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Forgotten 6 Unraveled 10 Capturing Cedral 12 Rousing Ruckus 14

Our Mission: RCAHive strives to be an innovative student magazine that is entertaining, intellectually provocative, and visually engaging. We are conscious of the responsibility of writing and publishing, and we seek to create a dynamic magazine that is worthy of its readers. RCAHive seeks to bring RCAH to the world and bring the world into RCAH.

RCAHIVE May 2012

May 2012
Fountain on the Hill 5
Editors in Chief Cooper Franks, Arielle LaBrecque Layout Editor & Graphic Designer Samantha Novak Features Johanna Forsberg, Abbie Heath News Toni Lee Ruggiano The Arts Hanna Obbink, Grace Pappalardo, Ryan Tarr, Julia Kramer RCAH Life Becky Barron, Julia Johnson Entertainment Isaac Berkowitz, Ian Siporin Columnists Abby Schottenfels, Abby Conklin, Anna Orsini Opinion Sean Fitzpatrick Comic Artist Kristin Phillips Copy Editors Nicole DiMichele, Sophia Mathias-Porter Submissions: RCAHive wants to hear from you! We encourage submissions, writing and photo, from all members of the RCAH community. We reserve the right to edit submissions for length and clarity. The opinions expressed in the articles are those of the writers and not necessarily of RCAHive. For this reason, we do not accept anonymous submissions.

A Cause Goes Viral 9

Travel 11

From Kinsale, to the Coast 15

Kates Korner 17

Life with Anna Orsini 20

What Santorum Means 22

feature

A Key to Travel
Cooper Franks
To travel. To take a step, or to begin a journey. Its that sense of inner and outer discovery. Its sort of a paradox, the more you travel outward, the more you find yourself wandering inward. Each step you take forward seems to bounce right back. The way I look at it, its a give and take relationship. You take a risk. You dive into an unknown feeling. You put yourself out there. And you fall into the local compassion or frightening unfamiliarity. Perhaps you fall in love, or perhaps its a young adventure, but those memories remain, and you keep traveling inward and outward. However, when we think of travel, we envision long road trips or hopping aboard Flight 142 to a distant place. But the question is how can we inject that feeling of travel into the daily motions that make us want to escape in the first place? Lately, Ive been working on treating each walk, bike, or bus ride as an adventure. Sure, Ive seen the campus and all its wonders, from the graffiti under the bridge to the fountains next to the Beaumont Tower. And of course, I attend the same classes each day, but when I walk around campus I try to take different routes, and even if I dont, I see new things each day. Simple things that make a significant difference in my travels. The way the Red Cedar reflects or embraces the sun, the collection of faces I pass each day, or those ducks that really love bread. Like the current of the Red Cedar, the flow of traffic is consistently changing, and so are the flight patterns of the mallards. Instead of staring down at my feet, iPod, or texting uncontrollably, I throw music into my ears and let my mind and eyes wander. If you appreciate those little discoveries that would have amazed you as a kid, youll begin to travel every day. If its raining down typical Michigan so-called weather, focus on something you normally wouldnt. The raindrops orchestrate magic into the environment around you, composing as they hit waxy leaves, car windshields, or your warm skin. Sometimes, if its the right amount of raindrops mixed with wind, you could close your eyes, try real hard, and travel to La Garganta del Diablo at Igaz Falls, or find yourself atop the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. You can apply this to any aspect of life. Its the power weve had since we were children but have forgotten: imagination. It just takes practice, and with it, you can travel limitlessly.

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Fountain on the Hill

Arielle LaBrecque
There is a church that rests on the crest of Romes highest hill called San Pietro in Montorio. Folded into the side of the Gianicolo, the only way to reach it is from climbing an eroding staircase from via Mameli, the street that winds below it. Here, supposedly, is the spot where St. Peterthe Catholic Churchs first popewas crucified. Architect Donato Bramantes tempietto, Italian for little temple, hallows the alleged ground with a high renaissance dome that leans on softly rounded pillars. The tempietto, hidden inside the arms of the cloister, has a winding staircase that leads to the small square where the cross was mounted. The day I find San Pietro in Montorio, I am sweating. Romes heat is setting the city ablaze, and even the fat, white marble railing is hot to the touch. On this day, Rome is sick and swollen with the ominous and inflated air. The domes rise like distended body parts. I look down at my feet. They are red and bloated and pulsing in my shoes. Like two remote heartbeats, my feet control my whole bodymy heels ache, and each step shoots stalks of pain up my legs. After climbing the steps from via Mameli, I sit on the platform of the church to give my body a break. Walking the seven hills in one day has finally caught up to me. I take my rapidly draining pack of cigarettes out of my purse and light one. The nicotine relaxes my muscles momentarily. I feel my feet are swelling by the minute. My hands seem to be inflating too, due to the mixture of heat and pain. My temperature is rising and my pores are opening, sucking in the suffocating smog. I flick my cigarette, no longer desirable, off the edge of the railing. With no one else around, I kick off my flats, damp with sweat and grime, and ease up the stairs to the cloister with my shoes and bag in hand. In the shadow of the portico, I stand on the cool and eroded marble. From up here, the sound of the city is muted. Up here, I am no longer in Rome. The air has softened. On the opposite side of the closed in square a wall fountain dribbles out water. I go to rinse my feet, the water dampening every flame in my feet and my legs. I let the water run over them for five minutes. Ten minutes. The Roman sun stretches across to reach the windows of the cloister. A shutter bangs with the sudden breeze that arrives with the sunset. I leave my bag and shoes by the fountain and descend the staircase to the bottom of the tempietto. My feet leave wet puddles, speckled with sand and gravel, on the stairs. The bottom of the tempietto is cool and dark. In the center of the small room there is a square in the ground where said crucifix stood. If he really did exist, this was where Peters life faded away. On the top of the highest hill in Rome. I look up to the ceiling of the tempietto. Dull golden stars dot a navy blue sky, each star geometrical yet unique. A puddle forms beneath me, the last drops of water traveling slowly along the curves of my calves. The aching in my legs has ceased. Walking, I think, is my religion.

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Johanna Forsberg
A shiver ran down my spine as the night air began to unveil itself. Tired, and suffering from minor dehydration and a diesel fume headache, I began to layer on the same long underwear, sweatshirt, fleece, windbreaker, hat and gloves that I had been wearing for the past 12 days. We drove across the desolate African terrain for about an hour. I slunk down into my seat, trying to rest my head and escape the slight sting of windburn on my checks. The sway of the jeep lulled me into a state of relaxation and I began to daydream about what I was missing at home. I was shortly interrupted by a unique African voice, Were going to take a chance and go off the road. An indistinct mumble of agreement echoed throughout the jeep. We pulled into a small clearing as my mom whispered to me. Johanna, Johanna, look! she said as she pointed to the other side of our vehicle. Two flaxen female lions were lounging next to one another less than 20 feet from us. They acknowledged the jeeps looming presence as their ears perked forward. Their golden eyes, hidden under heavy lids, rolled in our direction. We watched them for several minutes, reveling in their sinewy bodies and slinking movements while they surveyed the area. Out of nowhere, we heard commotion in grasses next to us. A herd of frail impala rushed out of the bushes. Our driver pulled us around the dense shrubbery and within seconds we saw what had startled them. Hunched in the tall grass was a third lion, slightly larger then the other two, smothering a small impala with her powerful body. Her massive jaw clenched around its slender neck, in an attempt to asphyxiate her prey. The others quickly joined her. Together, they began ripping into the impalas abdomen, white teeth flashing as they began to gorge themselves. In no time, intestines and organs were exposed and quickly devoured.

The only noises were the tearing flesh and popping of bones mixed with the shuttering of all our cameras. Every few minutes, the impala would thrash and raise its head and cry out in a feeble attempt to escape. The lions ignored the wails as they continued to tear its body to shreds with their bloody jowls. No one spoke. We were all in shock because of what we were witnessing. Every once and a while, their large yellow eyes would glare us at us, questioning our presence,

wondering if we were waiting for the leftovers. Their eyes sent shivers down my spine. I could feel goose bumps forming on my forearms. Suddenly, a disgusting smell hit me. My eyes began to water as I pulled my fleece up over my nose in a useless attempt to avoid the stench. They have ripped open the bowels, our guide whispered with a slight grin. If death had a smell, this was it. For several minutes they continued to devour the impala, tussling over which one would

get the heartiest parts. Limb by limb, the impala began to disappear right before our eyes. As soon as it began, it was over. Within 13 minutes, the impala was gone. All that was left of it were bones, tufts of silken fur, and a bright, crimson stain smeared over the matted grasses.

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Too Sick for Salvation (But That Word is Just a Joke)

Abbie Heath
Dear so-and-so, I couldnt even handle the ride home without falling into my never-ending Eternal Existential Crisis. Half the car was sleeping as I drove the Silent Monster, dipping in and out beneath the cliffs. I miss you. All I could think about was the time when we both blew off work to get stoned in the park. (Remember, in August?) We claimed we were sick and some of the good members of the Minimum Wage Toilers of America covered for us. We made homemade bread and brought blackberries, like some sort of domestic aphorized bear people, foregoing the term picnic after learning of its cynical, disgusting roots. (Lets just have a bite in the park! you insisted, as we single-handedly tried to erase the hate left in our mouths by a sour word). We recklessly traipsed about, forgetting for ten minutes that we are Too Old For This Shit. That day always makes me feel warm and light. I hope your adventure is everything you want it to be. Youre On The Road, like a true beat, and while your adventures spill before you, I muse on whichever part of my Eternal Existential Crisis seems to be screaming the loudest (each word anxious and heavy in my <3). Im yours, HOLDIN DOWN DA FORT, Sister-friend. Dear so-and-so, I dont know how to say good-bye to things. Ive always been this way, and I dont see myself growing out of it any time soon. Since my single-digit days, I have been tormented by the possibility of a final good-bye. From my biased perspective, I consider myself to be a flexible person. I take things as they come, and am usually fairly inventive when it comes to solving problems (a question that seems to be everywhere currently, thanks to job interviews). Despite all that, I cant say good-bye. I become obsessed with remembering every detail, and sorting out the just-right sentence that will define the moment for me. In other words, I end up writing moments, not simply living them. And I hate that about myself. I become obsessed with objects. Not in a materialistic way, but in a latent energy sort of way. When I know a person Im missing was the last person to touch that picture frame, I can no longer move it. I will walk up, and stare it in the eye, only to be entirely envious of it, because it knows the embrace of someone I miss terribly. In my bat cave at home-home there are skeletons in every corner. Books that remain unread and on the wrong shelf because so-and-so put it there after the sock hop. Board games that remain on the floor gathering dust because whats-her-face made a joke about the title. Records piled high on top of my receiver because I listened to greatjamz with greatmenz. I promise I am no hoarder, but its admittedly unhealthy. And Im sorry to say I havent changed much. I need to get out of this room. Dear so-and-so, Today I cut out pictures from old magazines (LIFE/TIME), splaying all the images on my wine-red walls. I just let the past wash over me and baptize me clean. I know it is indulgent. I need to stop being so nostalgic. But it made me feel so light and fancy free. Hows that weather? Dear so-and-so, Today I was sitting in Brandons closet and every part of me collapsed. (I spend too much time there, smashed between his books. My weekends have long since become a trek to his apartment, but, despite appearances, I know my reasons are true, and I feel no guilt.) But today he had to leave for class in the early hours, the barely awake hours, and I sat on his bed, waiting for Lizzy to pick me up and make the depressing drive home. After morning cuddles and giggles, I took a sad shower, and sat on his bed, utterly alone. Usually there are some random folk littered throughout his apartment, so even when Im alone, theres life somewhere. And even if I dont talk to them, I can feel their movements and their idiosyncrasies through the walls, which never ceases to give me comfort. But after I stumbled out of the cold shower into the cold apartment, everything was empty. Everything was empty and still, except for the painful water dripping off of my wet 1920s-French-peasant girlhaircut. Thats when I collapsed. I go away for ten minutes to come out to post-Apocalypticwinter stillness. Fucking ouch. Dear so-and-so, Today I went to the genericmidwestern-grocery-store (food-delightzz), and as I quietly waited in line, the woman ahead of me turned around and, without reserve, pleasantly asked me, How long has it been since your parents home has felt like your own? I stood there, shocked and quiet, my radical eyeliner suddenly out of place in the face of a True Radical. I hid behind my bangs sheepishly, like a four-year-old hiding behind their mothers skirts. I dont even know what I said. I think I muttered something incoherent as she moved onto the equally telling subject of Did you catch Idol last night? I think my answer still disappointed her, as she briskly turned away, I was now simply the boring kid holding tofu. Dear so-and-so, I have a shark tooth on my left pinky finger, quiet and modest, always pointing me towards the past. Always pointing towards days of playplayplay and laughlaughlaugh. Youre right. I took it off.

A Cause Goes Viral Youth Movement of 2012

Toni Lee Ruggiano
There are two sides to every story. The aftermath of Invisible Childrens Kony 2012 film has resulted in 80 million sides, and counting. The film, which premiered on YouTube on March 5, had an overwhelming impact on all social media platforms. Twitter, Facebook, even the iPhone app Instagram, made it impossible to miss the image of Joseph Kony, a Ugandan warlord who is the target of the film. Supporters of the campaign, celebrities among them, blew up Twitter with the hashtag #stopkony, urging others to view the video. Invisible Children made clear their message, that in order for Joseph Kony to be stopped, he must be made famous. What IC does well is cater to the young. From their starting documentary in 2004, Invisible Children: The Rough Cut, their videos have grown increasingly stimulating with easy to understand messages and graphic images that speak towards sympathy. For years now, IC has been sending college students and young adults called Roadies across the nation to spread the IC message. Support has always stemmed from the young, constituting Kony 2012 as a huge youth movement. They have been able to capture the youth in such a powerful way because watching a video makes you feel like you are part of something greater than yourself, that you can actually make a difference. And being that the founders of the organization and the Roadies are young, everyone is on the same level, and everyones contribution matters. I have been a supporter of IC for years and did not expect the negative feedback that the film was receiving. IC embraces the critiques, using them as a way to educate people further. Their website now has a Critiques page with an answer to almost all the claims in the media they feel are misleading. There have been countless debates over not just the credibility of the organization, but also the multitude of different concerns in Africa and around the globe that have emerged. I had to take a step back, (more like ten) to even attempt wrapping my head around the media speculation. It can be so easy to get lost in the information and not know what to believe. Many have become skeptical of where ICs finances are going. Others think that

news

they simplified an extremely complex issue, as well as support the Ugandan government who has been known to cause as much trouble as the LRA. Those who have studied the issue of the LRA in Uganda appreciate ICs goal, but dont think Kony is who needs to be targeted, being that he has long since left Uganda. Reports have even come out that the people of Uganda are outraged by the film. The issue is not black and white; there are many things to consider when discussing the Kony 2012 campaign. While not all may agree with ICs decisions, they have definitely sparked an interesting conversation.

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the arts

Hope that the Road is a Long One

Ryan Tarr
My descending cloud engulfed you. Wicked air embrittled you. Within me you creaked and shuddered. Preserved in the depths, grown in the void. I am that hostile shadow, that lifting glow: burying, resurrecting; crushing, freeing. Your shell will crumble: your mind will gleam your heart will escape. You will fly, Or you will weep, Or you will crawl, Or you will embrace me. We will always meet.

Unraveled

Mansfield

Horizons charred by falling suns

Hanna Obbink
My grandmother never had much taste in colors, food, cleaning, or music but each summer she traced her grandchildrens hands each winter they received fresh, scratchy, woolen mittens. And in between she used left over yarn to make afghans. Now on Saturday nights when the family used to gather round the piano and sing hymns, my mother and I curl up under ugly leftover yarn blue, brown, pink, off white, and though we wont go to church in the morning I imagine this blanket keeping us all tied together -- my family, the church, our thoughts. My grandmother has a disease that makes her mind unravel. nerve fibers get caught on degenerating myelin snag into long, threads get pulled out. lost. Grandma tells me, The ladies at the nursing home are going to remind me how to knit, so I can finish the afghan a present for your wedding. But I know she cannot feel wool between her fingers cannot count past 7 will not live to see my wedding will never again purl. So Saturday nights, my fingers ache as I wind yarn around needles, work loops back and forth knit crosses into blankets I leave lying on the edge of my grandmothers bed. With each row I tie the knots tightly.

Grace Pappalardo
Grace Pappalardo is the recipient of the 2012 Annie Balocating Prize for Poetry.
The air is windless clouds hang like gray weeds over backhoes paused rearing like skeletal beasts A woman screams into her phone pacing the warped wheelchair ramp of a bar in post-industrial hell She is yelling at the man on the other end of the line asking where he is and why he didnt come home last night She is waving a cigarette in her free hand tracing the air with fleeting words She tells him she isnt smoking Hulking buildings around the bar listen their fractured windows ears to the lonely city They are wreathed with asbestos warnings graffiti rust The woman screams again stuffs the phone into her acid wash jeans and disappears inside

Gnats seeking enlightening torches

Cattle fleeing impending flames

Phoebe Richardson

Travel
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Capturing Cedral
Julia Kramer
I am obsessed with documentation, especially through photography. I have a terrible memory and a great fear that I wont remember occasions that are important to me without a visual record of them. Thus, I was constantly writing in my diary and snapping photos during the two months I studied abroad in Costa Rica this past summer, capturing every detail I could in order to calm my anxiety about forgetting. Now I can look back at the nearly two thousand photos I took and I can rediscover the beautiful places and people I experienced throughout the trip. The study abroad program was Ethics in Tourism and Sustainable Development with Professor Vince Delgado. The first month of the trip was spent in Santa Ana, studying Spanish and taking RCAH 295 and 292B. After, two other students and I traveled to Cedral for the second month of engagement and reflection. Cedral is a farming town high up in the mountains that is currently trying to expand and diversify its economy by setting up rural and educational tourism, using the farms and forests as assets to attract foreigners. We lived with host families, worked on their farms, explored the winding roads around the countryside, and investigated their tourism ideas for our final projects. I spent a lot of time photographing the people we met and the beautiful environment in which they lived. The sprawling farms, murky cloud forests, and vibrant green hills provided a rich canvas onto which I painted my memories of Cedral, and the photos from this trip are expressions of my experience there. When I was feeling homesick or anxious, I went on a walk through the center of town, up the back hill toward the outlying farms of helechos and chayote, or down the main gravel road, and the camera became my tool to make sense of the foreign landscape. Simply the process of using a device that Im so familiar with was calming, and the ability to capture the beauty around me felt empowering. One of my favorite things to photograph was the living creatures that so heavily populated the area. I made sure to document the gigantic spider that hung out on the wall above my bed. I recorded the horses that we rode down to my host familys farm. I got right up into the faces of the colorful cows that dotted the hills. One of my favorite photos from the trip is of an ant underneath a water apple tree, carrying one of the vibrant pink petals gracefully balanced over its back. Capturing the details of my surroundings was very important, because that is the way I see the world in the present a series of little snapshots that fit together into a full moment that I can hold in my brain as a memory.

It was also very important for me to record the people of Cedral, because their physical presence was just as important as talking in the process of getting to know them I wanted to capture their reactions, the way they stood, their eyes and hands, and how they communicated non-verbally when I couldnt understand their words. One of my most cherished photos is of Mamacita, a 100-yearold woman who was a

baby in one of the founding families of Cedral. She was a very important elder in the community, and she passed away shortly after we returned to the United States. Another significant photo is of my host mom, Clara. I love her silhouette against the open doorway of her home because it speaks volumes about her character. She is a brick of a woman, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, and somehow paradoxically she always wears

patterned skirts of flowers or plaid. Clara firmly belongs in the landscape of Cedral, and the few photos I have of her clearly illustrate her place in Costa Rica. There is a delicate balance between capturing memories and over-documentation. As my mother says, some moments you need to remember with your heart. I feel that photography was a tool of connection in Cedral, rather

than one that distanced me from my surroundings it allowed me to explore the landscape, describe the people with whom I interacted, and, most importantly, remember the details of that specific place and time.

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entertainment

RousingRuckus
Ian Siporin
As for the talent of this band, I would rank them amongst some of the best acts Ive ever seen live. The strong vocals of Milia were a fantastic pairing with the absolutely incredible banjo playing of Jones. The standout musician of the group, however, was a man who sat most of the show. Multiinstrumentalist Zachary Nichols spent the entire show switching between a synth, trumpet, melodica, French horn, and even the saw! Thats right, this was the first time Ive seen someone play the saw and didnt want to boo him or her offstage. This man is so talented that he was able to play two different melodies at the same time on two separate instruments. The rest of the band sounded flawless throughout the entire show and made me realize the beauty of folk once again. The highlight of the night came during the end of the bands set. Milia got on the mic and asked the audience to sit as the band hopped off of the stage and played the remaining songs acoustically in the middle of the crowd. Gilchrest Halls charming ballroom-like area was transformed into a very intimate setting between the audience and the band. The band cranked out the last songs with all of the energy they had left (making this particular boy very happy that he set up his camera on the ol tripod). Swaying and some singing along, the crowd seemed to be truly touched in these final moments. After the show, the band stuck around to talk to fans, take pictures, and sell merchandise. They were not only talented, but very approachable and considerate to their fans. If youve never seen or heard of Frontier Ruckus before, I would strongly recommend them to anyone who has ever considered listening to folk music. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.

From Kinsale, to the Coast > > > > > > > > > > >
Isaac Berkowitz
When it comes to traveling, I like to believe that I have been to a good number of notable cities around the United States: New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and so on. However, I had never been out of the country until last summer when I took an expedition to the most beautiful place I have ever been, and quite possibly will ever be: Kinsale, Ireland. Over the last year I had been playing guitar in a folk and bluegrass group called Boxelder. We played small bars or venues around the Grand Rapids area, but mostly played just for fun. Two members, Ryan and Scott, were freshmen in college at this time, while Maddy, Kyle, and I were seniors in high school. The end of our senior year was coming to an end, and Ryan and Scott had already returned from college. After playing late one night until about 2:30 in the morning, we decided to take a break. We began discussing our lives and futures, where we want to be in 20 years, and where we think we will actually be. During this discussion, naturally the topic of traveling the world was brought up. Kyle, being very proud of his Irish heritage, made it clear to everyone that before he dies, no matter what, he will travel to Ireland. Ironically enough, it happens that Ryans grandparents own a place up in Kinsale, Ireland. Everyone instantly jumped on the idea of taking a group trip out to Kinsale, one last hurrah before everyone finally went his or her separate ways in just a few short months. What started as a compulsive drunken scheme, shortly evolved into a tangible plan to visit Ireland for 10 days. The plan was set in motion and we set off for Ireland within about a month of that night. Unfortunately, Scott was unable to join, but the rest of us were as excited as could be. Ryan had been there many times before visiting his grandfather, but the stories he told and descriptions he gave held nothing in comparison to the actual sight. The town is reminiscent of old tales you hear as child, or Disney movies about Ireland, with small cobblestone roads barely big enough to drive through, tall colorful homes and little shops, and everyone you happen upon is kind enough to smile and say hello. His grandfather, Paddy, lived on the very top of St. Johns hill overlooking the entire small town, which not only looked out over the ocean, but a small bay as well. After settling in and walking the streets for a while, we figured it was about time to stop by some trusty Irish pubs and have our fill. Towards the end of the night, we happened upon a tiny old pub called The Spaniard. We had been stumbling by when we heard music and decided to check it out. We grabbed a seat at the bar and began listening. When the bartender came over we inquired about the bar and the music scene. We have music basically every day, he said. Just so happens we dont have any tomorrow, though. It might have been the Jameson talking, but immediately I jumped on the opportunity and informed the bartender that we were an American folk group and would love to be able to play if that was acceptable. He happily agreed and told to us to stop on by around eight the next night and just set up wherever we wanted. We showed up the next night about as excited as could be. We set up in a back corner near the bar and began playing. It was a very casual scene that made it even more enjoyable and allowed us to engage even more with those who were watching. As the night progressed, more and more people would move their seats over towards us, cheer, sing along, and even buy us drinks. We ended up playing from 8 p.m. to about 1 a.m. I dont think I have ever had such a rewarding experience while playing music. It was the only time I was able to really engage fully with people listening and experience the joy with them. The rest of the week was filled with wonderful sightseeing, food and drink, and of course, more music. We played the streets of Dublin and made 60 Euros, but still, nothing was as rewarding as that second night at The Spaniard.

The cold biting air could not stop me from packing up my camera and heading towards West Circle to see the band Frontier Ruckus. With no prior knowledge and a wealth of recommendations (You would really like them!) I was pumped to see what Frontier Ruckus had to offer. As the opening band, East Harvest, and my surrounding friends set a great mood for the night, I was too ready for the main attraction. The band filed onto the stage, and what came next I will never forget. The trumpet blared as the band opened the show with the brilliant Silverfishes, off of their latest album Deadmalls & Nightfalls. For those not familiar with the band, they possess a heavy folk sound that accompanies the beautiful lyricism of lead singer/ songwriter Matthew Milia who started the band with banjo player David Winston Jones. This show was made all the more special due to the fact that the band is comprised of former Michigan State students, who seemed to have a strong connection to the students and campus.

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rcah life

RCAH Formal
Julia Johnson

Entertainment Within the RCAH: RCAHPPELLA

Becky Barron
RCAHppella. Some may see them as a singing group. Others may know them as the people that are a little too obsessed with cats (but let's be honest, can you ever be TOO obsessed with cats?). The truth is though, RCAHppella is very young compared to the other a cappella groups on campus, and has spent the past five years rising out of the shadows, and shining onto the MSU a cappella scene. In 2008, the first year the Residential College of Arts and Humanities existed, the idea of an a cappella group just for the college, comprised of RCAH students, started floating in the air, and voila! RCAHppella was born. The group consisted of about 16 members that first year. For the groups first ever concert, they performed six songs, mostly arranged or brought in by their director at the time, Tom FitzStephens, a graduate of MSU. RCAHppella follows a traditional a cappella setup, with Soprano, Alto, Tenor and Bass sections. Over the past five years, the group has been performing songs from all different genres of music, always keeping their song choices a surprise. This year, all of their songs have been arranged by members within the group, which if you know anything about arranging music, is very time consuming and can be quite difficult. The extra effort put in by these talented arrangers really shows in their pieces, with originality in the songs, extra vocal and body percussion, and some mash-ups thrown in along the way. RCAHppella has come a long way since the group first formed in 2008. This year the group has performed a plethora of gigs and placed first at the SingOff at Albion College this past November. The group's repertoire is now about 14 to 16 songs each semester, and just keeps getting more and more impressive. Noelle Sciarini, a senior who has been a part of RCAHppella since its conception, said, It's so exciting to see that more and more people are asking us for gigs and that we're arranging our own music. When talking about her experience with the group, Erika Vivyan, a senior, said, I've been in RCAHppella since my first year, and it's been so much fun making great music with great people. I love that we get to go and sing in the community, but our concerts never fail to be a highlight of the semester.

This past February, the first RCAH Formal took place. Held in our very own Snyder- Phillips Theater, this Masqueradethemed dance allowed students to express themselves freely as they donned masks and costumes. The RCAH Formal was completely student-run, and coordinators handled the task of lighting, music, and decorations. Upon arrival, both students and faculty were able to enjoy complimentary punch and appetizers while they laughed and mingled with other guests. Meanwhile, down in the theater, teachers and students danced to music from all ages

such as Michael Jackson, The Village People, and Lady Gaga While the event was a success, it was more than just a dance. Raising over $400 in ticket and mask sales, the RCAH Formal made enough money to donate to the nonprofit organization Heifer International. This association assists families around the world by donating gifts of livestock as well as training families to help improve their nutrition and generate income in sustainable ways. The RCAH Formal committee decided to purchase a llama in the Residential Colleges name. This llama will be sent to a

family in need of wool and milk. A big thank you to everyone in the RCAH that made this event possible!

The RCAH Formal was magical! I wore a mask, danced like a crazy person, and saw Steve Esquith own the dance floor. The whole event was well-styled and beautifully put together Emily Morgan

In the last five years I have not been out of the United States or even out of Michigan very much, but I feel like a world traveler. You have shared your stories with me and thus taken me to New Zealand and Mali to Costa Rica and Spain. I have been to Italy and West Virginia and to Thanksgivings with your families where you so skillfully answered the What are you going to do with that major? question. I have been to protests, to Bard Owl concerts, to RCAH Council 40 percent work 60 percent fun meetings. I have been to Noodles nights, to RCAHppella concerts, to ROIAL shows, and 111 and 112 open houses. I have listened to your worries, your dreams and marveled each day at how lucky we are that our future is in such able, creative and compassionate hands. Working with students like you is every student affairs professionals dream. You are interested and interesting. You are funny and clever. You are creative and quick. You are driven and caring. You have made my work fun and rewarding every day. I have enjoyed getting to know you more than you will ever know, and I thank you for sharing parts of your lives with me. I will always cherish these years, and I look forward to when we will meet again. I leave you with some last words of advice for your futures:

Wake up happy and ready for what life will deliver each day, and when you dont wake up happy may there be good coffee, a good book, or a good friend to cheer you up. Find a job that makes you even half as happy as mine has made me. Find the silver lining its not easy, but you are in control of so much more than you realize, and if you find the good in the worst situations, you will find your way out of them in good time. Dance it doesnt matter where you are or who youre with, there is nothing that makes everything better than moving to really good music. Be kind. I really do not believe in saying goodbye and prefer to say see you later my hope is that your travels will take you far enough so that you grow as people, but keep you close enough to come home when you can. The RCAH is a home I plan to visit frequently.

Kate's Korner

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Predelection for L ve When Traveling

Abby Conklin

Abby Tells It Like It Is

I was one of the students fortunate enough to go to Ghost Ranch over spring break with Guillermo Delgado, and it was an incredible experience. The trip was a cleanse of sorts, bringing me more peace than I have known in a long while. The trips positive tone was set early on in the 28-hour train ride to New Mexico, where two fellow travelers equally struck all of us. We took Amtraks Blue Water line from East Lansing to Chicago on the first Saturday of spring break, where we would connect with our fearless chaperone. From there, we would ride the Southwest Chief, which swings out to Iowa, down to Kansas, through Colorado and New Mexico, and eventually arrives in Southern California. It was on that first train, though, the Blue Water, that we first saw the Quaker couple. I honestly assumed the young man and woman were Amish at first, because my train of thought (pun unintended) when

confronted with members of these cloistered communities was: skirt wide-brimmed hat dusty leather boots suspenders Amish! I stared as covertly as possible at the bonnet, big hat, and oldworld clothes that the young couple was wearing. My RCAH education was also inevitably wondering about the gender roles at play: if the man was domineering; if the woman was expected to answer his beck and call; and so on and so forth. Happily, however, they appeared to be completely in love with each other, and the man didnt seem to be any brand of manipulative. Indeed, halfway through the trip, (by which point, my classmates were observing too), the woman, who had been forced to sit separately, got up and sat on her husbands lap across the aisle to eat a banana. The juxtaposition of foreign fruit and the pairs otherworldly culture was lovely enough, but the young man had also wrapped

his arms around his wifes waist and rested his forehead between her shoulders; the whole scene was just a joy. And when the conductor came by a few minutes later, it got even better. Why are you sitting over here on him? he asked the wife, not at all unkindly, and she replied, I missed him. Well! the conductor exclaimed, and then proceeded to move the couples respective seatmates around so that they could sit together. And from that point onwardto Chicago, in the Chicago station, boarding the Southwest Chief, wherever they sat on that new train we only saw them together (my classmate had eventually informed me they were Quaker). It was incredibly hard not to just sit down and watch them, to revel in their happiness in each others company.

Later in the week, when we were out to dinner in a small town an hour outside of Santa Fe, one of us happened to mention the young pair, and Guillermo lit up instantlyit turned out that we had all been aware of them. Oh, I loved the Quakers! he said. I wrote a haiku about them on the train! And that got us all talking, about the banana, the change of seats on the Blue Water, the inseparableness, and their quiet little world with each other. We had all met other travelers in the course of that trip down, but each of our group members had somehow taken notice of this man and woman, and fallen a little bit in love with them. We didnt know where they had gone, where they were from; we hadnt worked up a nerve to ask. But that, I think, is the beauty of traveling. There is an inherent romance in going somewhere new, in witnessing new places and people; its intoxicating to be a stranger with strangers.

Abby Schottenfels
I am a Jewish college student. I have spent a lot of time in my past trying to pretend that I didnt identify with Judaism, that only my parents were Jewish, not me, and that my 18 years of forced religious education actually meant nothing. The summer after my freshman year of college, I went on a study abroad to Israel. I didnt want to go to there. There were so many places I would rather go. I was sick and tired of hearing people gush about what a life changing time they had in the holy land and how it really was the most amazing place on the planet. I didnt buy it. But the Jewish Federation Of Metropolitan Detroit was offering this almost fully sponsored study abroad program to Israel. The only thing we had to pay for was the course credits. I couldnt turn down the opportunity, even though I was thoroughly embarrassed that my father found out about it in the Jewish News. My non-Jewish friends thought it was really cool that I was traveling to Israel for six weeks; my Jewish friends thought it was no big deal. I felt impartial to the idea at best. Im not writing this column to be another one of those Jewish college students who talk about Israel and how amazing it is. But, I will say that when I went to Israel I was impressed. The Western Wall or the Dead Sea did not impress me. I was most impressed by my home stay. I stayed for a Shabbat with a host family who were originally from Morocco and lived in one of the lower class areas in the north of Israel. To say that there was a language barrier would have been an understatement. We did not understand each other at all. Their Hebrew was bad; my Hebrew was nonexistent at the time. Through body language and gesturing we were able to get by. When the time came to say the Shabbat prayers, however, our voices came together and we were connected. It was empowering to hear these people reciting the same prayer my mom would before we ate our brisket and got on with our Friday nights. It was here that my actual religious identity started to connect with me. I thought I had virtually nothing in common with these people, but here I was, on the other side of the world, connecting with them over prayer. Here I was, on the other side of the world, connecting with people with whom I had virtually nothing in common. We were smiling and laughing throughout the meal, and by the end we exchanged hugs and kisses like old friends upon departure. It was in that moment that I finally came to terms with the fact that I AM JEWISH. I am connected to people around the world through a shared history, identity, and culture, and that is all we need. With this realization came a lot of baggage. This came as a very complicated thing for me because along with identifying as Jewish, I also identify as very progressive, liberal, and as an activist. I have many anti-Israel friends, whom I agree with on virtually every other issue. Often times, when the issue comes up, I dodge it entirely. I dont wear my Israel Defense Force sweatshirt and I try not to talk about my Hebrew class. I would never accuse these friends of being anti-Semitic, but I do wish that more people would understand that being pro-Israel does not necessarily make you anti-Palestine. I recognize the MANY wrong doings on the Israeli side and sympathize with oppressed Palestinians immensely. I even recognize that had I not been born into a Jewish identity or with the experience I had in Israel, I too would rally against the Israeli army and fight against the injustices they have brought upon innocent civilians. But I am Jewish, and I do have strong ties to the Israeli people and Jewish culture. I, like many of my peers facing in a similar conflict, am both pro-Palestine and proIsrael. I saw firsthand how this could work. Where I was living in the Jezreel valley, there were many co-communities; people lived harmoniously, proving to me just how peaceful I know that the Middle East could someday be. As a liberal, progressive, and Jewish college student, I am conflicted much of the time, and that may never change. But, the only thing I can be entirely sure of is that I am for peace, human rights, and dignity for everyone. Also, most importantly, I am pro-falafel.

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Barbecue, the Blues, and Brown v. Board: A Future Teacher Visits the Mississippi Delta
Anna Orsini
This fall, I was accepted into Teach for America to teach secondary English in the Mississippi Delta region, a rural area covering much of Western Mississippi and Eastern Arkansas. I had a lot of ideas about the Mississippi Delta before I visited over Spring Break and Im not entirely sure where they came from. I didnt know just how rural it would be in rural Mississippi and Arkansas, so my mind simply filled in the blanks. Id heard there would be running water, paved roads and Wal-Marts in at least the more major towns, but I was left wondering what the people would be like, what the cultural norms and values would be, and if I would be welcome or not. On March 3rd, my boyfriend Rico and I packed up the car and left East Lansing to find out. Spring Break 2012, Mississippi Delta style. We spent our first night of the trip in Nashville, and as we were walking down the busy streets past crowded bars and restaurants, I found myself questioning whether I had made the right choice when I marked Mississippi Delta as my top choice region on my TfA application. At the time, I had thought I would be able to be the most effective teacher I could be in a rural region where I could connect with my students more and become a part of the community in which I was going to teach. But being in such a fun, vibrant city made me wonder if I hadnt sold myself short on a great life experience, instead barring myself to two years of misery and isolation. Nervous as I was, the trip went on. We got into Oxford, MS the next day and I was surprised by how much it reminded me of East Lansing. Both were college towns with a big student population and a fun downtown. Oxfords downtown streets were lined with cute boutiques, coffee shops, and restaurants, and I was suddenly relieved to realize that I wasnt leaving civilization for cotton fields. The only disappointing thing about Oxford was that, since we visited on a Sunday, almost nothing was open. Lafayette County prohibits the sale of alcohol on Sundays, and so of course the only restaurant/bar open that day wasnt serving drinks; not a huge problem, but watching Michigan States loss to Ohio State for the Big 10 Championship was just a little more painful with a Diet Pepsi instead of a beer. I had my first school visit the next day in Holly Springs, about half an hour north of Oxford, where I was able to see first and second year corps members teaching various subjects in the middle and high school. I was inspired seeing the different ways these teachers connected with their students. Carmen Lee, a manager of teacher leadership and development (or MTLD), showed me around the schools and the town, and explained just how much the history of desegregation still affects these schools every day. Though its been nearly 60 years since the Brown v. Board decision, segregation still makes its presence felt. Our next stop was Clarksdale, MS, where we stayed at the Ground Zero Blues Club, owned by Morgan Freeman himself. Though the streets of downtown Clarksdale were lined with empty buildings, and I definitely did not get that same East Lansing feel, I really loved it. In Clarksdale, I felt truly welcomed to the Delta. When we checked into our room, the woman who owned it asked what brought me to this small town on a Monday night. I explained that I was a future TfA corps member, and though I wasnt sure Id be in Clarksdale, I decided to take my Spring Break to get a feel for the Delta. She was both thrilled and supportive, telling me how much they needed good teachers and how education was the only way they would turn their economy around. She even offered to rent me an apartment this fall should I end up in the area. Also in Clarksdale, Rico and I had the opportunity to meet with a number of current corps members for dinner at Abes Barbecue for dinner. Once again, I felt that I experienced Southern Hospitality at its finest. Though I only had contact with one corps member, she brought a few friends to welcome us to the Delta. Everyone was so enthusiastic and friendly, giving me advice and answering all of my questions. As dinner went on, more and more corps members joined us, even though many had already eaten, because they just wanted to say hi. I couldnt believe nine busy teachers would take the time out of their schedules on a school night just to make me feel welcome. The next day, we headed into Arkansas to visit the KIPP: Delta Collegiate High School in Helena, AR. I was amazed at the professionalism of these 9th and 10th graders in the classroom. Entire classrooms were silent, students were impeccably dressed, and there were reminders everywhere of their next step: college. Of course, it wasnt all good, heartwarming stuff. After visiting KIPP, Rico and I walked up and down the main street, going into the few businesses that were actually open and not boarded up. As we walked into one cute little boutique selling scented candles, fake flowers and the like, the middle-aged woman working the counter looked up at us, a little surprised that people was actually coming into her store. She greeted us and asked what brought us to Helena. I gave her my shtick about being a future TfA corps member and wanting to visit some schools and see what the Delta was like. Oh, you wont be teaching in schools around here, will you? she asked in a wary tone of voice. I looked at Rico, knowing exactly where this was going. Well, yes, I could be. We just visited the KIPP school down the road, but I could also be placed at many of the public schools in the area, I said. Hmm... the schools down here are... she trailed off, made an odd face and didnt finish her sentence. I knew exactly what she meant, but not wanting to give her the satisfaction of saying so, I pressed on. Theyre what? I asked. Well, you know, the kids are pretty.... she made the same face and trailed off again. What? I wanted to ask. Black? Poor? but didnt have the guts to actually do it. Instead, I said, Well, Im looking forward to the experience. Of course, these attitudes arent limited to people in the Delta; Ive had a lot of people say similar things to me. I know Im not walking into an easy job, but the idea that these students dont fully deserve my instruction is highly upsetting to me. Despite the minor hiccups, in each town we visited I found myself thinking I could live here and with each school visit I could teach here. Im so happy I visited the Delta over Spring Break not only because we had a genuinely good time, but because Im now no longer afraid of misery and isolation; Im just excited to be able to call one of these small communities my home.

LIFE WITH ANNA ORSINI

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opinion

What Santorum Means

What does Santorum mean? Its more than a name on a bumper sticker, and its more than the Dan Savage-inspired definitiona term that is too coarse for the pages of a college literary magazine. Fresh off much needed victories in Alabama and Mississippi, it is clear that Rick Santorums shockingly successful Presidential campaign has much more farreaching implications for his party and his country. The reason for Santorums remarkable rise in the polls is something of a mystery. It certainly isnt a stunning electoral track record, thats for sure. The former Senators 17-point drubbing in his 2006 reelection bid was the largest defeat suffered by an incumbent in 25 years. It's not a uniquely strong campaign as his fundraising has been lackluster, his infrastructure nearly nonexistent, and his organization not up to par. In the recent Ohio primary, for

example, Santorum failed to file delegate slates in a number of Congressional districts; even if he had been able to defeat former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney in that razor thin race, there was no chance at all that he would emerge with more delegates. So what has driven Santorum's rise to the top tier of the GOP race? Part of it surely stems from the fact that he was the last non-Romney standing going into the Iowa caucuses. Everyone from Michele Bachmann to Donald Trump led the national polls at one point or another throughout this cycle as Republican voters showed their distaste for the frontrunner. But as Santorum piles up a fair number of states, it has become unavoidable that there is something more to his campaign. The fact that the anti-Romney forces settled on him--and that he continues to do well-speaks to the very soul of the

Republican Party, and it says very dark things. Consider the former Senators victory speech on the night of the Iowa caucuses. It was, I think, a highly effective speech, especially when compared to Romneys vapid, obviously scripted, spiel. Santorum came off as a genuine man telling the country what he actually believed and this is what makes him so scary. The most compelling (at least in the heat of the moment) part of his speech came when he described how his grandfather emigrated from Italy to avoid living under the fascist Mussolini regime. This touching story of his forbearers hard work was capped with a chilling conclusion: under President Barack Obama, we are in danger of becoming a totalitarian, freedom-less state.

This is the fundamental theme of Santorums campaign. Nothing the President does is simply something with which the former Senator disagrees. No, it is a blatant violation of liberty and America as we know her. The Affordable Care Act, the one based on the Republican alternative to HillaryCare he supported in 1994? That was the beginning of the end of freedom in America. A requirement that religiously-affiliated employers provide their workers with access to contraception? Proof of the Presidents war on religion based on his phony theology. The idea that every American should have access to higher education? Not only does that make the President a snob, it also means he wants to indoctrinate you and remake you in his image.

Rick Santorums entire political career is based on this kind of rhetoric. When, in the Senate, he claimed that gay marriage would inexorably lead to man on dog marriage, he was following the same pattern: take what your opponent believes and make that a caricature of itself, blasting the straw man in as harsh a tone as possible. This isnt just an anathema to compromise; its a reframing of a political opponent as a mortal enemy. Say what you will about Mitt Romney--if you read last months RCAHive, Ive said plenty--but RomneyCare proves that the man is at least willing to work with the opposition to govern. Rick Santorum has no interest in governing.

He is not even interested in winning elections in the same way a cynical politician is. His sole goal is wage--to borrow his words--a holy war on his enemies and eviscerate them, so that justice and liberty can rest safely. And a substantial proportion of the Republican Party is wholeheartedly backing this. This makes it nearly impossible to hold any hope of an effective government with two sides working together for the good of the nation. Dont get me wrong: Rick Santorum will not be the Republican nominee for President of the United States. The odds are overwhelming that Mitt Romney will continue his slow, painful limp to the presidency without any serious threat of losing.

The fact that Santorum is doing well is a deeply disturbing development, and his success is what is dragging Romney far away from any governable position. It is forcing even establishment Republicans to pivot to Tea Party positions. This is more proof that the Grand Old Party is broken.

Sean Fitzpatrick

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