicit in the death of our service men and women in Afghani stan, please take your business elsewhere.’

blunt notice”

The sign outside made me twitchy. By no means am I a fan of “He Who Steers the Ship at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” nor can I say I’ve been a fan of any of the fine gentlemen in office before him. I did, however, vote for the guy they were referencing in the window, and I needed to try to be inconspicuous and fit in.

A younger woman with dark hair and various pierc ings, along with a salesperson's attitude, greeted me as I walked in.

I let out a meager “Hi,” like a small cat in a Disney film, before wandering around the store and looking at the video games like a dork to make up for it.

After a minute or so, I made my way back to the wide, glass-case counter filled with every weapon of which someone could dream. I started with the knives and switches, easing myself in. But then I turned and looked at the dozens of dark, metal weaponry placed on the wall behind the counter, trying to make out the prices to see what I could afford.

I asked the saleswoman to see a couple.

“New York! You wouldn’t be able to buy this any way,” she said after checking my I.D.

I might as well have been wearing a shirt that read: “First-Time Buyer, Lifetime Moron.” I guess the first shop is going to go down in my personal history as a learning experience. ***

It’d been a week since I first tried to buy a gun, and I couldn’t shake the thought of it. I kept thinking about holding one of those deadly masterpieces in my hands, about knowing what it was like despite the intense fear the image brought to mind.

I gathered my personal documents, ran out of my class that ended at 4:10 p.m. and bounded southeast to the Hamilton BMV in my silver Subaru hatchback, which is decorated in West Wing, Human Rights Cam paign and Save Our VA bumper stickers. I had to get there with enough time to get my Ohio license before they closed at 5 p.m.

I was out by 4:58 p.m., temporary license in-hand. Success.

A few miles further west, I headed down the heavily-trafficked Route 177 until I saw the small, tree-covered front of the shop and its large overhead sign: “GUNS.” It was only 25 minutes from “the most beautiful campus ever there was.”

I learned later that what I knew as “GUNS” was ac tually the Southern Ohio Gold & Silver Exchange, a title hidden by a tree.

I turned into the parking lot, my heart beating fast like I’d ran there.

After a minute, I took a deep breath, stepped out of my car and made my way to the front door. There was an intimidating warning in the window that the store is not responsible for customers’ safety once inside.

Upon entry, I was confronted with the dense air that only comes from decades of smoking indoors and a room with an intensely saturated, maroon carpet. I was instantly reminded of my grandparents' house where it felt like sucking on a straw to breathe in their dank living room.

The familiar jingle of the unfamiliar door rang as I let it swing behind me.

“How ya doin?”

I was greeted by only the distant voice of a mid dle-aged man whom I couldn’t see.

The voice came from an office behind the checkout counter, where I presumed the shopkeeper planted himself when the shop was empty.

I took a few more steps in, seeing a line of guitars and amps along the wall to my right, and various piles and racks of power tools to my left. Inside the glass counter by the checkout were various jewelry items one would find at any pawn shop in the country.

Ahead and to the left were what seemed to me like hundreds of guns. Long guns on the left, vests and other equipment dead ahead, and handguns to my right.

As I looked around the corner, trying to see where he was, I told the well-hidden man I wanted to take a look at the long guns. He reminded me to prompt him with any questions I might have.

Because I was only 20 years, I couldn’t buy a hand gun in Ohio. Only the long guns: rifles.

I walked over to this part of the counter, where I saw a bright yellow sign shaped like “POW!” in a ’50s Batman flick, letting customers know it’s perfectly OK to walk behind the counter to look at the assortment of weaponry.

I made my way around the counter. I was once someone who never wanted to see a gun in their life, but I was now standing not two feet from dozens and dozens of rifles and shotguns.

After a few moments of browsing like it was a J. Crew store, I asked — who I had now assumed to be a hermit — to show me a few.

The 60-something man walked out wearing casual attire: navy shirt, cargo pants and a small handgun strapped to his cargo shorts, pulling them down to a sag a few inches below his waist.

“I’ll start by saying I’m coming from a point of … little knowledge coming into it,” I mentioned.

I asked about a hefty, expensive, black plastic mon ster and a less expensive walnut and metal single-shot shotgun. I’d never held a gun, so I wanted to try one from either end of the spectrum. I had made it that far without knowing what would “feel right.”

“Either one of those two would be a great first gun,” he told me. “That’s what most — don’t get offended — children start with.”

I wasn’t so much offended to be compared to a child as I was shocked to hear the word “children” come out of his mouth when talking about first-time shooters. He had meant it as reassurance with a healthy dose of sales manship, and he described his grandchildren’s similarly calibrated first rifles.

I asked about Ohio laws and gun purchases, despite already knowing what they were. I wanted to know what he thought, though I realized quickly I didn’t actually care.

He began by saying the age gap for handguns doesn’t make any sense, then moved on to Indiana’s laws where he said felons couldn’t even carry a box cutter. Later on, he tried to explain that there’s another part to the Second Amendment that — from reading my copy of the Constitution and several Google searches — doesn’t actually exist.

Nevertheless, he handed me the gun, which he called an “AR.” I wasn’t sure how the term applied, or if it did at all, but I didn’t question it, and I later learned it was actually a Mossberg 715T rifle. Despite him telling me it was plastic, I felt it sink with my hands a few inches before it settled. This all-black, Callof-Duty-looking beast cost all of $329.

For the first time ever, I held a gun. It was heavier than I expected. The brazen power of death in my hands was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I didn’t know whether I was terrified or if I felt powerful — or if I was terrified that I felt powerful. I just knew I didn’t want to hold onto it for much longer.

“You ever held a gun before?” he asked with eye brows raised.

I hadn’t.

“I’d go with that one,” he advised, motioning to the terrifying one.

I handed it back to him. I hated it.

Even if it was a kid’s gun made of mostly plastic, it looked like something you would find in an army bar racks, and I didn’t want any part of it.

I didn't know if I hated the first gun because it looked like a weapon for terror or because I didn't like holding guns. It was my first time with one, and I didn’t yet know whether the feeling was positive or negative. So, I tried the next one.

This one, a single-shot 22-gauge, was lighter and simpler, and it had a walnut hilt and steel barrel. It felt like something you’d take to a field and use to shoot at targets with some buddies. That wasn’t really my thing, but it didn’t drop into my hands as though it were a scythe.

It didn’t feel normal, but it didn’t quite feel evil either. There was something about the simple nature of it. Pull the hammer. Pull the trigger. Walnut hilt. No gadgets. No gizmos. It was just a gun. In my hands. I was reminded of what I imagined a gun to be before I’d ever seen one, back when I was just a kid learning about the Revolutionary War.

I had him put it back, and he reminded me that there are always lessons and rental guns for newbies before he wandered back into his cave of an office.

I was restless. I felt out of place. This wasn’t where someone like me belonged. This experience didn’t quite consume me like déjà vu of some past cowboy life in the Old West, but rather, I felt like I was in costume, playing the part of someone very different from who I really was.

I let five minutes pass as I paced back and forth, eye ing the options with which I’d become entranced. May be splurging on a big, pretty, camo hunting rifle would fill all the gaps I’ve been trying to fill. Maybe going back to the scary Mossberg would give me a chance to live the video games I used to play. After those several moments of reflection, I asked myself: Was I excited to leave the store with a gun?

Deep breaths. In. Out.

I asked to see the cheapest gun. The tag said $150, which was far less than the last one I asked about; it was the same model as the previous gun, but stronger — a higher gauge. Not quite a kiddie gun, but maybe a blue belt.

This experience may have felt like several lifetimes, and, hell, maybe it actually was several lifetimes worth of new experiences, but 15 minutes hadn’t even passed before I told the man this was the one.

“It’s a Hatfield?” I asked, bewildered, after separating the name into two words rather than one.

“Yeah, Hatfield-McCoy’s, you know,” he responded.

He returned to the checkout counter with some pa perwork he’d gathered from his office. I had to fill out a little over one page of information, which was less than what I filled out at the BMV earlier that day to get my driver’s license.

I noticed the gender section. The standard male and female options were presented alongside a non-binary marker. The BMV only had two.

I selected male rather than my identity, unsure if the Southern Ohio Gold & Silver Exchange was a safe haven for the “different.”

Back into the office he went. I took this moment to wander the store a bit more. I noticed the album “Cold Sweat” by James Brown on the wall. I returned to the guitars and noticed an Epiphone bass guitar stylized like the Hofner basses that Paul McCartney made famous.

I chuckled to myself. I had just realized I liked it in here.

He returned not more than a couple of minutes later, and we exchanged quips about Sir Paul and Ringo Starr’s recently canceled tour.

“I’ve actually had a couple of the older ones from like the ’60s,” he said, referring to McCartney’s signature viola bass.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, they were badass,” he replied casually.

I handed him my credit card in the middle of this bonding moment. He took it to a table behind the counter, ran it and returned it as my hands began to tremble yet again.

He ran quickly through a spiel about the receipt and my new weapon’s folding capabilities, but I wasn’t listening. It was done.

He handed it to me.

For the first time in my life, I owned a fucking gun.

After hardly twenty minutes in the store that had previously terrified me, I was now the proud owner of a Hatfield SGL .20-Gauge Single-Shot. Damn.

He wished me luck with my “next one,” and I awk wardly replied, “You too!” before walking out of the store.

I didn’t know how to transport my new toy from the store to the car, but I didn’t allow myself enough time or nerve to figure it out; I just speed walked, rifle in my right hand, in plain view and got to the back of my car.

Two grungy under-30 men watched me in the adjacent convenience store parking lot as I stashed the gun under a blanket in the trunk of my car before sitting down for the first time in what felt like hours. ***

As I was driving home, I began to think I might vom it. There was traffic everywhere and a cop behind me, who then pulled to my left, then ahead.

“It isn’t right,” “I’m doing something wrong,” “This has to be illegal,” and “I’m just a kid,” were all running through my head at the same time.

I was still trembling, both with fear and newfound strength, but I made the drive home. The familiar ride up and down the long and rolling hills of south west Ohio felt longer than any time I’d ever made it before, yet I couldn’t even remember the drive I had just made when I pulled up to my apartment.

My heart was racing, and I didn’t feel normal. I wanted it to stop, but I knew I couldn’t do

from the pawn shop was very different than the walk from the car to my apartment complex filled with col lege-aged students. A surge of fear and urgency swept my heart.

I tossed my long leather duster I mistakenly left in the car over the back seat and into the trunk so I could wrap up the shotgun before walking into my apartment where I lived alone. I didn’t want to be seen as “the one with the gun.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could nearly hear it out loud. A squirrel ran in front of me, scaring the

Despite a dimly glimmering fascination with the gun, I didn’t want to paint myself as a caricature of someone upon whom others would either look down or look at with fear.

I made it inside and pulled the gun out, this time being the first without anybody around. I pulled back the hammer and aimed it at the mirror staring right back at me.

Now it settled more firmly into my mind and my soul. It felt like I had something I wasn’t supposed to have, but that made it powerful. It was powerful in a bad way, like giving a small child nuclear codes, but it was powerful in a good way, like test-driving a Ferrari or trying out a ’67 Les Paul in the store. I owned this thing.

I felt it was too damn easy to get the gun, yet I couldn’t help myself from holding it like it was precious — like it was more important than anything

Is it like a gateway drug? Am I going to turn 21, head back to the shop, get a heavy hand cannon, and carry it wherever I go? Is this who I am now? There’s no deny ing the trance my gun put me in; I couldn’t stop holding it and learning the exact pressure I needed to pull the

Like a drug, I kept dropping whatever I was doing to go look at it, touch it until I got my fix and moved on. Something clearly changed from the moment I first held a gun to the moment I held my gun in my home.

The first moment I held that rifle, I didn’t know what to feel besides terror. Now, holding it created an over whelming but false sense of control over my surround ings. I held the weight of life and death in my hands for 22 minutes of my time and 160 bucks.

I finally started to understand one reason why so many people care deeply about their right to bear arms; It really does provide a sense of safety over your do main. That safety might be at the expense of others, but if you love and care for your family, wouldn’t you want to stop anything that threatened them?

I don’t know exactly where I land after buying the gun. I want to try it out and take it to the range, but I fear what that will do to my attachment to it. I want to take it back to the store and never see it again, but I fear what losing this sense of control — even if it’s false — will do to me.

Do I want to keep it? Yes. Should I have it? Absolutely not.

Either way, I think I finally understand why so many millions of Americans insist that owning a gun is a birthright. But I still believe it may be far too much power for one mortal soul to possess.

Part of me hates it. Part of me likes it. The one thing I can say is that I hate that I might like it. S

PROFILE

56 THE MIAMI STUDENT MAGAZINE, FALL 2022 Photography by Henri Robbins

JUST HIM AND A MOTOR

A Miami University professor’s lifetime passion for motorcycles

By Henri Robbins

Professor J. E. Elliott rides his motorcycle into the art building parking lot, taps the kickstand with his toe and swings a leg over the side of the bike before standing and taking off his helmet. His motorcycle — an MV Agusta F3 with a brilliant red and silver paint job — sits in the lot while he teaches, waiting patiently to rip down highways and backroads once again.

This is Elliott’s daily routine. He rides his motor cycle as often as possible until the winter months rear their head and force him to commute in his Alfa Romeo 164, an Italian sedan from a company with a racing pedigree rivaling MV Agusta. But if he could ride the MV Agusta into Oxford, Ohio, every single day, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

“When you’re riding on a bike, your synapses are firing,” Elliott said. “You’ve got to be alert and ready to respond to anything. Because I’m officially in an el derly decade, the bike and teaching a studio class both help to keep me feeling more alert and energized than I would be otherwise.”

MV Agusta is an Italian motorcycle manufactur er specializing in small-production, high-end sports bikes. The company initially built airplanes for Italy during World War I and World War II and later moved into motorcycle racing. In 1947, Franco Bertoni began the company's racing legacy when he rode an MV 98 to victory on a racetrack near Milan.

Elliott’s motorcycle was not made by the same MV Agusta of racing history — the MV Agusta name was purchased by Cagiva, a large conglomerate motorcy cle company, in 1991. Cagiva still follows much of the earlier bikes’ legacy, though. They have similar design motifs and color schemes. They share the famous three-cylinder, four-stroke engine layout that helped Giacomo Agostini win seven consecutive 500cc world championships on the MV Agusta 500 Three.

“You know, I was always an admirer of Giacomo Agostini,” Elliott said. “He raced [MV Agustas] and gave them a whole bunch of world championships, and they were meant for that. Count Agusta just wanted to race bikes, and he sold bikes to support the racing.”

For Elliott, this legacy of performance and the ex perience that comes from it makes MV Agusta’s bikes worth riding.

“I don't feel like I'm sitting in an easy chair and leisurely cruising the roads,” Elliott said. “I feel inte grated into the bike. It's built to integrate you. Every movement you make, the bike responds to in some way or another. When you move, it’s almost telepathic. You feel connected to it.”

The MV is far from Elliott’s first bike. Before the MV, before his Thruxton and before his Ducati and Moto Guzzi, Elliott bought his first motorcycle: a well-worn Suzuki all-terrain bike that didn’t exceed 60 horsepower from a local rental store when he was in high school.

“I rode it to school and everywhere else,” Elliott said. “It seized on me probably twice, and that’s how I learned to work on stuff, by taking it apart since it was so simple to fix.”

The Suzuki was slow, small and easy to ride. It was the perfect starting point for a teen who, as Elliott admitted, would’ve definitely hurt themselves on any thing with a larger engine. His later bikes, however, all had a bit more force behind them.

During a partnership program, while studying at Miami University, Elliott spent a year at the Architec tural Association School of Architecture in London. Before leaving for the program, he saved up a couple thousand dollars to buy a British motorcycle that he would later bring back to the USA.

“That was how I was going to travel, in lieu of spending money on passes and tours. I got a Norton Commando, and it was great. I loved it.”

The Norton Commando was a 746cc British bike that cost him around $1,449 new in 1970. The bike had a parallel-twin engine, meaning the machine consist ed of two cylinders, which sat next to each other and made 58 horsepower. It had a maximum speed of 115 MPH.

It was stolen from him within a month.

“I had to wait five weeks to get my money from the insurance because they wanted to make sure it didn’t turn up,” Elliott said. “Talking to the police, they said, ‘No, if you don’t find it in the first day or two, then it’s already on the continent in pieces, being sold.’”

While this was a pretty heavy setback for Elliott, he was still determined to have a bike during his year in London. He searched and eventually found another bike at a famous shop that used to sell Velocettes.

“I didn’t want a used bike, so I got another Nor ton,” Elliot said.

This time, his bike was stolen within a week.

At the time, Britain was issuing different license plates to any new motor vehicles purchased by for eigners to export them back to their home country. These plates were black and white with a yellow rim instead of the usual yellow with black lettering. Because these plates stood out easily and foreigners often could not pursue these thefts, bikes with these plates became popular targets for criminals.

After waiting another five weeks, Elliott had the cash in hand for another new bike, and he already had one in mind: a used Velocette Thruxton. Since the Velocette would be purchased used, it wouldn’t have export plates.

Elliott described the Velocette Thruxton as “basi cally a detuned racer.” The bike was named after the Thruxton 500, an endurance race for production mo torcycles covering 500 miles of roads in nine hours. As a result, the bike was fast, light and fairly unwieldy for everyday use. Despite all of this, Elliott thought the Thruxton was fantastic.

Once he had the Velocette and was fairly confident that it wouldn’t be stolen, he began to explore Europe. While it wasn’t the most comfortable nor the safest way to get around, he was able to see things and meet people that he wouldn’t have had he traveled by more conventional means: the twisting roads of the British countryside, cruises along the French coast and long rides all across Europe.

“Fifty years ago this past summer, I’d gone down to France as a student,” Elliott said. “I was touring around. I went to Le Mans, and coming back down on the Mediterranean coast all of a sudden the bike was running really raggedy. I’d genuinely thought I’d burnt a valve or had some other mechanical issue, so I wasn’t going to try to ride it back all the way to London.”

As Elliott limped his bike to a train station in Lyon, he had al most no money with him. With no credit cards and no way to contact anyone else, he could only afford tickets to get to Calais — not all the way back to London.

Sitting in the baggage car, the bike was completely vulnerable to any sudden movements. With only the kickstand to keep it up and luggage scattered about, damage to the bike wasn’t just a risk; it was practically a guarantee.

“I got onto the train with my helmet and leather jacket, and a young conductor saw me with the helmet and said, ‘Is that your motorcycle?’ and I said, ‘Yeah.’ He said, ‘Wait right here.’”

Elliot only spoke a bit of French, and the conductor knew some English. However, he could tell that the conductor — who Elliott figured was younger than he was at the time — had an appreciation for motorcycles. The conductor led Elliot to the baggage car to look at the bike.

“I told him I was concerned about it falling over, so we rolled it in, put the nose in the corner, and then packed everyone else’s suitcases around it,” Elliot said. “Then, he took me to a compart ment — and, like I said, I had the cheapest ticket — he took me to a compartment all to myself, just because I had a bike.”

With the bike packed in for the journey, Elliott made it to Calais. From there, he jumped between trains and boats, dodging conductors and ticket fees on a path toward London. Once he got back, he checked the bike only to discover that the engine was still in great condition and that bad fuel had caused it to misfire.

Eventually, Elliott and the Thruxton made their way back to Miami. Currently, the half-century-old bike sits in his garage, having piled on enough miles that he says it needs a restoration; the perpetually unfinished project bike is a mainstay in countless motorcy cle garages, and Elliott’s is not an exception to this rule.

Today, Elliott’s rips down country roads are just as much his morning routine as a cup of coffee and a hot shower. He says that experiences like that on a bike keep him awake and alert — much more than he would be if he simply took a car to work every day.

“It's therapy,” Elliott said. “To me, it genuinely is therapy. Whenever I’m riding, I just feel great. My attention is focused. I’m not a person who focuses. I have trouble paying attention to anything. But on the bike, I can.”

The most important part of riding bikes, to Elliott, is the connections: connections to people, to the bike itself and connections across synapses as he twists down once-quiet country roads.

“There’s something real es sential about it — just you and a motor.” S

Entering the Red zone

By Claire Lordan

*Trigger Warning: Discussion and depiction of sexual and interpersonal violence

Like many of us, Ally Heniff’s transition to college didn’t begin the day she stepped onto campus. It began much earlier, in her living room, during a sitdown conversation with her mom and dad.

There, she was told for the first time about the dangers she may face at college.

“They sat me down and told me things I have to keep an eye out for,” Heniff said. “Always be with someone, never walk to places by yourself at night, things like that.”

The first-year biology major had known that the transition to college would bring new challenges. Study habits would have to be developed; friendships would be made, and roommates would be fought with.

Heniff also knew that college would open her to a new world of opportuni ties that hadn’t been available under her parent’s roof: alcohol and drug use. Things that had seemed worlds out of reach were now a part of her reality.

“I didn’t really do any of that stuff in high school,” Heniff said, “so seeing people do that on a daily basis was really jarring.”

But there is another, darker side to the first-year experience that doesn’t get the recognition it deserves. Whether we experience it ourselves or help a friend through it, the painful reality for many women on campus is that their first-year of college will be marred by sexual assault.

“I’m lucky enough to say that I haven’t experienced it myself,” Heniff said. “But you know that it’s a possibility, especially as a woman. It’s what your mom warns you about. You know that it could happen to you.”

Why we need to better prepare first-year college students for the reality of sexual assault

Illustrations by Hailey Van Boxtel

When you’re young, everyone generally gets the same safety advice. Kindergarten stranger danger assemblies don’t discriminate based on sex; check your Halloween candy for razorblades, and don’t yell out your address . These are the universal truths of adolescence. The responsibility of parents is to remind us that the world is not always kind and not everyone’s intentions are good.

But eventually, we reach an age when the world's truths are no longer unanimous.

Parents stop reminding their sons to be home before dark or stop hounding them on every detail of an upcoming night out with friends. It’s accepted, consciously or not, that adolescent boys are no longer walking targets for malicious intentions or too-long glances.

Daughters do not get the same freedom. If their education on the world's risks begins as girls, it only changes shape through the transition into woman hood.

“Don’t get in a car with someone you don’t know” turns into “Always watch where your drinks come from.”

“Don’t talk to a stranger if they approach you in public” turns into “Make sure your clothes never reveal too much, never get too drunk and never leave the safety of your friends.”

While the packaging changes, the message stays the same: Someone you don't know who wants to hurt you is watching you to see if they can take advan tage of you. They are a shadow just out of reach of a streetlamp on a dark walk home or a hazy face at the other end of the bar. They’re modern boogeymen, waiting for the right moment to strike and change your life forever.

This mythos is a failure. It fails to protect women and girls from the glaringly ugly truth that an over whelming majority of the time our attackers are not strangers at all. They’re people we know, trust, and believe care about us.

The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), which is the largest anti-sexual violence or ganization in the United States, reported that over one in four female undergraduate students will experience rape or sexual assault during their time at college. Of those assaults, only 20% will report the incident to law enforcement.

The largest misconception about sexual assaults on college campuses is that they are spread out over four years. In reality, those numbers become much more grim considering that more than half of those assaults occur within the span of a few months.

According to Promoting Awareness, Victim Em powerment (PAVE), a national nonprofit organization dedicated to empowering survivors and preventing sexual violence, over 50% of all sexual assaults on college campuses occur to students in their first year between mid-August and Thanksgiving break.

In 2014, a U.S. Department of Justice study of nine colleges found 629 sexual assaults reported among first-year students in September and October alone. That was more than all the assaults reported over the next four months combined.

This span of time has been dubbed “The Red Zone.”

Many colleges around the country fail to properly prepare us for the dangerous period we enter when our parents drop us off at school for the first time. Schools that provide mandatory instruction regarding sexual assault and student consent don’t always acknowledge the specific danger first-years are in.

While scaring students with the dangers of sexual assault from the moment they step on campus isn’t a practical solution, the vulnerability of being away from home and the lack of support systems puts students at increased risk.

Miami University does provide a resource index to its students regarding reported sexual assaults, but none of the listed contacts or information cater specifi cally to first-year students.

A records release from the Miami University Police Department showed a reported 157 incidents of rape or sexual misconduct across the past five fall semesters, beginning in 2018.

***

Picture this: You’re 18 years old, and for the first time in your life, there is no one looking out for you.

No parents expecting you home at a certain time, no teachers to call home when you don’t show up to class, no friends watching your back. You know what freedom feels like.

For many of us, that moment was a defining part of the transition to college. Learning how to grapple with personal freedom and how to handle responsibility is no small task. However, in this period, particularly for first-years, students are most vulnerable to the pitfalls of very new and very adult decisions.

This uncertainty is precisely what makes students, especially female students, so susceptible to sexual vi olence during the adjustment period to college life. But this failure to prepare students doesn’t end at what we should be protecting them from, but whom.

In the summer of 2020, the Miami community was taken by storm when @dearmiamiu, an Instagram account platform dedicated to highlighting stories of discrimination and violence across campus, first appeared on Instagram. Of the nearly 500 anonymous testimonies posted to the account, many are dedicated to detailing survivors’ accounts of the sexual violence they have experienced on campus.

Of these, most reference an assailant known to the victim; “I thought he wanted to be my friend,” “I thought I could trust him” and “I thought he was a good guy” are all examples of common statments on the page, submitted by users across the platform.

Know Your IX, a national organization empowering students to stop sexual violence, reported that 90% of all campus sexual assaults are committed by someone the survivor knows. This means that most assailants are likely to be other students familiar to the victim.

So, does that change how we should prepare female students for college? It’s one thing to frighten teenage girls into thinking that a strange man is going to corner them on a walk home from the library; it’s another to remind them that it’s the male friend who offers to walk them home that statistically poses a more real threat.

Just as it is difficult to accept that these assaults are happening at higher rates to students barely into adulthood, it is even harder to accept that the people committing such crimes are little more than teenagers.

Maybe this is not a problem that can be solved when students get to campus. Maybe the burden falls on mid dle and high schools to teach students about consent earlier. Maybe those lessons should start even younger at home — maybe parents have the greatest influence over their college children, even when they are worlds away.

Regardless, prioritizing the avoidance of discomfort, doing nothing and continuing to miseducate young girls so they are unprepared to protect themselves when they are in danger is not an option. ***

Viviana Selvaggi, a senior journalism and political science major at Miami, remembers moving into her dorm in Clawson Hall in the fall of 2019. She remem bers meeting her roommate for the first time, introduc ing herself to girls in her hall and making hesitant plans to go out with newfound friends.

She also remembers receiving weekly safety bulletin emails from the Miami University Police Department describing incidents of recently reported sexual as saults. More often than not, Selvaggi remembered that the incidents were said to have occurred in first-year dorms.

“Getting those police bulletin emails — if not once a week, every other week — was definitely alarming,” Selvaggi said. “I wasn’t used to experiencing that many instances of sexual assault.”

When the bulletins flooded her inbox, Selvaggi didn’t realize exactly what they stood for. What she did know was that just as much as they were a reminder, they also served as a warning.

In her first month at Miami, Selvaggi and friends went to Brick Street Bar and Grill for one of their first Saturday nights as college students. While on the dance floor, she was groped by a senior male student.

“At the time I was 18, and the seniors were, what, 21? 22?” Selvaggi said. “I was shocked. I had never experienced anything like that before.”

When Selvaggi confronted the man, he and his friends told her to relax.

“They kept saying it was for a dare,” Selvaggi said. “I guess they were looking for freshmen, and I fit their criteria that they were searching for.”

For anyone who hasn’t been on a college campus recently, it isn’t hard to spot a group of first-years. They tend to travel in large packs, alluding to a false sense of security by surrounding themselves with a group.

While there is safety in numbers, when you’ve only known your closest friends for a few weeks, it’s difficult to feel you have people to rely on in an uncomfortable situation.

Selvaggi continued to defend herself against the senior student until:

“He called me a bitch and walked away,” Selvaggi said.

In her three years at Miami since then, Selvaggi has never experienced an incident quite like that night. Looking back as a senior, she doesn’t think that’s a coincidence.

“We had just gotten to school,” Selvaggi said. “We didn’t know anybody. I don’t know if they target people that they know are freshmen, but I don’t get approached anymore.”

Unfortunately, Selvaggi is far from alone in her experience. It often feels like highly populated drinking spots are ripe with unwanted grabbing and advances. Despite the frequency of these assaults, women have long been expected to suffer in silence in the preservation of the “college experience.”

The narrative that every student is at the same risk of sexual assault fails first-year students, but it doesn't have to be this way.

First-year students at Miami must complete an online module on sexual assault and consent. Why not specifically tell first-year students why they are at a greater risk than other students by explaining the factors at play, such as a lack of support system and inexperience with alcohol and drug use?

Student Counseling Services already provides resources to sexual assault victims. Why not create a support group tailored to dealing with the adjust ment to the social pressures of college or a page of online mental health and sexual assault prevention resources catering to first-year students specifically?

Either way, I believe change needs to be made because it is impossible to solve a problem before acknowledging that there is one.

If Miami and other colleges across the nation cre ated a network of resources for students to utilize in their first semester before something bad happens, then maybe we can prevent some of these assaults before they occur. S

“This mythos is a failure. It fails to protect women and girls from the glaringly ugly truth that an overwhelming majority of the time our attackers are not strangers at all. They are people we know, trust, AND believe care about us.”

My Traveling Words of Wisdom Learning who I am, who I was and who I will be through journaling

By Charlotte Hudson

About three times a year, I pack my suitcase full of an excessive amount of clothes, toiletries and my favorite pairs of shoes to become a tourist on my family vacations. I’ve been all over the country with that suitcase, and while the contents inside may change depending on the location or temperature, one item always comes along: my travel journal.

I’ve kept up with my travel journal since I was 12. It’s a black and white speckled composition notebook. The tape that holds the spine together is peeling in the bottom left corner, and the cover is so torn that if you bend the notebook in half, it's almost see-through. In a youthful attempt to show my personality, I made my own pink polka-dotted paper label with the words “Travel Notebook” written in my best handwriting, and I taped it right in the middle of the front cover. The corners of that label are now curling around the edges.

A long time ago, that notebook was in mint condition. But after six years of travel, which has resulted in lost pages and frayed edges, my journal has fallen victim to water spills and ink splatters and is hanging on by a thread. I’ve taken the journal with me to places like Nashville, Tennessee, Washington D.C., and Cape Cod, Massachusetts,

While keeping a travel journal may not seem unusual, I have a unique relationship with mine. Because I started writing in it at such a young age, I can relive parts of my life and learn about myself. When I reread these entries, I understand who I was, who I am now and even who I may grow up to be.

A Country Music Awakening

Nashville, TN - Age 13

After my family arrived in Nashville, our first stop was the Grand Ole Opry. I’d never heard of the Opry before, but I quickly discovered that it’s a historic music venue where country music singers get inducted into. On the tour, we walked through every last square inch of the place. We saw historic dressing rooms, the backstage area and even sat in the church pews where the audience viewed the shows. I didn't really know any of the featured country musicians except for my favorite, of course, Miss Taylor Swift. If I ever became a country music fan, it’d be because of her earliest albums.

My favorite part of the tour was getting to stand at the microphone in the center of the iconic stage where a myriad of famous singers have stood. It was a surreal experience to think I was on the same ground as legends; it almost made me want to sing out there.

After the Opry, we walked down the famous Broad way strip. Outside every bar we passed, you could hear different musicians playing covers and original songs, all with the same sweet country accent. Broadway was quite different at night. Bars were lit with neon lights, and there was a chaotic blur of music in the air. It was a little overwhelming and definitely very loud.

To finish up our second day, we joined a bus tour. This bus took us to the Historic RCA Studio B. We got to walk into the studio where singers like Dolly Parton and Elvis Presley recorded iconic records. My mom knew a lot about this place because of her work in the music industry, and both my parents grew up listening to many older country musicians. Being with them was like having two extra tour guides — their excitement and nostalgia was unreal.

***

Standing on that Opry stage in the footsteps of music industry icons heightened my love for music and per forming. While singing, playing the piano and performing in talent shows and musicals always seemed to be my thing in school before that trip, I’ve learned that, for me, with inspiration comes motivation.

I was inspired to perform just from being on that stage; it motivated me to continue with one of my pas sions and to dedicate even more effort to one of the things I love the most. I thrived from performing onstage in high school, and I owe it all to the Grand Ole Opry.

While Nashville fueled my love for performing, it also fueled a new obsession. Since leaving Nashville, I haven't gone a day without having a country song stuck in my head.

I’ve lost track of how many country music award shows I’ve watched and concerts I’ve attended, but I have finally curated the perfect country music playlist of over 300 songs. I still consider Taylor Swift to be one of the most defining musicians of country music, even with my now-advanced knowledge and her genre versatility.

I wonder if everyone who visits the Music City expe riences this phenomenon or if I am just easily impacted by the different cultures surrounding me. It makes me wonder what other cultures will captivate my mind in the future.

I was surprised to see how observant I was when I was younger. At age 13, I could tell how much the trip to RCA Studio B meant to my parents; it changed them differ ently than it changed me. I guess that just because you experience something with someone, doesn't mean that it will impact you in the same way. I’m glad I got to see them experience so much joy.

When I reread this entry, I also think about how I have become more accustomed to nightlife. Maybe college just does that to a person. If I visit again, I know I’ll have more appreciation for the lively nighttime atmosphere, and I won’t be so overwhelmed. That’s a satisfying thought: to know I’ve grown and will not always be stuck on one perspective.

Finding the National Treasure

Washington, D.C. - Age 16

I pretty much jumped out of bed this morning, since I knew we’d be visiting the center of D.C. and all of its monuments. To get there, we got to ride the metro. From the window, I could see the tip of the Washington Monument and even a little bit of the dome of the Capitol Building. I couldn't believe my eyes; seeing these build ings on a screen was one thing, but seeing it in person is something so special.

Our first stop on the trip was to the National Archives Museum. I was freaking out with excitement because I knew I’d get to see The Declaration of Independence, which is, of course, the object of desire in my favorite movie, “National Treasure.”

Is there really a treasure map on the back? Unfortu nately, I didn’t get to know since it was protected closely.

After the museum, I saw the Washington Monument and the Capitol up close. Movie scenes played out in my head as I spotted familiar locations. The day was long, and the temperature was scorching, so we headed home after seeing the World War II Memorial.

The highlight of the downtown D.C. tour was seeing Ford’s Theatre, which is the location where President Lincoln was assassinated. I have a lot of knowledge about Lincoln because I devoured every piece of information I could find about him in sixth and seventh grade. It was a little haunting being in that theater. There is a really eerie feeling that comes with sitting in a room where one of the biggest moments in history occurred.

***

I’ve always been fascinated by history, but actually be ing able to walk through it gave me an indescribable feel ing that no other place has. On the trip, I wanted to see as many monuments as possible because I didn’t know when I would have another opportunity to see history up close instead of just on the screen like I was used to. For the first time, younger me began to soak in the beauty of my surroundings and appreciate seeing things in person.

Of course, “National Treasure” had a significant im pact on my D.C. experience, as well. Something about that movie draws me in immensely; the action, the treasure hunt, the chase, and even the romance all combine to create a thrilling movie that defined my childhood.

I don't think I am as curious about new adventures and thrilling spy sagas as I used to be. However, seeing the set of those adventures right in front of me was like rewatching “National Treasure” all over again, except I was the main character.

Today, I still catch myself fixating on random topics that interest me, like biopics, rollercoasters and entertain ment news. I guess I have Lincoln to thank for starting it all. I hope in the future, I can continue to seize my inter ests and run with them.

For the first time, younger me began to soak in the beauty of my surroundings and appreciate seeing things in person.

Am I a Local Yet?

Martha’s Vineyard, MA - Age 18

My family and I took the 11:40 a.m. ferry, feeling like locals on a day trip to Martha’s Vineyard in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Our ride was about an hour long, and let me just say; I could get used to boats as a method of transportation; comfortable seats, a fully-stocked conces sion stand, and the smell of salt air and wind whipping through my hair are just the things I needed in life.

We docked at Oak Bluffs, one of the two major tourist towns on the island, and headed straight to lunch at a dock-side restaurant called Nancy’s. I ordered my favor ite East Coast meal, clams over pasta, and gave an honest review; I’d had better.

With full stomachs, we walked to a neighborhood con veniently located next to the restaurant that supposedly was home to the iconic Martha’s Vineyard Gingerbread Houses. Mom had heard all about the sites from a family friend who vacationed here every summer, and we were told we couldn’t miss them.

Sure enough, the entire neighborhood was full of one-story named houses in every color of the rainbow. They really did look like gingerbread houses, like they could crumble with just one touch. Each unique house had a frosting-like white trim hanging off the roof, like a blanket of snow enveloping the wood. Delicate porches and decorated doors completed the look. The neighbor hood was completely silent, but it needed a sort of peace to preserve the history of each household.

Later, we caught a bus to visit the other tourist town, Edgartown. When we arrived, I knew this was where the East Coast life I’d always imagined had been hiding. Sun hats, glasses full of sparkling drinks, antique stores and lush gardens full of brightly colored hydrangeas were everywhere I looked. Nearby, there was a bridge that the locals called “Jaws Bridge.” It's a rite of passage to jump off the bridge, but I’ve never seen the movie. If it has anything to do with jumping off a high bridge into a large body of water full of sharks, count me out — I’ll save my rite of passage for another day.

***

When I reread this entry, suddenly, I’m back in Cape Cod. I can hear tourists planning their next adventures, taste the savory delight of a seafood platter, and feel the warm breeze and the salt sting on my face as I ride across the shore to a new island. More importantly, I’m also reminded of the self-discoveries I made on my trip.

After living in the Midwest my whole life, I’ve become accustomed to rural roads, chlorine pools and polluted lakes, but I always feel like I’m missing out on so much more that’s out there in the world. I found what I was looking for when I visited the East Coast; it’s a complete change of scenery that I fell in love with immediately. There I was, soaking in the luxurious attitudes, saltwater and authentic architecture.

This trip taught me, and continues to confirm that the East Coast could be the place for me in the future. While I might not be living in a gingerbread house, I could see myself as an older woman living in a simple cottage that looks right out onto the sea where I can breathe the fresh salt air anytime I please. It would be a place where I can look out to a yard full of beautiful flowers and green grass. I’d shop in the local boutiques and dine with plates full of fresh seafood year-round, and my closets would be full of breezy dresses, light sweaters and sandals.

While rereading these entries showed me new things about myself, it also reinforced what I already know and struggle with. I didn't want to jump off the “Jaws Bridge” then, and I still don't feel any desire to now. I’ve never been a spontaneous risk taker and prefer to stay in my comfort zone.

One day, I hope I’ll eventually be less hesitant to try new things, whether I decide to dive into them or wade slowly.

But for now ... I guess only time and my travel journal will be able to tell. S