Caroline Huftalen, Opinions editor

Picture this: a room filled with strangers sharing personal stories that induce tears, laughter, heartache and that gooey feeling that rises from your gut when you feel like you completely understand what this other humanbeing is saying. This isn’t therapy or Alcoholics Anonymous. This is Carapace.

Carapace is a group of Atlanta storytellers that usually meet at the writing world’s haunt, Manuel’s Tavern, on the fourth Tuesday of every month. But last week, a few regulars welcomed new faces from SCAD at a special event at Ivy Hall Thursday night. The events are held open-mic style, and anyone can tell a story. It just has to be true. Oh, and no notes.

I was a Carapace virgin and quite frankly didn’t even know how to pronounce the name correctly, or what it meant. I walked into Ivy Hall, a place of comfort after spending numerous class hours there, and sat down amidst the other new faces. I immediately felt the nervous tension. It was evident there were a few regulars participating but for the most part, we were all novices. The craving for a good, strong drink swept over me.

The MC for the night took the podium, explained what Carapace was, I learned the proper pronunciation (kar-uh-peys), and eased a bit of the anxiety that was rising by the minute. In the judgement-filled literary world that sometimes forces newcomers and professionals into a hole of seclusion, Carapace’s message is fueling the opposite response. A carapace is a shell, and these nights is to allow the coming out of said shell. Shed the restraints that hold you back, even if it’s simply fear.

The theme for the night was Rebirth, and the rules were simple. No notes, poems or fiction. No political or ex-lover rants. The stories don’t have to factual but they have to be true, and you have a 5-minute time limit before the maracas begin to signal the need for you to wrap it up and return to your seat. There is a black top hat passed around the room, bits of paper and a pen. If the mood has struck you, storytellers new and old are told to put their names in the hat in hopes to be fished out and take over the mic.

Students, faculty, staff and the public stepped up to the podium one by one and shared intimate and personal stories that brought on revelations and emotion. The atmosphere cleared and, although there was still a nervous tension, it was evident that all involved were going through the process of peeling off the layers that had held them silent in their chairs. Even when the stories were sad, there was a positivity blanketing the room, creating a sense of community among people who had probably never even passed each other on the street. Maybe this wasn’t a therapy group but I sure left feeling good. I remained a listener instead of a teller, but even still the stories that were told brought on a sense of, well, for lack of a proper word, betterness.

It was fun and moving, like being part of a theater production. I plan on soaking up the energy  and placing my name in the hat next time, becoming a part of the de-shelled clan. Young and old, rich and poor, Carapace creates a commonality and brings to the forefront the similar experiences we share. Maybe you haven’t saved dogs with a group of homeless crack heads, maybe your girlfriend didn’t run off with your best friend, maybe in the second grade you didn’t pretty much force your classmate to have a bowel movement in his pants, but you still know, see and feel what’s beneath it: the emotions that link us, the common knowledge of the what it takes to be human and live this colorful, fascinating life.

“Rules for one” is a bimonthly lifestyles column that investigates how to be successfully single.

Caroline Huftalen, Opinions editor

On paper he was perfect. That should have been my first clue. He was going to school to be a dentist. This meant money and good hours to spend time with your future family and loving wife. He was tall with dark hair. Two superficial things I really do enjoy in a man. And he was a musician on the side. There is nothing better than a guitar-accompanied lullaby. I was set to say I do to the Post-it version. I was unprepared for the real thing.

It was a blind date. I had seen zero pictures but had heard nothing but rave reviews. I ignored all the warning signs that were flying right by my blissfully ignorant face, like “STOP, TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE APPROACHING.” We met for dinner, and he exceeded all of my visual expectations. After sitting down at a private back table, I was ready to order an amazing cocktail from the elaborate drink menu, when I heard a “no, thank you” from across the table. I felt an ounce of panic course through my nervous system as the waiter looked my way and I politely said, “just a sparkling water, please.”

I had to face the sober elephant in the room immediately. I asked about the drink refusal in a polite and genuinely curious manner. “I’m a Mormon,” was the reply I received. All of the things I had heard regarding Mormons started surging through my brain: No alcohol, possible bigamy, no sex before marriage, thousands of children. I wished he would have said, “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”

I have nothing against any type of religion but when it comes to certain views and practices, it’s like oil and water: we just don’t mix. I believe in the consumption of alcohol. I enjoy a toast of champagne, a glass of wine at the end of a long day, a beer on St. Patty’s. There are certain rituals in my life that just need a bit of booze, and this booze needs to be shared. Although, on second thought, I guess it would be kind of nice to have a constant designated driver by my side.

Even more importantly, and for lack of better words, I like to try on that pair of jeans before I buy them. I’m with Dr. Ruth on this one. Sex needs to be had – before the alter. Plus, relationships are stressful enough, can you imagine the tension between two sober, under-satisfied people?

When it comes to certain things, opposites really don’t attract, no matter what those mathematicians say. We are not magnets. I could have dealt with anti-death penalty views or pro-life. I could have accepted a Republican. I could have been completely cool with someone who believed that Nutella was less than peanut butter in yummy factors. Or that cats are better than dogs. These are the wonderful things that make for great debates. A good challenge of views can be fun.

But this budding romance wasn’t about Bush or Obama. It had nothing to do with coffee or tea. There were topics at hand that I could not turn a blind eye too. I could not change this man. He was a Bible-toting son-of-a-gun, and this carpetbagger couldn’t do a thing about it. As he began to talk about politics and the stock market – all the topics that get lost somewhere between ear and brain – I nodded and said the appropriate “yeahs,” “uh-huhs” and “oh nos.”

When the inappropriate first date topic of Jesus came up, I excused myself to the bathroom and hightailed it to the bar. I asked the bartender for a large favor and an even larger glass of vodka on the rocks. He put it in a water glass and gave me a sympathetic smile. I went back to my seat and sucked happily from my straw as I tried to veer the conversation down a different road until we ended the night with a handshake.

I may not entirely know what I want from a partner, but after that night I have a few more things on my list of needs. Like a man who can hold his liquor better than I can, and a healthy premarital sexual appetite. Sorry Mom and Dad, but this young lady needs to see a  list of contents before buying the entire package.

Caroline Huftalen, Opinions editor

Art is notoriously therapeutic. Doctors use finger painting classes for Alzheimer’s patients as a way to recall memory. Therapists use art as a way to have patients release inner thoughts. Cancer hospitals are seeing improvements in patients due to their involvement in art therapy. Painting and drawing, sewing and needlepoint, sculpting and music: these are the forms of art that I think of when I envision a task that brings about inner peace. I never thought a green thumb could have the same affect.

I recently visited the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Ga., a Roman Catholic religious order of cloistered contemplative monks, or as they call themselves, Trappists. The secluded and immaculately landscaped grounds alone are enough to draw you there. But my main purpose was the bonsai tree. I had heard that these Catholic monks had specialized in bonsai. Word was, the allure of these tiny trees was something to see.

It all started in the 1960s when Father Paul Bourne came to the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. He was a lifelong lover of art and horticulture, and his early experiences with Japanese and Chinese cultures pushed him towards crafting bonsai. Even after Father Paul’s death, many of his trees that he shaped and pruned to perfection live on in the monasteries gardens.

In honor of Father Paul, the monks continued the bonsai practice and turned it into an enterprise for the monastery itself. On the grounds, which are open to the public, there is a greenhouse and a gift store that holds all the items needed to plant, shape, decorate and take care of your bonsai.

During my visit I learned how these monks in the middle of Georgia came to adopt this traditionally Japanese practice. For them, it is a creative expression, something we at SCAD can truly relate to. Bonsai embodies many of the monastic principles that they live by: contemplation, work, prayer and community.

It all begins with a vision. You have this tiny tree in front of you, a miniature of something that would grow tall and strong in a forest in a far off land. The bark is rough and the trunk twists and turns like a fairy tale. The monks consider bonsai a life-long art that is never finished. Like in other art forms, it requires discipline, attention, practice and care.

I scoured through the greenhouse about five times before being pointed in the direction of a young bougainvillea. It was pretty, with small pink flower-like leaves that surrounded tiny white blooms that trumpeted from the center. I was told that it was small enough where I wouldn’t be overwhelmed with my new hobby, and it wouldn’t die on me if I accidentally forgot to water it for a couple days. It already had an interesting shape, but I pictured the ways I could manipulate it further. I can’t paint. I can’t draw. I’m a writer. The keyboard is where I do my best work. But this new form of natural art felt like something I could wrap my brain around.

Bonsai felt like something that I couldn’t mess up. If I trimmed the wrong branch, a new one would grow. The only mistake I could make was letting my art die. I can already see myself wrapping the wire around its growing limbs, pushing and bending them into new and interesting angles. I can place stones and moss or a tiny Buddha statue around the trunk creating a little world of my very own. Like with all art, the options are limitless.

Bonsai is slow, but not arduous, continuous but not tedious. It is imaginative and allows the gardener to quietly create. It is the perfect combination of elements for a writer. Plus it’s super cool to have something living that you artfully structured and put on display in your home.

With bonsai I feel a commitment, but I don’t feel the pressure that is attached to so many other art forms that I have tried to incorporate into my creative life. My tree will grow, I will watch it bloom. I will wait for it to speak to me and say, “Give me beauty and I will give you patience, depth and insight.”

Caroline Huftalen, Opinions editor

You know things aren’t going to be very promising when the guy buying you a drink is named after Pooh Bear’s best friend. I was at Twain’s in Decatur on a mission to work on mingling skills and sucking down their home brews when a guy in a UGA T-shirt approached. I knew instantly he was too young, too short and too much like the guys I dated in undergrad: dedicated to their fraternity’s and thought that a beer bought way more than it did. But I decided that I had made a pact to work on making myself available and I needed to stick with it.

Malee Moua, arts & entertainment editor.

Attention Harry Potter fans: this article contains spoilers.

On a rainy Thursday night, I went to the midnight screening of “Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows — Part Two” knowing full well that I had to wake up at 7 a.m. and face an eight-hour work day.

But I had to do it. It was my duty as a Harry Potter fan.

I read “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” four years ago, so I was genuinely surprised when Griphook was a jerk and left our pals Harry, Ron and Hermione to fend for themselves against a dragon. I was beaming for Neville when the sword of Gryffindor appeared before him, and he slashed Nagini, Voldemort’s vicious snake and the last horcrux.

At the end of the film, I couldn’t believe that it had been ten years. That I had grown up with the series. My first memories of Harry Potter take me back to a trailer classroom in the fourth grade. I came back from the book fair with “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” in hand. I heard a lot of hype about it, and I thought I’d give it a try. I barely got past the first chapter before I put the book down.

But then I saw the first film and became so transfixed on the characters and their world that I immediately set out to read “Chamber of Secrets” before the next film. (Kind of an unorthodox order, but I eventually returned to and completed “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.”)

Harry, Hermione and Ron.

I remember getting up way too early, eagerly awaiting the UPS man to bring that special box with that special book. I remember rushing to my room, propping the book up on my pillow and devouring the 759 page book as though it were a haiku.

I remember when Sirius died. Sitting on my bed with my bedside lamp illuminating the pages and darkness outside my windows, I was so invested in the book that I couldn’t tell whether it was dawn or dusk. I remember rereading the first kiss between Harry and Ginny, because I wondered if a boy would ever feel that way when he kissed me.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the words on the page — so much so that I remember taking the seventh book to theater rehearsals with me. I was sitting on the stage when I read that Hedwig died.

It’s really hard to believe that it’s been over ten years since I first held that novel in my hands. I’m 21 now, and with the release of the final film, it’s all strangely sad — like I’m losing an old friend. So all I can say is thank you J.K. Rowling for teaching us the importance of courage, friendship and love overcoming evil.

Modern paintings like "Red Blue" (1964) by Ellsworth Kelly are discussed in Art History: Contemporary Art, the required graduate-level course that was closed upon news of the professor taking a new job.

By Caroline Huftalen

Picture this: my first quarter as a graduate student at SCAD Atlanta. I’m slightly nervous since I’m the new girl and the fact that it’s been a little over a year since I’ve set foot in a classroom. Other than getting lost a few times, the first two weeks went smoothly. Until Thursday of the second week, and then as they say, the other shoe dropped. My required Contemporary Art course had a change of venue, a change of professor and a complete change of syllabus.

Me and my fellow classmates were seated in our fourth class when we heard the unwelcome news: our current professor, Dr. Keri Watson, would be leaving due to another job opportunity and since she would have to start her new position a few weeks before the summer quarter ended, she was being given the early boot. To continue our course we were left with one option — eLearning.

The students tried to make suggestions so we could keep our professor and stay in the same class, to keep from being pushed into an online class after the start of the quarter.

We even suggested the kind-of-thrown-out-there option to make up classes on Fridays and even a Saturday. The students wanted make up classes, the professor agreed to make up classes, but associate dean of liberal arts Dr. Denise Smith politely declined with the words, “We have your best interests in mind.”

We had two options — drop out of the class we had already invested our time in or do a complete 180 and start over in an online course. Drop/add week had passed making it too late to pick up another class, so the latter option was essentially the only one to keep on track.

I had dreaded an art history class. I’m a writer, and not even the art critiquing kind. I knew I needed a professor who would go beyond the terms and opinions that were over my head and into more relatable content. We were going to study Lady Gaga for goodness sake. Our discussions were easy to get into, the artists were interesting, and Dr. Watson made it so art experts and novices alike could have an appreciation, an understanding and a great shot at a good grade.

Now, after finally finding my way to my classroom without any wrong turns or using the wrong elevator, I was back to being lost. I had never taken an online course and had never had any interest in doing so. I was learning a lot sitting in a classroom with other graduate students from different majors and different backgrounds, with a professor who made critiquing art accessible.

My best interest was to stay in the classroom, with the students and the professor with whom I had already developed a rapport. My best interest was to continue getting the most out of my expensive graduate school education. My best interest was to keep learning from a professor who turned something foreign into something enjoyable. Plus, we had all just fought blood, sweat and tears (okay, maybe not that intense) for our midterm and final presentations topics.

During the first two weeks, being at SCAD Atlanta for graduate school had become everything I thought it would be. It was the best choice and investment I had ever made for my future. But now, with what I’ve experienced in my art history class, I’m left feeling a little gypped.

Erin White, features editor.

When asked which college I have chosen to complete my undergraduate degree, I pridefully respond that, “I’m a student at SCAD.” The inquirer usually excitedly asks if I can draw and what kinds of things I draw. At this point, I must gently break the news that I am a writer, and no, I cannot draw a portrait of you. I try to explain the interesting program of study, but my audience is still puzzled. The confusion extends to my fellow SCAD students.

The typical uncertainty over my choice of major is the accusation that it is not an art form, and does not belong at an art school. Some people less educated about the art world seem to define art as only a picture or a sculpture that is pleasing to their eyes or that possesses a symbolic significance that they can relate to. They often seem to overlook the fact that not all artists spend their time hunched over a canvas with paint under their nails and splatters on their pants. Not all artists render images to create comic books and advertising designs.

I explain to people that the tools I possess are my thoughts, my computer and my books. Instead of manipulating images in a dark room, I can create a whole world using the English language. I meticulously fashion words together in any way I desire, to express myself and to relate to the outside world. I can turn a blank page into something meaningful and significant for those who can’t.

I realize I can study writing at nearly any higher learning institution in the country, but I have chosen to grow as a writer with my fellow artists at SCAD. As a former art school dropout, I had experienced the sense of community artists can have in an educational setting and had missed that feeling. At SCAD, my fellow writing students create a place where I’m not the strange, artsy kid, but a member of a collective of art-oriented minds. People that understand that my need to create often trumps my need for traditional college student shenanigans.

I chose to come to SCAD to improve my craft through both my writing and non-writing related classes — foundation studies in particular. As a writer, it might never matter that I can identify and explain what additive and subtractive mixing are or what makes a composition balanced. But the fact that I can, that my training allows me to do so, has expanded my perspective of things outside of the classroom and trained me to look at them from a different angle. It inspires me to think outside of the box in how I approach story lines and character development. It has taught me to not just do the expected. I may not be a visual artist, but I am an artist. I can put words to situations where others can’t. With words I can liberate, comfort, explain, teach and relate to my audience. My tools are not restricted to a paintbrush or computer software; they are within my mind.

Mark Ziemer, outgoing assistant art director, and former managing editor of SCAN.

It all started with the last presidential election.

Toward the end of the fall of 2007, I was a lowly freshman, still trying to get to know my way around SCAD. Back then SCAD’s Facebook group was less than official. It was designed for all of us unknowing newbies to put out feelers and make contacts with anyone else about to dive into the intense sea of art school. I checked in on the page every so often, even as I started to make friendships that quarter with the people around me. One day, a thread discussing the upcoming presidential primaries appeared, and I, being the current events junkie I was, clicked through.

The originator of the thread was Maken Imcha, a features writer for The Connector and a person I would grow to know as that year went by. She was asking for students to contribute their thoughts for an upcoming article for the SCAD Atlanta student newspaper, which had just recently been given independence from Savannah. I sent her a reply email, and soon I started coming to the weekly meetings, even getting the chance to write my first article over the winter break. That winter, I grew more interested — and more involved — in The Connector. (Fun fact: my unassuming mug had been in the second issue, perhaps a sign of things to come).

Soon enough, job postings for the new 2008-2009 term appeared (all positions at The Connector are reopened at the end of every winter quarter). Passionate about design and with the experience of laying out a high school literary magazine behind me, I applied with the long shot of being the next art director for The Connector, still a printed paper at that time. Amazingly, I got the job and joined a new team led by Imcha. The position was a great way to get my feet wet and develop my editorial skills in both writing and design. The inner news nerd inside of me was ecstatic.

Three years, three teams and hundreds of connections to super-talented people later, student media has been one ever-shifting family for me, even as personal friends and classmates come and go. Friday meetings are a part of my schedule just like any other class. I’ve been through four official positions, experienced a massive transition from print to online and helped launch and sustain an award-winning student magazine that gets better every quarter. I’ve been able to mentor this year’s team and share my skills and knowledge I’ve built throughout the years.

SCAD friends ask me how I know so many people. Collaborating with scores of students in this test of the “real world” has rivaled any internship. I’ve gotten to work with some of the most skilled, passionate writers, photographers and graphic designers SCAD Atlanta has to offer. Long-term connections and friendships were forged — whether we were pulling our hair out over a looming press deadline or going out for pizza to celebrate an achievement.

Because I got involved with student media early on in my SCAD career, I’ve been able to benefit immensely. But whether you just walked in the door or are about to walk across that stage, you still have a chance to be involved with your school. It could be writing articles for The Connector, or it could be helping your fellow students in any number of organizations that SCAD has established. They’re not there to fill the walls with colorful event posters for the heck of it.

I know artists are innately introverted, but by joining a group, you get to meet other talented people who you’ll stay connected with for years to come, and have fun doing it. If you’re just sitting in class and going with the flow, you’re missing out.

Malee Moua, arts and entertainment editor.

I’ve never met Dorian Gray. Didn’t hang out with any of the “Little Women.” In the 11th grade, I was assigned to read Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” and Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse-Five.”

I SparkNotes-ed both.

The gasps from my literature professors and peers when I’ve admitted this haunt me in my sleep. No, not really, but it’s embarrassing when my more scholarly writing peers wax poetic on Proust’s use of involuntary memory, while I chew the fat on how unabashedly “Michael Cera-y,” Michael Cera came across in last August’s issue of “Rolling Stone.”

I haven’t read the classics, nor am I an avid reader. I once overheard a fellow writing student talk about books the way I would talk about clothes. He said he could never leave the bookstore without purchasing two or three books. I began to worry that my nonexistent love of literature meant I was in the wrong major.

I don’t have an insatiable thirst for the written word, and I don’t plow through books. To give you an idea of my reading style, I’ve been trying to finish Kazuo Ishiguro’s “Never Let Me Go” for over a year now.

I’m a short form kind of gal. If we go all the way back to why I’m majoring in writing, it’s because I love reading and writing poetry. I always have. I could tell you that my favorite E. E. Cummings poem begins with “being to timelessness as it’s to time.” I could tell you about the one stanza in Jeffrey McDaniel’s “The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy” that always brings me to tears. And I could tell you how Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech nurtured my love for anaphora and metaphor.

I have tried. After I graduated high school, I felt so bad about my skimpy English career that I set out to complete “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Catcher in the Rye.” The former is now one of my favorite novels. As for the latter, I didn’t really understand all of the fuss.

Some may see this as a backwards way to create art, because how can I produce good work when I haven’t read the books deemed “classic”? It’s not because I feel that they wouldn’t be of any value to me. It’s because, well, novels are really long. I know that makes me sound, dare I say, unintelligent and lazy, but I’m simply not interested. I truly wish I was, but I’m not. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad writer.

I came to school here because of my love for the free-spirited poetic form, but I quickly learned that SCAD was not the school for fiction writing. I was initially disheartened by this, but strangely enough, this uncommon curriculum led me to my love of creative nonfiction. Without even knowing or planning it, my nearly blasphemous writing background has found the perfect home to flourish.