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(04/11/11 11:56pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Alone in his studio apartment, surrounded by Gatorade bottles and stacks of books, the runner sleeps. Peace comes easily when he's in a dream.At 5 a.m., his alarm clock breaks the silence. He opens his eyes, and the turmoil begins. Wes Trueblood’s mind lurches into the constant chatter he battles daily. Thoughts dart through his brain, swirling and swelling until they overwhelm. Before dawn, when he’s most vulnerable, the negative seeps in to conquer. What if I don’t get into grad school? He worries. If I don’t get into grad school, I’ll probably become homeless. If I become homeless, I’ll do drugs. Thirty-year-old Trueblood knows what he needs to quiet the chatter. A run of at least six miles, two times a day. He slips into his running shoes, then steps out into the 32-degree February morning. The sky above Bloomington is a deep shade of purple, lit softly by streetlights. He’s off, crossing the barren street in a steady jog. “Atlantis,” by Donovan, plays in his headphones. “Way down, below the ocean, where I wanna be …” Trueblood winds through neighborhoods lined with darkened houses. He could run this route with his eyes closed. He created it — the six-mile out-and-back — three years ago when he got clean. He runs downtown past the courthouse and the public library, dodging puddles that glisten from the streetlights. As usual, he passes the man who drops off newspapers on Kirkwood Avenue. He runs through the Sample Gates at the edge of campus and passes a group of the university’s groundskeepers on a smoke break. It’s the same group, every time. “Hey,” Trueblood calls as he hurries by. “Hey,” they reply, cigarettes in hand. “Good morning!” Bryan Park marks the halfway point, and the runner stops to stretch. Ever since he stepped wrong off a curb a few days ago, the area above his left knee is tender. Trueblood runs 90 to 100 miles a week. A man of excess, he always wants more. If 20 miles feels good, why not try 21? If 30 feels great, what about 50? Trueblood understands the consequences of overworking his body, and the only thing holding him back is the terrifying thought of an injury. Running keeps him on sturdier ground. Without it, he could slip back into his old ways. By now, the sky has turned a lighter shade of purple. Cars speed by, the town wakes, and the noise in Trueblood’s mind grows softer. He feels light, calm. Every day, Trueblood tries to outrun the demons inside him. He’s been running from them for three years now and doesn’t plan on quitting soon. He fears what would happen if he stopped. • • • His gig as a roofer pays the bills for now. But someday, Wes Trueblood wants to be a historian and teach young people the importance of the past. He’s quick to smile and speaks with confidence, expressing his thoughts with big words and quotes from Malcolm X and Nietzsche. His sister calls him her best friend. His mom calls him magnetic. He’s loyal to what he loves, yet a stranger to moderation. Trueblood has an addictive nature he can’t shake. He speaks to his sister on the phone 10 to 15 times a day. His favorite TV show is “Golden Girls,” he admits with a laugh, and he owns every season. His one-room apartment is a disheveled library, with high stacks of books on his nightstand, his floor, his dresser. Reading, he feels, gives him power. He stores the facts he reads away in his mind and drops them in conversation with ease. He likes history best. He thinks about the earliest accounts of running and can launch into the story of the first marathon without hesitation. “The Persians were attacking the Greeks back in 490 B.C. ...” he’ll begin. An Athenian runner was sent to deliver the news to Sparta, a route 26-miles long. Sometimes on a run, he’ll picture himself as a running messenger. Wes, we need you to take this message to Indianapolis. Be back in a few days. What job could be better? The incessant chatter in his mind began when he was 13. The marijuana followed shortly after. Trueblood turned to harder drugs in high school, the only way he knew to ease his overactive mind. He enrolled at Indiana University in 1999, but didn’t last long. After troubles with the police and poor grades, he was kicked out. Trueblood spent the next few years of his life jobless, sleeping on and off his mom’s couch, on a $300-a-day habit. His list of drugs included cocaine, heroin, meth, oxycotin, and morphine. But his favorite was a speedball — a mix of an opiate and amphetamine. To maintain his lifestyle, he stole from his grandmother’s church group and snuck change from his niece’s piggy bank. He hustled drugs, including Adderall to stressed college students in the library, making a $5 profit per pill. His sister, Wendy Miller, knew Trueblood better than anyone. Helplessly, she watched as her brother’s addiction transformed him into someone even she couldn’t recognize. The breaking point for her came when Trueblood stole her pain medicine after she had surgery. Until then, she had not turned her back on her brother. But this had gone too far. “I’m done,” she told him over the phone. “Don’t come back to my house. I love you, but I’m done.” Cut off from his family, Trueblood checked into rehab and stayed for five months. He felt safe in the structured world of rehab. But less than 48 hours after he left, Trueblood was already drowning in the anxiety of freedom. He was stuck — he couldn’t live in rehab the rest of his life, yet he couldn’t live in a place rife with beer cans and joints around every corner. It was a couple weeks before Christmas in 2007 when Trueblood, then 27 years old, made his decision. He picked up the phone and called his sister in Evansville. “I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I love you. Goodbye.” Click. He popped pill after pill — an anti-anxiety drug called Klonopin — and washed them down with Budweiser. He hopped into his light blue Ford Escort and took off, heading nowhere fast. Then he blacked out. Minutes, maybe hours later, Trueblood awoke in a ditch. He couldn’t remember flipping his car or climbing out of it. He had no idea how he managed to escape the Escort, but there he stood, watching the wreckage he created as if a stranger in his own life. Not only had he survived, he had emerged without a single cut on his body. As he stared at the car, he remembered the can of Budweiser he put in the cup holder before leaving his house. It was probably still there, he thought. Still intoxicated, he waited for his world to stop spinning, then reached his hand through the broken window to pop the tab. • • • By five in the afternoon, Trueblood feels antsy. Hours have passed since his last run. He needs another release. Soon his friends Scott Breeden and Emily Weisbard jog into the parking lot of his apartment complex. Clad in sleek black running tights, lightweight shoes, hats, and gloves, they are ready to take on the below-freezing temperature. The group begins their second six-miler of the day, eager to get warm, while the sun sets over Bloomington. A few miles in, a skateboarder flies through an alley at the same moment the runners begin to cross it. Breeden reacts first, halting and jutting his right arm out to stop Trueblood, who was closest to the boarder. The teen comes to a stop in front of them, jumps off his board and apologizes. A fluke injury from a skateboard accident, or any other mishap, holds serious implications for Trueblood. While he hasn’t gotten high from drugs in over three years, Trueblood is still an addict. His sister knows it, his girlfriend knows it, his friends know it. But Trueblood knows better than anyone. He’s addicted to running. If he can’t run a day, he’s irritable, tense, short with people. He often finds himself lying about running to keep people from thinking he has a problem. He runs in the morning and at night, in ice storms and heat waves, deep in the woods or on city streets. With addictions come tough withdrawals. So far, he’s been lucky to remain healthy in a sport where overuse injuries are the norm. But any minor ache sets him on alert-mode. Oh God, is this something that could debilitate me for a month? No one knows what will happen should Trueblood get hurt. Maybe he’d take up swimming. He’d lift weights. He’d rely on the support of his family and friends, like he’d done before. But it would undoubtedly be devastating. He would always be thinking about running. The three runners continue on their route, just a few miles in. They keep the topics light this time, referencing Seinfeld episodes and planning their next meals. Sometimes, the runs get too painful to talk, and those become the best memories. The runners feed off pain.“Of course you have to hurt, but the reward is so much greater,” Trueblood says. As his feet fly across the sidewalk, a Road I.D. clings to his shoe — a tag that identifies him in case of an accident. His name, his sister’s name, and his mom’s name are engraved on it, along with a favorite quote: “Pain is God’s greatest gift to man.” • • • It’s one of those moments that would haunt him years later. Somehow, Trueblood had escaped from his wrangled car without a scratch, but there he was on the outside, reaching back in for his beer. A piece of glass slashed the palm of his hand. Blood gushed out of the inch-long wound. His only scar from the accident. Bloody and intoxicated, he called his grandmother to pick him up, and it wasn’t long before Trueblood was back at his mom’s house, hiding from the police. His eyes were wide and vacant - drugs had taken over his body. When the police arrived, the addict snapped. They were there to help, they told him. They didn’t want to arrest him, they wanted to take him to the hospital. But he didn’t want their help. He didn’t want anyone’s help. Even his mom tried to calm him, but when the two locked eyes, Trueblood looked as if he didn’t know her. “Wes, it’s Mom,” Vicki Trueblood pleaded. He just wanted to be alone. He barricaded himself inside his bedroom by shoving a queen-sized mattress against the door, and threatened to kill himself. Several hours passed before Trueblood agreed to be driven to the hospital, where he was given a psychiatric evaluation and mild narcotics to relieve the throbbing of his hand. Soon after he was released from the hospital, he went with his sister to Evansville in search of a job and an ounce of stability. But he couldn’t escape his suicidal thoughts. They still lurked. He told his sister, who drove him back to the nearest hospital. That’s where Trueblood got back on his feet. It was 1 a.m., and inside his hospital room he stared into darkness. It was almost impossible to sleep when coming down off drugs. Hours earlier he had asked his doctor for Tylenol PM. Absolutely not, the doctor replied. So Trueblood was left alone with his thoughts. I want to feel good. Without drugs, Trueblood couldn’t remember how to feel OK in the world. What has made me feel good? What has quieted my brain? What has made me not so insecure?Then he remembered. When he was younger, he ran. He enjoyed the simple, rhythmic pounding of his feet against the pavement or trails, propelled by the engine inside his body. Running calmed him. He had talent, too. In middle school, he ran a sub-five-minute mile. As a freshman at Bloomington High School South, he was consistently one of the top runners. He had won races and broken records. But he’d quit running after his sophomore year, choosing drugs instead. Trueblood remembered feeling good after every run. He decided he wanted that feeling right there in the hospital room. He got out of bed and stood on the floor, then began running in place. The motion seemed foreign to his body that had grown soft and carried an extra 60 pounds. But the addict was running. He continued to run until he couldn’t any longer — no more than 20 minutes. His legs burned and his heart pounded against his chest, but he felt lighter. He had cleansed himself of the internal energy that was bogging him down, the tireless thoughts that swelled inside his head. He was filled with hope. If I can run, I’ll feel good, he thought. And if I can run enough, I can feel good all day. This is it. This is what I need to do. • • • The runners zigzag through town, past college houses with beer cans strewn across the yard, past Big Red Liquors, past bars at the start of happy hour. Silent temptations in every step. A few miles in, Trueblood, Weisbard, and Breeden reach the downtown square. They stop across the street from the Indiana Running Company, a store they frequent, to talk to a friend. “How far are you guys going?” She asks them. “Just six,” Trueblood replies. “We did six earlier so we’re doing six now. Messing around, getting some mileage in. Talk to you later, Tracy.” The pounding of their feet on the sidewalk continues. Both Breeden and Weisbard are ultra-marathoners, who run races longer than the marathon length of 26.2 miles. Trueblood is proud to fit in with these accomplished runners. In December, he reached his primary goal since returning to the sport: finishing in the top 10 at the Tecumseh Marathon. He placed seventh. Trueblood had experienced excruciating pain before — coming down off drugs, for instance. But nothing in his life had ever hurt worse than that marathon. Yet, at the same time, it was the sweetest feeling. He was finally there — a competitive distance runner. With the marathon down, he now looks to longer distances. He plans to run a 50-mile race next year. Addicts, Trueblood says, move at the speed of pain. It was the pain of hitting rock bottom that night in the hospital over three years ago that got him running. As soon as he left, he told his mom he was done with drugs and alcohol. This time was for real. She had heard it too many times before. “You’re going to have to show me,” she told him. So he did. Trueblood lived on her couch for a year, got a job, and began running. He went back to IU in 2008 to finish his degree in history, and graduated with a GPA just under 4.0 his last two years. The running started slow, at 10 miles a week. He ran alone, too insecure about his out-of-shape body to seek running partners. Trueblood dreamed of a strong finish in the marathon and, eventually, an ultra-marathon. But he couldn’t train alone for very long. He needed someone’s help. Enter Breeden. Nine years younger than Trueblood, he was already competitive in the national ultra-marathon scene. The two runners were acquaintances, but after Trueblood saw Breeden’s impressive finish at a race last year, he asked to run with him. Their first one was an eight-miler on trails in sweltering heat. Now, a year later, the two run together almost every day. They’ve shared delusions by dehydration, countless heart to hearts, and a run they’ve dubbed “The Death March.” Breeden knows he can count on Trueblood to run at the same time each day. Usually, he’ll run the same route, one they call “The Wes Loop.” He never cuts a run short. “He always says if you go out to run six miles, why would you run 5.8,” Breeden says.This year, on his anniversary of being sober, Trueblood wrote on Facebook: “Three years ago today I changed.” He had not taken drugs since the night of the wreck. Those who meet him now could never guess his past. Trueblood’s energetic, upbeat personality makes people smile. His kind eyes make them want to share their hardships with him, never expecting he has plenty of his own as well. He returned to his true self, the Wes his family longed to meet again. Trueblood’s sister commented on his wall: “Glad to have my brother back.” Miller knows her brother swapped one addiction for another, but she doesn’t care. “He can be addicted to running all he wants,” she says. “He’s pure Wes when he’s running.” Trueblood’s mom has watched his love for running evolve through the years. As a teenager, he felt pressured by others’ high expectations, and running lost its luster. Now, he runs with sheer passion. “He has a very strong desire to be free,” Vicki Trueblood says. “When he runs, he’s free.” In her eyes, Trueblood’s battle with drugs was just part of his life plan. Even when he hit bottom, when he thought his life was over, his mom knew he’d find his way out. “He’s got a lot of heart and a lot of spirit,” she says. “I always hoped that it got directed in the right way.” • • • The demons can’t keep up when he’s running. With his heart pounding and endorphins flowing, his muddled mind clears itself of the negative thoughts. Trueblood is left alone. Sometimes when he runs, he thinks about his next race, imagining himself on track for a great finish. Stay up straight, he tells himself when he gets tired. Keep breathing. He thinks about his hunter ancestors or the Greeks who ran to deliver messages. This was how they retrieved their most basic necessities. This was how they survived. Trueblood runs believing it saved his life. He also runs knowing he traded one addiction for another. He doesn’t like being dependent, but says it’s a fact of his life. And if he must be dependent on something, he’s happy it’s running. At the end of every run, the internal battle continues. Trueblood can’t outrun something inside of him, because when he stops, the demons catch up. So he’ll just keep running, as much as he can, for the rest of his life. It’s all he knows to do.
(02/21/11 7:09pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>At 21 years old, Amanda Case went nude and never turned back. Her love affair with nudism started three years ago, when the Ball State University student ventured to a nudist camp with her boyfriend (now husband) for the first time. Today, she and her husband are leaders in a revolution for young nudists. They lead the Midwest division of Vita Nuda, a national nudist group for people ages 18-35. The organization is tied directly to AANR, but aims to attract a population that is dying off in the nudist realm. “They found that they were losing people in their late teens to early 20s, when people become confused about their bodies,” Case says. “We’re getting young people back and getting them involved like the generations above us have done.”Vita Nuda’s website encourages viewers to “join the Nudist Revolution.” Photos show young men and women on the beach, hula hooping, eating sushi, all in the buff, and a pop-up message urges visitors to “please respect the nudists.” The site addresses touchy questions honestly: “Doesn’t seeing all that nakedness ruin your sex life?” They consider themselves the young adult movement within the larger movement of nudism. Case helped organize the first big meeting in the Midwest last year, which included a meet-and-greet in the pool, drinks around a bonfire, and a movie night. This year, they’re amping it up, adding a water volleyball tournament, body painting, and a yoga session to the schedule. So what’s the appeal to all this?“Being young certainly is a time of learning, a time of freedom, a time of maybe having less inhibition,” Bauer says. “A lot of people who try it fall in love with it.”Bauer estimates that Fern Hills has about 40 members between the ages of 15 and 27.“Is it a huge college hangout? Absolutely not,” he says. “Would we like to welcome more people? We certainly would. If you just want to chill out and get a sun tan, read your textbook, that’s fine.”
(02/21/11 7:06pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Drive 25 minutes from campus and you’ll come to a spot some Hoosiers call paradise. Check your inhibitions and clothes at the door. Welcome to Fern Hills Club, a world free from clothes.Tucked away in the trees with no road markers, Fern Hills Club is a hidden gem for the people who flock there in the warmer months. For now, according to a sign at the entrance, it’s “clothed for the season.”Enter the gates, and enter the world of social family nudism. The club looks like a typical campground with 72 acres of land, colorful cabins, and more than five miles of trails. A circular pool, recreation center, and playground keep campers of all ages busy. It’s not the average campground, though. The people who camp are naked. About 200 nudist members and many more visitors frequent Fern Hills from May through October. As an American Association for Nudist Recreation (AANR) club, there are rules. The most basic: no clothes allowed, with exceptions for weather, personal health, and safety. Others include no cameras, no children under the age of 14 in the pool area without a guardian, and no sexually provocative or suggestive behavior. Jawn Bauer, an IU alumnus and Bloomington resident, protects the rights of social family nudists as legal counsel for Fern Hills, AANR, and AANR Midwest. A member of Fern Hills, he feels passionate about the benefits of this lifestyle. “I think what draws people to nudism is the freedom. Stripping away the stress,” Bauer says. “It’s an equalizer. There are no UGG boots. No designer jeans. You can’t tell who might be a garbage man and who might be a judge.”Because of stigmas attached to nudism, Bauer, like most nudists, wants to clear up common misconceptions. For starters, nudism is not sexual, he says. “It’s amazing how quickly you realize how different nudism and sex really are,” he says. “It’s liberating to be nude in a non-sexual way.” Of course, there is the occasional visitor who crosses the line. If someone utters a sexual remark, camp owners give a warning. Another infraction, and they ask the offender to leave. Fern Hills also has the rare visitor who crosses other lines — the physical boundaries of the camp. One time a man got lost hiking the trails and wound up naked on a public road.But these uncomfortable incidents are rare, and for the most part, the nudists feel at peace within the confines of the camp.“It’s fun to be outdoors naked and know that you won’t be arrested or hit on,” Bauer says.
(01/26/11 3:47pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>He likes to run until he’s tired, and he doesn’t get tired easily. Add up his miles from the last seven years, and he’s run the equivalent of almost three-fourths of the way around the world. One time, he ran for 22 hours.Distance and destination don’t matter. Scott Breeden won’t stop moving.He ran his first 50-mile race as a freshman in college. Now, the junior biology major has completed nine 50-milers and one 100-mile race. He’ll face his most grueling challenge yet in August.It’s one thing to run 100 miles, but it’s another to run it fast. Last year, Breeden competed in the USA 100 Mile Trail Championships in Ohio, where only the best of the best in the ultra-marathon world vied for the title. Breeden, a 21-year-old from Bloomington, placed 23rd. To the average pedestrian, a 100-mile run sounds, well, crazy. For Breeden, it’s fun. He says, simply, that he’ll quit running when he gets bored. For now, it’s routine. Every day he slips on his racing flats, joins his running friends, and jumps into an easy, rhythmic stride. They hit the roads with no destination in mind, no concerns of distance or running pace. Yet week after week, Breeden logs 70 to 110 miles. His total career mileage? 17,741.“I just run as much as possible,” Breeden says. “That’s pretty much it.”Breeden is a modest, no-frills, laid-back kind of guy. He’s got the build of your average runner—thin and toned—with shaggy hair. He eats between 5,000 and 6,000 calories per day, and opts for ice cream instead of tofu because it’s cheap. In the running community, camaraderie is inextricably linked to the sport. Breeden’s running friends get him out the door on blustery winter days, make long runs interesting, and show up on race day to cheer him on, if they’re not competing themselves. IU graduate Wes Trueblood has known Breeden since high school, but formed a tight bond with him last year. Trueblood, a former drug addict, credits his friend for helping him refocus and get back in shape. The two now spend their Sundays running 20 to 25 miles together. “I’d consider him my best friend,” Trueblood says. “I guess if you run enough miles with someone you kind of become best friends.” Breeden will rely on his friends and other close supporters this year as he attempts his most difficult ultra-marathon to date — the Leadville Trail 100. Runners must qualify for this event, which Trueblood dubbed “every ultra-marathoner’s dream.” The run, featured in the best-selling book “Born to Run,” takes place in the heights of the Colorado Rockies. Elevations range from 9,200 to 12,600 feet.Only 363 runners out of 850 completed the course last year within the 30-hour time limit. Breeden loves mountain running. He’s logged miles in both the Smokies and the Rockies, and plans to move out West someday. “I think it’s a lot easier to run farther when you’re 10,000 feet up and can see everywhere,” he says. “It’s a completely different experience running up there.”While he thrives in the mountains, Leadville won’t be easy. At some point in the race, Breeden knows he’ll want to stop. But he also knows how he’ll feel when he crosses the finish line. “I guess you get a new perspective on life when you’ve been running for 20 hours and then you sit down,” he says. “It’s a feeling like nothing else.”
(11/29/10 5:32pm)
More than four years ago, the IU Board of Trustees set a lofty goal: double the minority population at IU Bloomington by the 2013-2014 school year. Now, more than halfway through the initiative, how close are we?
(11/04/10 4:37am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Nancy Smith was checking budgets when she noticed a policy change that would affect the way hundreds of developmentally disabled Hoosiers receive food.Smith, the associate director for Supportive Living at Stone Belt Arc in Bloomington, had not received notification of a policy change ending a grocery benefit formerly paid to Indiana residents with autism, Asperger’s syndrome and other developmental disabilities who receive a Residential Living Allowance. Confused and surprised, Smith, who works for one of the largest service providers for the developmentally disabled in south central Indiana, picked up the phone and called a service provider in a neighboring county. She wanted to know if they had noticed the changes too.The Indiana Family and Social Services Administration enacted this Residential Living Allowance policy change in September. The allowance is a state-funded program with the goal of enabling individuals to live on their own rather than in assisted living.The 10-page policy outlines a list of expenses included in the allowance — such as rent, utilities and telephone — and two pages of expenses not included. However, groceries are never mentioned in the allowance.On Oct. 25, a legislative Select Joint Commission on Medicaid Oversight had a meeting in Indianapolis to discuss the issue. Before the FSSA policy was enacted in September, The American Civil Liberties Union and Steven Dick, an Indianapolis attorney, brought a lawsuit against the FSSA regarding decreases in the grocery allowance.FSSA spokesman Marcus Barlow said the changes were made in response to misuse of the grocery allowance. He said 70 percent of the individuals misstated their income.“We reduced the scope of the program,” Barlow said. “We felt that the individuals who are receiving RLA could also survive off of federal benefits, so we focused that money more on things the federal government doesn’t pay for.”Twelve Indiana House and Senate members make up the Select Joint Commission on Medicaid Oversight that met last week. One of these members is State Senator Vi Simpson, D-Bloomington, who expressed concern not only for the termination of the grocery benefit, but also for the general lack of information provided for legislators. She said she wants specific information from the state administration on budget cuts. “This is very secretive,” Simpson said. “(The state) will not tell us things we’ve been requesting for a year. It’s important we have these meetings because we get information from the public.”While budget cuts are expected during these times, Simpson argued that this one went too far. “Everyone is interested in cutting budgets, but the vulnerable populations have been extraordinarily impacted by these budget cuts,” she said. “You judge a society by how it cares for its most vulnerable citizens. I would say we’re getting a failing grade.”Dick said he feels a close tie to the population Simpson referred to. His son, Michael, is autistic. At 26, he functions as a nonverbal 6- or 7-year-old, Dick said. Michael lives in a rental house and receives help from 24/7 care providers. Previously, his son was given $200 a month for groceries. Now he receives $181 a month in food stamps or about $6 a day.“These people don’t have the ability to go to food banks — they’re dependent on service providers or relatives to care for them,” Dick said. “They have no voice.”Despite public outcry and concern from the Medicaid Oversight Committee, the FSSA is not obligated to change the new policy. Erik Gonzalez, fiscal analyst for the House Democrats Ways and Means Office, said the committee’s concern was included in the meeting’s final report. The report, a reflection of points covered in the meeting, is sent to the Indiana Legislative Council. The FSSA estimated that 440 Indiana residents receive the RLA and will be affected by the change. At least 11 of the people live in Bloomington and use Stone Belt as their service provider, Smith said. With the higher rents in town because of college housing, the budget cuts could be a bigger blow to the locals. But Smith said she is optimistic about the wealth of Bloomington resources that can ease the burden. “I think agencies are working really hard to be proactive to help make sure people are signed up for every benefit they can get, find the right roommates for people and do the things the state is asking us to do,” Smith said. “We’re trying to do the best we can.”
(10/21/10 4:46am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>David Fell, owner of B.G. Hoadley Quarries, is praying for rain. The owner deals with water on a daily basis — about 100,000 gallons of it — and constantly has his eye on precipitation in the area. When the land gets dry, he takes note.Consequently, Fell was not surprised when a letter came in the mail last week, addressing the Monroe County water shortage warning. The letter, sent by the state, requested his company reduce water usage 10 to 15 percent. With a lack of significant rainfall in months, Fell said he expected the state to take action. Similar letters were sent to businesses and local government organizations that use more than 100,000 gallons of water a day. The locations included Hoosier Energy, Victor Oolitic Stone Company, Eagle Pointe Golf Resort and the City of Bloomington. The Indiana Department of Natural Resources and the Indiana Department of Homeland Security monitor drought stages. DNR communications director Phil Bloom said there are three advisory levels: a watch, warning and emergency. Areas that receive 1.5 to 1.99 inches of precipitation below the monthly average fall into the warning stage. Despite light rainfall this month, Monroe County is still stagnant in this stage. Bloomington has been in a 8.68 inch rain deficit since July 1, according to a report from the National Weather Service of Indianapolis. “The goal of these notifications is nothing more than a heads up,” Bloom said. “The goal is to get people to voluntarily cut back. We certainly hope they would take some measures.” While the DNR hopes for compliance, they aren’t enforcing reductions. As a result, responses around the county to the water shortage warning vary. Fell said B.G. Hoadley Quarries have always been mindful of water conservation. In September, they began reducing water usage during overtime hours. Their main source of water, used to cool their saw blades and belts, is drawn from quarry holes supplied by rainwater and is recycled, Fell said. However, in dry times, the company must supplement their supply from Bloomington’s water system — about 40,000 gallons a day. Water supply and the expenses for city water will be a concern for Fell if dry conditions continue.“If we get even an inch of rain it’ll fill up a quarry wall, and we’ll be all right for 40 days,” he said. John Langley, deputy director of city utilities, said city officials have also reviewed the letter but do not anticipate shortages in the systems they serve. “We’re blessed with a water source,” Langley said, referring to Lake Monroe, the city’s water source for more than 40 years. “We should note that the shoreline is down two feet in the lake and that does not present any problems to us.”Experts agree that a water shortage would be more severe if it were June instead of October. The growing season is done, and people are past the point of watering their lawns, said Al Shipe, a service hydrologist at the National Weather Service of Indianapolis.“We’d have to have this continue for three more months and have another hot, dry spring season, and then there would be a serious situation,” Shipe said.Besides the water shortage, the service hydrologist warns of a more pressing effect of the drought — fire danger. Monroe County has been under a burn ban since Sept. 23.“The fire danger is similar to what we had in ’99, and possibly as bad as ’88,” Shipe said. “The DNR said 1988 was the worst fire season on record.”Rain clouds loom in the near future, and the current forecast calls for rain Saturday through Thursday, Shipe said.Although conditions look to improve, Bloom urged city residents to be aware of water conservation.“Be mindful when using water for showers and brushing teeth,” Bloom said. “Any conservation of water by an individual would have a cumulative effect.”
(10/12/10 5:13am)
Mom’s not around to make you do your laundry and wash the dishes. That means you can let your dirty T-shirts and coffee mugs pile up, right? Wrong. Students weigh in on five habits that might make your roommate hate you.
(10/12/10 1:18am)
“Looking for a roommate who is clean, courteous, and compassionate.”
(10/12/10 1:09am)
Living with roommates? There will most likely be conflicts. And if your roommates don’t like conflicts, there will most likely be sticky notes. Maybe you’re the type who relies on these handy squares of paper to vent your frustrations. Or maybe you feel slightly freaked out at the thought of them posted in your pantry, above the sink, or next to the empty roll of toilet paper in your bathroom. You’d rather talk it out, face to face, and if it ends in yelling and slamming doors, so be it. Whatever your style, we want to help you keep the peace. We’ve gathered advice and found out what works for students and experts around campus so you can keep your IU home a happy one, or at least sticky note-free.
(09/28/10 12:05am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>“It seems like such an ... arbitrary, ridiculous thing to just pick a finger and you show it to the person. It’s a finger, what does it mean? Someone shows me one of their fingers and I’m supposed to feel bad. Is that the way it’s supposed to work? I mean, you could just give someone the toe, really, couldn’t you? I would feel worse if I got the toe, than if I got the finger. ’Cause it’s not easy to give someone the toe . . . ” - Seinfeld: The Robbery (NBC television broadcast June 7, 1990)The middle finger, the bird, the one-finger salute. You know what we’re talking about.But did you know that there’s research on the middle finger? Ira P. Robbins, a law professor at American University, authored an article called “Digitus Impudicus: The Middle Finger and the Law” for the UC Davis Law Review. Here are some of his findings. We dare you to read past the abstract.
(06/10/10 4:04pm)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Mar. 7, 2010 – From the school fight song to “You Are My Sunshine,” the National Anthem to “Singin’ in the Rain,” the red clocks we pass on campus have a song for any day. Sure, it’s nice background music for a walk to class, but have you ever wondered just how these tunes are decided? We did, and decided to seek out the people behind the clockwork. Andrew Lowry, assistant director of building systems for the IU Physical Plant, explains that eight categories of songs – 100 songs total – are programmed into each of the four clocks around campus. Only one category may run in a clock at a time. For instance, if the “General” songs category is chosen for a certain time of year, the clock alternates between 38 songs. Walking to class on an overcast, dreary day? If you’re lucky, the clock music will match your mood; that is, if the category “Songs for a Cloudy or Windy Day” has been programmed. Other categories associated with weather include “Songs for a Sunny Day” and “Songs for a Rainy Day.” Then there’s also the “Custom Selections,” or songs about IU, “Christmas,” “Patriotic,” and the National Anthem song categories. The clock company, Verdin, chose these categories, Lowry says. If you notice the clocks’ tunes to be a little perkier, it’s because with the warmer weather and budding flowers comes a switch to the category of “Songs for a Sunny Day.” The song “Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows” is surely more of a pick-me-up than songs like “The Little Black Raincloud” that play throughout winter. All in all, the clocks seem to be a hit on campus. “We get a lot of compliments on them – on aesthetics, on the music itself,” Lowry says. “The only complaints we get are that they’re too loud.” Mia Williams, director of landscape architecture who helped design the clock locations, agrees.“While the function of the clock may be a little less significant in these days of cell phones,” she wrote in an e-mail, “the fact that they chime and create an atmosphere of their own is a great addition.”
(04/13/10 12:44am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Gym rats, workaholics, couch potatoes, and over-achievers — label them how you will, we all know a few.Motivation is a matter of rewards and punishments, says professor Preston Garraghty, who teaches a class called the Psychology of Motivation. People seek to maximize pleasure and minimize pain, he says.“If a student comes into my office and says ‘I studied for five hours and still did poorly on the exam,’ in their eyes they were punished,” he says. “Their effort later on may go down.”Garraghty calls on the most basic biological motivations. If a person is hungry, they will eat. Similarly, if a person wants a degree from IU, they must recognize the goal and how they will reach it. Whether or not they stay on track depends on how much they value the goal.“I think kids get their aspirations largely from their parents, a little from their peers, and some from their teachers,” he says. “Ultimately, if parents don’t instill in their children a value of education, they’re not going to value it.”Garraghty stresses that there is no clear explanation for an individual’s motivation. Yet one thing is for sure, something drives us all.Jen PetersonKeeping busy is second nature for junior Jen Peterson.On top of a full course load, she has managed to work between 40 and 50 hours a week. She works between 15 and 25 hours a week at Pitaya on Kirkwood Avenue.She took a break from her waitressing job at Puccini’s La Dolce Vita, where she worked about 20 hours a week, and replaced it with the iUnity campaign.With all of these obligations, she still finds time to be an active member of Alpha Gamma Delta.Peterson does not have to work to have money. Her parents support her financially, but she says she wants “to be able to prove to my family that I know the value of a dollar.” When she was jobless for one month during the summer, her parents told her not to worry about finding a new one. But Peterson says she needed to do something. And that’s when she decided one job would not suffice and decided to work two.With all her earnings, Peterson jokes that she puts it into the Kilroy’s fund. She says she likes being able to do something without asking her parents for help. “It’s nice to know that if I needed to support myself, I could,” Peterson says. “It gives me more freedom and I am able to claim independence.”Brian BollingerMany students cringe at the thought of math equations and graphs, but junior Brian Bollinger jumps at the opportunity to play with numbers.Bollinger saw an opportunity to create a new organization, the Kelley Portfolio Management Club, at the Kelley School of Business.Members invest real money into the stock market. At meetings, members pitch their ideas in groups in hopes of carrying them out, but they don’t always work.Bollinger worked on a start-up Web-based company, but after working hundreds of unpaid hours this summer, the Web site fell through. This taste of failure spurred him forward.“If you are just going to give up after doing something wrong the first time, then there really is no hope for you,” he says. “It’s learning through those mistakes in order to excel to the next level.”Kyle SwinfordJunior Kyle Swinford is not on an athletic team. He is not training for a weight-lifting competition or a marathon. In fact, he has trouble thinking of short-term goals that push him to exercise regularly. He’s more of a long-term guy, just hoping to look good and stay healthy.That’s why he spends 12-13 hours a week pumping iron and working up a sweat at the gym.“When you strip everything away — all your distractions, school, family — all you really have is yourself, your body,” Swinford says. “The longer you take care of your body, the longer you’ll live.”For Swinford, it’s a simple matter of prioritizing. Working out comes before school and sleep in his mind.“I simply derive my motivation from doing the right thing,” he says. “To stay in shape. To eat right. To help my fellow man. I want to look back on my life and be proud of the things I did and the things I accomplished.”Sam SpaiserYou won’t see junior Sam Spaiser chowing on Pizza X at 3 a.m.He is on a low-fat raw vegan diet. Spaiser eats about 3,000 calories a day, which consist of sweet fruits and leafy greens.Spaiser says he chose this lifestyle because he wanted to be at his optimal health.“I didn’t want to survive,” he says, “I wanted to thrive.”He also exercises at least one hour a day by doing gymnastics or training in the park when the weather is nice.He tries to do some sort of physical activity before he eats because he says humans should work for their food.“When chimpanzees want to eat, they go get it.”Spaiser says that eating this way is easy to do. Sometimes he’ll eat 30 bananas in a day.But typically Spaiser varies his diet. He says there are about 150 fruits out there and he says he has “never eaten so many different types of foods” prior to this diet.Spaiser is passionate about living a healthy lifestyle. His degree is called “An Evolutionary Perspective on Human Diet” through the Individualized Major Program. He is researching anatomical reasons for why certain foods are better for humans than others.This past summer he lived on a self-sustainable community in Hawaii and interned on a farm.“When you get rid of all of the distractions, you can enjoy and see things you might look past,” he says. “It’s like no strings attached. Everyone deserved to live care-free for at least a month.”Spaiser’s grocery receipt10 heads of organic lettuce30 lbs. bananas38 lbs. red navel orangesTypical meal 1:1 to 2 lbs. dates (preferably moist barhis from the Date People)2 cucumbers (sliced, with a date placed on each slice)Typical meal 2:15 to 20 oranges or tangelos (juiced)4 to 5 oranges or tangelos (juiced) blended with a few leafs of romaine lettuceromaine lettuce chopped into a bowl with a dressing of 1 to 2 juiced oranges or tangelos blended with 3 ounces avocado
(03/08/10 4:56am)
From the school fight song
to “You Are My Sunshine,” the National Anthem to “Singin’ in
the Rain,” the red clocks we pass on campus have a song for
any day. Sure, it’s nice background music for a walk to class, but
have you ever wondered just how these tunes are decided? We did, and
decided to seek out the people behind the clockwork.
(02/23/10 4:06am)
Q. Why did we learn to play the recorder in elementary school?
(02/12/10 5:49am)
Ethan, 12, had been single for two weeks. And after two weeks, it starts getting in your head, he said.
(12/01/09 12:14am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Devin Pipkin, Chris Adkins, and De’Sean Turner have never been apart for too long.Devin, a junior track and field sprinter, Chris, a redshirt sophomore football player, and De’Sean, a redshirt sophomore cross country runner, grew up in Indianapolis. The athletes were teammates on the Warren Central High School track team and, come senior year, led the team to a state championship. Devin and De’Sean have always attended the same school. They even went to the same daycare as toddlers. When it came time to search for colleges, the two visited schools together. Coaches tended to look at the duo as a package deal. When the men visited IU, both had a feeling that this school and these teams were the right fit.“Honestly, if he would have decided to go somewhere else, I probably would’ve looked into going where he went,” De’Sean says. “But it was like he wanted to go here, and we looked at the other guys that were coming in, and we thought, let’s do this.”Today, the athletes continue to compete at the same high level. Their lives are linked through history, success, and a passion to excel. But the lives of collegiate athletes are a mystery to the rest of us. Here, the three friends invite us inside.•••••••De’Sean sits at a round table surrounded by fellow cross country runners. To the right of them is a table filled with track and field athletes, behind them, football players.It’s dinner time and the athletes are hungry. About 15 tables and several buffet carts fill Training Table, the athletes’ dining room under Memorial Stadium.Athletes in every varsity sport have the option to pay for a meal plan that lets them fill up on pasta, meat, salad, and dessert Sunday through Thursday.The dining area has the feel of a high school cafeteria. Just eliminate the band, theater, and computer wiz clusters, and multiply the jock table by a few.The volleyball players come in threes, says De’Sean. The female-filled table over there? Probably rowers, who typically sit together. The guys sitting at a nearby table are swimmers and divers — De’Sean has seen them before. Sometimes it’s sports gear that gives players away. Body types and recognizable faces help, too.De’Sean and his friends discuss the new dessert, Blue Bunny ice cream bars. They crack jokes with other athletes walking by. One runner writes, “Do you like me?” on a napkin, with “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” boxes to check, and hands it to a blonde athlete piling food on her plate. The note is intended to be from the writer’s teammate, a joke that occurs against the teammate’s will. The rest of the runners watch and laugh as she reads it.•••••••On the gridiron, players decked out in pads and uniforms scramble as a football flies across the field. Amid the flurry, No. 29 stands still on the sidelines. A rolled-up sleeve reveals a bandage that runs from mid-arm to under his jersey.Three weeks ago, Chris injured his elbow in practice. This is the first season since third grade that he will not be on the field.Now frustration, not excitement, fills his fall Saturdays. As the team left Friday afternoon for Iowa, Chris stayed behind with his family to watch the team on television.“The fact is that you only have so many opportunities to feel that way on Saturdays,” Chris says. “I’d feel bad if I missed one week. To be out every week, it sucks.”That made watching the Hoosier’s 14-point lead slip away in the Iowa game especially hard for Chris. The final score was Iowa 42, IU 24.Devin understands how difficult it must be for Chris to watch from back home. “He hates losing,” Devin says. “He’s been winning his whole life in everything he does. We never lost in high school, really.”When Chris arrived back at the apartment, the two friends shared thoughts on the game, like usual.•••••••It’s Monday, and De’Sean’s cross country practice consists of staring at a blank wall. Only the hum of a treadmill and his thoughts keep him occupied as he runs three miles. Athletes stroll in and out of the trainer’s room, filling bags of ice and hopping on tables for treatment. But De’Sean is lost in his own world.He is preparing for the cross country Big Ten Championships on Nov. 1 in Pennsylvania. De’Sean consistently runs in the front pack of his team, but an injury could change that. He’s been struggling with his knees. This is the first run he’s completed in four days.A trainer checks on the lone runner, raising the intensity on the treadmill. De’Sean’s legs stretch farther and move faster to keep up.“Does it get worse yet?” The trainer asks.“No,” De’Sean replies, staring straight ahead at the wall.“It just stays the same?”“I mean, it doesn’t feel very good,” De’Sean says. His soft voice trails off and disappears under the machine’s noise. Leading up to the meet, he stays positive. Normally, he wouldn’t worry about his chances of running in a meet. But today, he has doubts.“I guess it’ll just be a meet-time decision.”
(11/17/09 2:46am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>A minute’s walk from Bryan Park, Sierra Roussos swung open the door of her house on the corner, welcoming a mother and child into another world.“Bonjour!” she greeted them with a smile.“Hello,” the mother replied as she nudged her child through the door.The girl with bright eyes then ran to her. In one swooping motion, the preschool teacher picked up the 20-month-old and placed her on her hip.“Au revoir!” a tiny Mia Makris yelled to her family, extending an arm and shaking her open hand back and forth.“Au revoir, Mia,” they said as they exited through the door, laughing. She watched the family leave, her gentle, singsong voice repeating the French goodbye.Roussos set the blond girl down, and she scurried off to find a toy. Sierra’s eyes focused on her.“She’s really picking the language up fast.” Just the other day, Mia said “encore” to her mother at the dinner table. She wanted more pasta, and the French word came to mind.Those are the kinds of moments Sierra Roussos, a 2001 IU graduate, and her husband, Daniel, work so hard to see. Those are the moments that help separate their preschool – Bryan Park Preschool for Global Children – from others in Bloomington.Sierra Roussos, 31, and Daniel Roussos, 37, spend 11 hours a day at the school and nursery, following a dual-language model and serving homemade and organic meals. They opened the preschool out of their home last January. Sierra dreams of someday moving to a center and opening a pre-K through high school in town.But for now, the children thrive in the Roussos’ home.Multilingual from age 2It was 8 a.m. and already a pair of 3-year-old boys began to argue.“Are you two fighting?” Sierra Roussos dropped to her knees and looked them square in the eyes.“No,” they responded in unison.“I hope not. This is a violence-free school. No fighting, no guns, no swords,” she said matter-of-factly, her eyebrows raised but her voice the same singsong tone as before.The parents who entrust the Roussos with their children recognize Sierra Roussos’s ability to keep her cool.“Sierra appears to treat all the children with the same respect and kindness, while maintaining a firm and leadership-type role as a teacher,” Mia’s mother Beky Makris said. “She is very tuned in to their needs, and appears to be constantly evolving to accommodate ages, cultural identities and personal interests.”As the kids lingered eating their breakfasts of organic yogurt, cereal and bananas, Sierra Roussos tried to push them along.“Tu as fini?” she asked the kids at the table who were playing with their food. It means “Have you finished?” in French.A 2-year-old just nodded, her wispy blond curls bouncing with her head.Sierra Roussos and her children speak French as much as English throughout the day at Bryan Park Preschool. It’s part of the partial immersion system the couple believes best teaches a child another language. The Roussos don’t believe in the “foreign language classes” other schools offer. In their eyes, 45 minutes twice a week just doesn’t cut it.Their preschool was created out of frustration at the selection of schools available for their children in Brooklyn a couple years ago. Daniel Roussos, with his background in business, and Sierra Roussos, with her expertise in foreign language education, realized they could create their ideal preschool themselves. They would focus on world culture and foreign language.“There have been studies that show children who study foreign language have better critical thinking skills, problem solving skills – they do better on standardized tests, they know their own language better,” she said. “A foreign language is a means of broadening a horizon.”Sierra Roussos earned her bachelor’s degree in education from IU and her master’s from New York University, specializing in teaching French. She, too, learned at a young age – she spent four years as a child attending an elementary school in Paris while living with her grandparents.But French and English words aren’t the only ones echoing through the walls of the household. Daniel Roussos, born in Beirut and raised in Greece, speaks, reads and writes in German and Greek fluently and is conversationally fluent in Arabic. However, Greek is his chosen language when talking to their 15-month-old daughter and 3-year-old son. Sierra Roussos speaks mainly French.So how do the Roussos children learn English?“Well, we speak English to each other,” she said, referring to herself and her husband.As far as learning a language goes, the younger the better, Sierra Roussos firmly believes.No food is ‘yucky’Throughout the morning, Daniel Roussos mainly stayed in the kitchen. The sunlight peeped through the trees into the window. Breaded turkey sizzled in the oven; organic pasta boiled on the stove. It’s his job to provide the kids with the right nutrition, and he takes it seriously.“Everything we cook is organic,” he said. “All the meat is local. If we don’t find something local, we don’t buy it.”Going along with the theme of the school, Daniel Roussos serves dishes from around the world to introduce the children to other cultures.Sometimes he’ll cook beeftekia, a Greek dish made of beef, pork, chopped onions, pepper, salt and parsley. Other times he’ll cook German bratwurst. That day it was a colorful dish of tricolor pasta with chunks of the breaded turkey and corn and steamed carrots on the side.Sometimes it’s a struggle to convince kids younger than five to try unfamiliar foods, Daniel Roussos said.“They all use the word ‘yucky.’ This is how they all start. It took me about six months to get rid of the word ‘yucky,’” he said. “We want them to learn the language and get acquainted with different types of food. We want them to try new things.”Preschool hustle and bustleOn a rainy day, the kids at the preschool released their energy through dancing.Sierra turned on global rhythmic music and cleared the play area. She plopped a box full of scarves down onto the mat.Eleven kids hopped around. They ran into each other like bumper cars and collapsed on the ground.Two boys draped an arm around each other’s necks and kicked their legs out in attempted synchronization. Their free hands twirled scarves.They called for Sierra Roussos, who was speaking with a parent. “Oh, you’re Greek dancing!” she exclaimed. The Roussos’ 3-year-old had learned the dance at a Greek festival a few months ago and shared it with his friends at the school. The boys’ faces turned red from laughter as they fell to the ground, panting.Sierra Roussos’ life revolves around kids. After 6 p.m., when the preschoolers go home, she turns into a full-time mom.“Sometimes on the weekend I’m like, someone take my kids, I need to spend time with adults,” she said.But most of the time she enjoys the constant company of bustling, energetic children.When playtime drew to an end, it was back to work.“OK, finish up ... we’ve got things to do,” Sierra crooned in her same gentle tone, as she turned to tend to another group of children.
(11/12/09 5:16am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>EDITOR'S NOTE: Rachel Stark is a junior majoring in journalism.Ballantine Hall, first floor, across the hall and down a short way from the computer lab, first stall on the left – my go-to bathroom stall. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays when I make this pit stop, I usually get in and get out and on to my gender studies class. This day was different.I pushed through the swinging door and marched to my stall and let my backpack slam to the ground with a thud. Then I noticed it – a large circle of notes in an array of handwriting and colors located right next to the toilet paper dispenser. Oh, typical graffiti, I thought. But this was unusual. I had read the “(So and so) is a slut” and “I hate the world” comments on this stall before – one-liners that we’ve all read so many times we just roll our eyes when we see them. No, this jumble of notes initially caught my eye because of the large area it consumed on the stall, but what hooked my interest was the one sentence that had triggered a flurry of responses: “I’m becoming bulimic and don’t know how to stop.”Questions flooded my mind. Who is this woman? Why, of all places, did she reach for help on a bathroom stall? Did she scribble that note on the cold, gray stall after throwing up her lunch? Is she OK?* * *I was disgusted when I read the first response. “That sucks” was all one person had written. But I read on and realized I wasn’t the only one who worried about this woman.The clutter of notes that followed had turned this first floor bathroom stall into a forum, the writers anonymous but connected.“Don’t shut down or isolate yourself ... talk to people. Don’t feel scared or ashamed. Your true friends will still love you. They won’t judge you. Good luck!” The messages were written in red, blue, black ink. Some were in bubbly printed handwriting, some in scribbled cursive.“Ask a friend for help. If they judge you, they’re not good friends anyways. (I know ... I used to be anorexic.)”Some, like this one, ended with a smiley face.“Don’t ruin your life or body! You are beautiful and unique – don’t deprive the world of what only you can offer. There are many who struggle with the same battle and win – you can do it! Believe in yourself!”These encouragements captivated me. It became routine to check in to see the latest updates on the stall.“PRAY,” one woman had written. With an arrow leading away from the one-word message, another woman wrote, “and take control.”Someone went beyond the advice everyone else gave by suggesting a specific person for her to visit:“I would suggest seeing Dr. Stockton at CAPS – she’s a great psychologist. But get help before it’s too late ... Please.”One woman seemed to echo my exact thoughts on the stall in two brief sentences:“I love the support people show here. If only it was true everywhere in life.”* * *One afternoon I walked into the stall to see yet another note had been added to the top of the graffiti circle. It was written in the same handwriting as the initial message, in the same color pen.“I’m getting help at CAPS – thank you all!”Intrigued and inspired, I wanted to find anyone who knew something about this bathroom forum. And so my search began.My first stop, naturally, was the Counseling and Psychological Services on campus. I was well aware that the counselors couldn’t just supply me with a name of a client.But maybe I could clue the counselors in on my story, and if they knew the bathroom stall girl, they could see if she would want to talk to me. A long shot, but I had to try.“Well, that is a very unusual story,” an administrator from CAPS said to me on the phone. She was willing to pass the request along to her staff, and hoped it would lead to something. I thanked her, and then anxiously awaited her return phone call for days.I got nothing.But each time I went back to read the writings on the bathroom stall, something inside of me told me to keep trying. * * *Eventually, all evidence of the bathroom forum was erased. I hurried into the stall one day, my eyes meeting a blank, freshly cleaned metal wall begging for new graffiti.My next step? To search for the janitor who washed it away.When I tracked her down, Jessica Hoene explained she was just doing her nightly duties. Each night, she and the other janitors working the night shift in Ballantine move through the halls and periodically disappear into the bathrooms to make them shine. Hoene had scrubbed countless notes off bathroom stalls. She had done it so often, she rarely even read what she was rubbing off. She sprayed, scrubbed and carried on.But she said this circle of graffiti caught her eye.A week later, she could recall a little bit of what she stopped to read.“A girl wrote on there that she had bulimia,” she said. “It said they were gonna get help at a place called CAPS, or something like that.”* * *I posted a note on the stall where the graffiti had been. I explained the story I was working on, requested that anyone who wrote on the wall contact me, and I gave my e-mail address.I checked the stall daily, and found that my note kept getting torn down, so I kept posting new ones.And I waited.A week later, a new message at the top of my e-mail inbox entitled “Graffiti” made my heartbeat race.“I was the person who suggested that the person with bulimia should try going to CAPS, and to Dr. Stockton there, specifically.”I wanted to talk with this woman.She agreed to meet in the Indiana Memorial Union. I soon found myself face-to-face with senior Lindsey Krantz. The bathroom forum was not made up of notes from anonymous people anymore. It was a real back-and-forth between real women on this campus. I finally had a face.Krantz had an easy smile and looked me square in the eye when talking about what would be sensitive issues for many people. Within minutes of speaking with her, there was no doubt in my mind that she was the one who had directed the woman to CAPS.Krantz told me she had had a friend with an eating disorder three years ago. The friend could not admit her problem; she instead pushed her friends, family – everyone – away. Her life turned into a downward spiral.Krantz decided against taking her pen to the stall the first time she read the graffiti. She said she was never one for property destruction. But the senior visited the stall again not much later. Her heart felt for this woman who was reaching out, and the senior wanted to affirm this sort of plea for help. So she took out her pen and wrote on the stall. After all, Krantz figured, this woman’s issue was more important than some measly graffiti on a bathroom stall.The senior shared her knowledge of CAPS and Dr. Stockton. She said many people don’t realize the help available to them on campus.“The whole incident in the stall is just one more attack on the stigma of mental illness,” Krantz said. “It happens to a lot of people. The more people see exchanges like (the graffiti), see people respond positively whenever people reach out for help ... well, it’s not like it used to be.”The day Krantz read that the woman had gotten help at CAPS, relief flowed through her.“I was like ‘thank you,’” Krantz recalled, placing her hands into a prayer position. “I was so glad she had gotten help.”But didn’t she want to meet the woman she had helped? Didn’t she have other questions for the woman? Wasn’t there some connection?No, Krantz told me, she didn’t need to know who the woman was. Good works shouldn’t be done ostentatiously. Just knowing the woman heeded her advice was good enough. She was content.For Krantz, the girl sitting next to her in class could be the one she helped. The girl she bumped into on the bus could be the one who wrote a supportive note next to hers. No one will ever know.* * *I still hoped to hear from the woman who had begun the Ballantine bathroom forum. But weeks went by, and I realized I wasn’t going to.My conversation with Krantz resonated with me. She was happy with never meeting the woman she had helped.Although I had not found the woman who first wrote on the bathroom stall, I realized I, too, should be content with that.I walked along the streets of our massive campus later that evening. I was just one of 40,000 complex, individual students. I had no idea what was going on in the life of the man who rushes by me, of the woman who chats on her phone. Anonymity surrounds us, yet we are all connected.
(09/08/09 4:54am)
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Ho-fung Hung is no stranger to epidemics. For the assistant professor in the Department of Sociology, the threat of H1N1 brings back memories of the 2003 SARS outbreak. Hung was finishing his dissertation at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology when the government shut down the university two months into the semester. All classes went online.Although H1N1 is less serious than SARS at this point, IU is preparing for the worst. Before the start of school, Provost and Executive Vice President Karen Hanson sent out guidelines to faculty, urging them to prepare for an onset of the H1N1 virus.Hanson recommended that faculty learn how to conduct classes online and consider loosening rules for attendance and extensions, such as not requiring proof of illness or not enforcing penalties.“To limit the spread of any highly communicable disease, it is very important that individuals with the flu stay away from classes, labs and other gatherings and that they do not go to crowded locations like health services and physicians’ offices solely to obtain documentation of illness,” Hanson wrote in a memo to faculty.There were about five confirmed laboratory cases of swine flu on campus last spring, said Hugh Jessop, director of the IU Health Center.The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention suspended lab testing to determine H1N1 and advised that anyone experiencing flu symptoms be considered to have H1N1 and be treated accordingly. Last week, the University reported two probable cases of H1N1, but they haven’t been confirmed.The IU Health Center said it isn’t positive about the exact number of cases since it isn’t allowed to conduct tests to confirm that it is H1N1.Purdue reported 47 likely cases already this year, a trend displayed by colleges from coast to coast. According to the CDC, the virus tends to spread more quickly among young adults who have not built an immunity to flu strains. The close living quarters at schools also make colleges prime breeding grounds for the strain. David Zaret, senior advisor for the Office of the Provost, said Hanson’s guidelines for faculty follow recommendations from the CDC. Although Hanson suggested faculty relax attendance policies, the decision falls in the hands of each individual faculty member, Zaret said. “The provost sent out a guideline, but it does not set a new rule,” he said. Zaret also said the provost worked with the University Information Technology Services to ensure they had the capability to support the system if all classes moved online. Lessie Jo Frazier, a gender studies assistant professor, addressed swine flu on the first day of class. She allows students four grace days in a semester, but said she is willing to work with students who have exceeded that amount if they get the flu. “I’ll take attendance, but I’ll also look at patterns,” Frazier said. “If this happens constantly to the same person, I’ll say you need to talk to a physician.” She is also prepared to take more extreme measures. “If I see low attendance several days in a row, I’m going to start calling people, and there’s a good chance the class will go online for a little bit,” she said. Hung said his attendance policy will undergo no changes at the current time, but he is prepared to take action if an outbreak occurs. He credited the University for being alert, and quoted a phrase heard repeatedly during the SARS outbreak: “It’s better to err on the side of caution.”Students have expressed surprise at the seriousness with which faculty are treating the H1N1 virus during the first week of classes. “I didn’t know swine flu was as big of a deal as all the teachers are making it, and that they’re ready for students to stay home at the slightest inclination that there might be an outbreak,” junior Therese Schmidt said. “Almost all my classes have brought it up.” Frazier gave credit to the provost for her actions and said even if people view the contingency planning as extreme, it is beneficial.“I think the work we’re doing now for the H1N1 virus will be useful for all kinds of other situations that come about,” she said.