Eagle EyeTENNESSEE TECHNOLOGICAL UNIVERS ITY

Behind the Sidelines

Tale of the Tail

Professors are People TooA Look Into The Life Of Andy Smith

Spring 2012Free per single copy

Tech Cheerleaders Hold Their Own At Nationals

LacktivismThe Search For “Political Warriors” On Campus

Tail Of The DragonProves For A Wild Ride

Page 3:Not-So Magic Kingdom

Pages 8-9: LacktivismPages 12-13: Professors are People Too

Page 14:Innocently Wrapped

Designers & Writers

Photojournalists

Pages 6-7:Behind the Sidelines

Contents . . . W

ho We Are

Pages 4-5:Tale of the Tail

Pages 10-11:The Jump

Page 15:The Season

Ashley AyubJackson CresswellSarah DeRossettJustin DukeKayla GulleyEmily HaileWill HousleyJonathan KaulaySamantha KendallDavid Lane

Shelby McDonaldAllison MillsLogan NicklesonChristina RiddleWilliam ShecklerJessica SmithBrandon StephensonJacob WalkerDakota WeatherfordGeri Anna Wilson

Brittany L. AndersonRosemary AppleAshley AyubJillian BoreingBrandi CampbellMelissa EdwardsJamal FergusonKaylee Gentry

April GilbertEmily HaileBiskie HolmanJessica ReevesAllie SampsonJessica M. WilsonCasey Woodard

Professors: Brenda Wilson & Russ Witcher

Professor: Holly Cowart

Ph

oto

by

Eva

Din

gw

all

Photo by Brandi Campbell’s tripod

2 || Eagle Eye

Cover Photo by Brittany L. Anderson/Cover Design by Jessica SmithBack Cover Photo by Allie Sampson/Back Cover Design by Dakota WeatherfordContents/Credits Page Design by Christina Riddle & Brenda WilsonCopy Edited by Emily Haile

Magic KingdomNOT-

SO

It’s the most magical place on Earth. It’s where all your dreams come true. It’s the place that can re-create your

childhood, no matter how old you are. It’s the happiest, most entertaining place that many of us love to visit time and time again. But not me.

When I was 15, I took a trip to Disney World, expecting all of that and more. But it turned into the worst trip I’ve ever taken. I don’t just mean that the lines were too long and the sun was too hot. My trip could have been featured in a Clark Griswold movie.

When you’re traveling with your best friend, you’re bound to get sick of him or her, eventually. Not only was I traveling with my best friend, Whitney, but I was also stuck with her mom, Russian immigrant stepdad, 7-year-old brother, grandparents, and a chihuahua. And did I mention it took two days to get there because we were traveling in an RV? Things started great until we got lost in a not-so-favorable part of Atlanta. It took an hour to find our RV park that was supposed to be right off the Interstate.

Whitney, her brother and I waited inside while the adults went outside to get everything hooked up. That’s when the night really took a turn for the worst. To this day, I still have no idea how it happened, but one of the pipes under the sink broke as Whitney turned on the faucet. Water was gushing everywhere and quickly flooding the tiny RV. Whitney ran outside to get the adults, and they were able to shut off the water. We had to use all of our towels to mop up the water, so we hung them outside to let them dry overnight. When we woke up, we realized it had rained all night. If you think leaving a wet towel out for a few days smells bad, try leaving 10 of them outside in the rain.

The rest of the ride to Florida wasn’t terrible once you got past the mildew smell and the dog barking constantly. But once we set foot on Disney World territory, everything went downhill. Since Whitney’s little brother was with us, we had to do all the rides he wanted to do. That part wasn’t so bad, but all the time we wasted in line was. We finally got away long enough to ride Space Mountain, which was what I looked forward to the most

Story by EMILY HAILEPhotography by SAMANTHA KENDALLLayout by DAKOTA WEATHERFORD

3|Spring 2012|

out of everything we had planned. Whitney and I waited in line for two and a half hours. Watching people with Fast Passes skip us was agonizing. Each time we climbed a flight of stairs, we knew the ride had to be around the corner. But with each corner we rounded, all we saw were more stairs. When we finally made it to the top, the person running the ride asked if a group of two wanted to go ahead. I didn’t hesitate to raise my hand. He put us in the coaster’s car and buckled us in the seats. We all raised our hands and counted down from 10. Nine, eight, seven, my heart started beating faster. Six, five, four, we’ll take off any second. Three, two, one. Nothing. Maybe we started counting too early.

Maybe they were building anticipation on purpose. Three or four maybe’s later, we heard a loudspeaker. The

ride had broken down, and everyone had to evacuate it. After waiting for nearly

three hours, I reluctantly unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed out, knowing I had to

walk down all those stairs once again.After wasting so much time and having

nothing to show for it in Disney World, we thought we would have better luck trying other attractions in Florida. We were wrong. The day we went to SeaWorld, all of the shows were cancelled because Shamu went into labor. We bought tickets so we could see killer whales and dolphins dance, but we ended up seeing nothing more than fish in aquariums. We tried to go to the Kennedy Space Center, but the shuttle launch that was scheduled for that day had been postponed. We decided to

settle for a tour of the building, which would have been great if we hadn’t gotten lost on the way. Don’t get me wrong; I think unexpected road trips can be fun but not when you’re forced to listen to Fall Out Boy for the entire four hours. That’s right. The Space Center was an hour away, and we were so lost it took us four to get there. We finally arrived at the Space Center less than 15 minutes after the last tour ended. All we could do was turn around and head back to the RV. At that point, I just wanted to go home. Even though it wasn’t just Disney World itself that ruined the trip, that was supposed to be the highlight of it. I went to Orlando so I could have a magical time, so my dreams could come true, and so I could re-live my childhood. By the end of the trip, I could not have been farther from my goals. My only dream was to be as far away from Orlando as possible. But even that dream couldn’t come true anytime soon. As we were leaving, the RV got a flat tire.

Story by DAVID LANEPhotography by DARRYL CANNON Layout by LOGAN NICKLESON

On the twisting backroads tucked deep in Appalachia, a loud crash

came from the rear of the truck. Finding a sliver of pavement on the side of the road, I pulled the truck over and rested my head against the steering wheel. I knew what happened.

If you have ever seen a Clint Eastwood or John Wayne movie, you know the basic storyline of every western ever made. The general idea is a good guy, who normally has no name, rides into town. He proceeds to save the day with only six bullets, breezing out of town leaving nothing but happiness and heartbroken women.

Until this trip, my trips to Highway U.S. 129, more famously known as the Tail of the Dragon, had been similar. Experiencing nothing but good times with good friends along this motorcycle Mecca, it had become my testing grounds for product reviews.

“Are you crazy?” Blake Pierce said. “If you end up getting yourself killed, at least I can tell your mother I did my best friend job of trying to stop you.”

Blake’s worry was justified. The Tail of the Dragon, set on the Tennessee and North Carolina line, has become a hot spot for car and motorcycle enthusiasts from around the world. Boasting

318 curves in just 11 miles of mountain road, the once goat path has become the stuff of legend. With the ever increasing popularity, rider fatalities have increased with more riders pushing their limits.

With a fresh pair of gloves promised to be tested on the famous road, and an editor pressuring for a review, I was in need of a trip.

Shut down by a rock slide blocking the only way in from the Tennessee side, the Dragon became a case of “you can get there, just not from here.” The only way to reach the start of the road was to enter from the North Carolina side. This forced me to break my normal routine of riding and to load my bike into my trailer to get hauled for

the extended distance. Something I have never been a fan of doing.

Loading and unloading a motorcycle solo can prove tricky if you are not in the right place. You need a long run to push the vehicle up an incline. Once loaded, the dance of balancing the bike and getting it strapped down begins.

I knew heading out I would have no problem with space at the house and plenty of room and friends at the resort built at the start of the road for unloading. The major issue would come if anything went wrong along the way.

The turns were exhilarating, giving me plenty of material for testing the gloves. Splitting my time between

riding and visiting with some of the local photographers, the day was a success. This road never disappoints.

I loaded the bike and headed back to the house just before

sunset. Once the sun went down, the unfamiliar roads and fatigue from

more than 200 miles of riding turns landed me lost. Gone was

the GPS signal along

Tale of the Tail

4 || Eagle Eye

with any chance of getting cell phone service.

Following a few miles of what might have been the right road, I found a small gas station that sold me a paper map. Relying on the well hidden street signs and long forgotten Boy Scout skills, I was able to point my truck in the direction home. Now all that was left was to steer through the mountain passes. The road seemed empty, only seeing a few other cars every hour. A sigh of relief came, and I settled in for the long trip.

Raising my head from the steering wheel, I stepped out into the night. A walk to the rear of the truck confirmed my fears.

The tie-down straps holding my bike failed to keep up with the hairpin turns on the mountains. My bike lay on its side, reeking of gasoline. A large gash in the fuel tank spilled premium fuel onto my trailer and the road.

Trying to lift the bike became useless; the trailer’s rail had cut into the tank so far that it was holding the bike on its side. The thought of leaving it crossed my mind until I remembered spilling gas all over the highway would probably secure me a ticket.

For the past two years, I had put everything I had into a motorcycle that now lay broken, dented, and useless on the side of a dark highway. Alone and tired, I struggled to think of a way out of my mess.

Walking through the front door, bike upright, with the pungent smell of fuel following me, my girlfriend asked, “How was the trip?”

“Excellent,” I said. While the Dragon had claimed my test

bike, I was not the first to lose parts to the beast. A large tree stands in the parking lot of the hotel covered in beaten and broken parts from other riders’ crashes.

The next week, I headed back with another bike, another review, and another adventure. With my gashed fuel tank strapped to the passenger seat of my back up bike, I once again pointed my bike toward the “Tree of Shame.” It was clear the Dragon still had her teeth in me.

Motorcyclist David Lane braves the perilous, sharp turns of the infamous stretch of Highway U.S. 129, known by many as the Dragon Tail.

5|Spring 2012|

BEHIND THE SIDELINES

“There are no innings, no quarters, no halftimes, no second chances.

Everybody gets one shot.”Sporting events such as football

and basketball always have some iconic elements. They have support on and off the field or court. But the teams going head to head aren’t the only athletes represented. Behind the makeup and hair bows are serious competitors: cheerleaders.

“At games, cheerleaders are lighthearted and smiles all around,” freshman cheerleader Samantha White says. “The cheerleaders at nationals don’t mess around.”

Tech’s cheerleaders compete at the Universal Cheerleaders Association’s annual college nationals at Disney World each year. Behind the sidelines, each cheerleader puts in countless hours of work to make it to UCA’s nationals. Most football and basketball fans only get to see a small portion of what the cheerleaders do.

“The most common reason that some people feel that cheerleading is not a sport is because prior to competitive cheerleading, all the cheerleaders did was stand on the sidelines and do chants,” Coach Robin Burroughs says. “I think that gave us the stereotype that it’s only for popularity reasons.”

Samantha talks about why competitions are much more than that. “We are there to represent our university. We have a job to do, and that is our priority.”

Junior cheerleader Jordan Parks agrees that practice hours are long, but it pays off.

“We have practice up to four times a week during the school year,” Jordan says. “Practices are anywhere from two to five hours long. With this much time and effort going into practice, you have to be very dedicated to push through the sweat and soreness and everything in order to get through it. But when

there are pictures of me waving and trying to catch myself!”

Each cheerleader is thinking different things while she competes. Samantha says she repeats words of encouragement from the coaches. Jordan talks to herself and reminds herself to breathe. Chelsea is more worried about showcasing Tech in the best way.

They’re worn out when the routine is over, but Samantha says it’s a different experience when it’s being performed at a competition, the team’s only shot. “There’s a lot packed in the routine. After running the routine at practices, you feel exhausted. But nothing can beat that rush of adrenaline that competition brings. We’re all beaten and broken by the time we make it to nationals, but everyone digs deep for the performance, and the physical exhaustion is no longer important.”

Jordan says, “There are so many things that are running through your head when you finish, like, ‘Did I do everything I could have? I hope we make it and proved ourselves.’”

Robin says the team was less than two points away from making it to the final round of the competition this year.

The cheerleaders are gaining more respect at Tech each year. But some people have opposing views about whether they should be considered a sport.

“Cheerleading’s not hard,” an anonymous source says. “There’s no game. It’s just one competition, and all they do is perform. It’s not a sports team.”

Senior mechanical engineering major Jim Leverette disagrees. “I consider them a sport because they practice as much as other sports teams do, and they compete against other schools. I think they have as much athletic ability as football players. It’s just a different aspect of it. You have to have athletic ability to do those stunts.”

Behind the smiles and claps are athletes who hold their own against bigger-name schools all over the country. Not many other Tech athletes have the same bragging rights.

Eagle Eye6

Story by EMILY HAILEPhoto by MELISSA EDWARDSLayout by WILL HOUSLEY

everything’s said and done, it’s so worth it getting to show the nation what you’ve put your heart into over the year.”

Samantha adds, “Preparing for nationals is a grueling experience. While everyone else on campus goes home to their families for Christmas break, we stay longer and practice every day to our bodies’ limits. It tests you, but I always believe it’s worth it in the end. We give our time, bodies and hearts to each other and the routine to be sure it all comes together.”

Junior cheerleader Chelsea King says, “We practiced every day over Christmas break except for December 23-26. We squeezed in practice during finals week. Sometimes, we’d have practice three times a day.”

The cheerleaders also practiced every second they could while they were in Florida.

“We learned the routine around September or October and changed and critiqued it every day,” Jordan says. “Routines are never done until you hit that bright blue floor in Disney World’s arena.”

Chelsea adds, “We were practicing on the football field and in parking lots the night before we competed.”

Samantha says, “At a competition, athletes are just hanging off the walls, trying to get that last sliver of practice in. There are no innings, no quarters, no halftimes, no second chances. Everybody gets one shot, and that builds the atmosphere as well.”

At UCA’s nationals, teams have 20 minutes to practice backstage before taking the floor.

Samantha says she paces backstage to calm her nerves.

Jordan adds, “We are all breathing and trying not to have a heart attack. But when you run out, a rush of adrenaline comes over, and you know it’s game time!”

Chelsea says she gets overly excited when she’s about to take the floor. “When you’re about to run out there, you can’t see anything backstage. So when I ran out, I wasn’t paying attention, and I tripped over the mat. I’m pretty sure

“There are no innings, no quarters, no halftimes, no second chances.

Everybody gets one shot.”Samantha White

Spring 2012 7

Lack•tiv•ism (lak-tuh-viz-uhm)noun1. Political or theological apathy; inaction 2. The doctrine or practice of college students

8 || Eagle Eye

Clay Stubblefield, president of College Republicans, looks for supporters.

Story by JONATHAN KAULAYPhotography by BRANDI CAMPBELLLayout by JACKSON CRESSWELL

Wandering around Tennessee Tech’s campus in the rain shoving a cell phone in people’s faces did not garner

the responses that I was hoping for. Some were reluctant to speak with me about politics. Others were on their way to a class that they were already late for. Most, though, were creeped out by the guy who was rapidly approaching with a cell phone in his hand shouting, “Will you talk to me, please?”

Images from college campuses across the nation of students protesting the Vietnam War in the ‘60s and ‘70s were scorched into my mind. These students rallied a nation to end a war. Today, we see college-aged demonstrators in the streets across the nation protesting the “one percent” and effectively changing our national dialogue. I wanted to find one of these political warriors and I had the perfect environment for searching at my finger tips, a college campus.

I would eventually find plenty of people who were willing to share their opinion. David Eaton was on his way to his car, “I’m a Christian so I’m pretty conservative, but a moderate conservative.” Not the progressive Bull Moose I was looking for, but he could still be a college activist; A Christian fighting for his values to be reflected in politics.

“I don’t really keep up with politics a whole lot to be honest.” My search continues.At the bottom of the steps leading to Henderson Hall I ran

into an old friend, David Phifer. An English major with deserted island stubble on his face and scraggly hair. His appearance screamed Wall Street protestor.

“I’m more liberal than conservative, probably close to the middle,” Phifer said. “I’m just going to have to take a moderate stance.”

Where was the fiery passion? Where were the clever chants and slogans? Why was he not more politically inclined? Phifer seemed to be more self-aware than other college students, “I’m too immature,” he paused for a few seconds and reflected on this admission, “and too lazy to keep up with it all.”

Phifer was not my college activist, but he was kind enough to tell me that he knew someone who may be the potential protestor that I was looking for. He had only a first name and major; Nathan, the English major. His appearance was unknown as I only spoke with him on the phone.

“I’m politically aware, I know all the principles and stuff, but I don’t put up with all the bulls---, you know,” Nathan said.

There was the passion I was looking for with a side order of colorful language. I was starting to hope that Nathan would be the legendary “Loch Ness Monster” of the political world that I had been searching for. Had I finally found the elusive college activist?

“I’m liberal definitely, but Perry was a promising candidate before he dropped out.”

A liberal identifying with Texas Governor Rick Perry sounds more like a moderate to me. He had the passion but lacked the staunch conviction to one party to be considered an activist. I left this phone conversation disappointed but more determined

than ever to find a college activist.

I roamed Ten-nessee Tech’s campus looking for evidence of a college activist. I found some mes-sages written in chalk on the side-walk of South Pa-tio but found that these were only ad-vertisements for a pizza party hosted by some forgettable college organiza-tion. I was begin-ning to feel like a monster hunter searching for Big-foot. I was Plaster casting footprints and collecting stool samples only to dis-cover that it all be-longed to a raccoon. I needed a change in strategy.

Memphis is the unofficial liberal capital of Tennessee. If I was going to find a genuine member of the “99 percent” movement the University of Memphis campus would be the place.

“My name is Brandon Griffin. My major is law. My undergraduate degree was in political science from Tennessee Tech.” Griffin proudly proclaimed.

He spoke like he was already a lawyer. He preemptively stalled my questions by summarizing the inquiry I had just asked. This gave him time to prepare an answer.

“What you are asking is what party I am leaning toward this election cycle if I understand you correctly? Let me think about this for a moment.” He paused for only two seconds, “They have pandered to the conservative side to a certain degree, and they were reluctant to back off the Iraq War. But at the same time it seems like his policies have had a slow but positive effect and…”

“Skip to the end!” I rudely interrupted him with a sigh.“I tend to lean liberal but consider myself a moderate.” He

replied.“Moderate” was the word that kept appearing in all my

conversations with students. It seemed that despite the polarization of the current political climate the majority of college students were not far left “99 percenters” or hard right “tea partiers”. They are moderate and simply tend to lean to one side or the other. The legend of college students being hyper-political activists was just that, a legend. The activists just happen to be the loudest people in the room.

In an important side note, every person I talked to planned to vote in November.

9|Spring 2012|

It is a Sunday in late April. I am in Cuzco, Peru, a magnificent puzzle

of terracotta-roofed buildings packed into a lush, green valley.

I sit in the front seat of a taxi, next to the driver. Four of my friends are crammed in the back seat.

We came to South America nearly two months ago and have since been without a shave or haircut. The locals find us amusing.

After a short ride through winding mountain roads, we arrive at Action Valley, home to the highest bungee jump in the Americas.

My friends and I climb out of the taxi, thanking and paying the driver.

As soon as the taxi is out of sight, I realize my iPod is no longer in my pocket. It must have slipped out during the ride.

Enjoy the tip.My friends and I walk down a set of

old cement stairs and to the shack that serves as the Action Valley office.

After paying the required $70 fee and signing liability forms that protect Action Valley in the event that we die or become seriously maimed, we sit outside in plastic red chairs and watch three nervous tourists prepare for their jumps.

We are the first of our group to arrive. The remaining dozen, like us, trickle in by taxi, pay and sign forms before joining us in the jumbled rows of spectator seating.

Around us are scenes of adventure:

a climbing wall, a paintball course and numerous signs picturing characters like Superman and Spiderman suspended from bungee ropes.

Apparently, super heroes like to visit Action Valley, too.

I watch the process of each jump. A bungee rope comes from a round canister like a coiled snake emerging from a pit. Jumpers empty pockets and remove shoes, glasses, hats, and jackets before putting on safety harnesses. Each jumper goes up, smiling. Each jumper comes down, screaming.

My turn steadily approaches. For a moment, I grow anxious.

Members of the Action Valley staff halt the process, studying the cloudy sky and light, erratic rain drops. I worry, thinking the weather may rob me of my opportunity to jump.

The moment passes. We are back on schedule.

The waiting intensifies my eagerness. But I do not fear the jump. I remember my skydiving experience a few years ago and feel confident. Falling from 400 feet seems like nothing compared to leaping from a plane flying several thousand feet above the earth.

An Action Valley employee waves, beckoning me. I hand my camera to a friend.

The time is 1:29 p.m. I empty my pockets and remove my shoes and cardigan. An employee straps a harness around my torso and ankles before attaching the bungee rope to it.

The increase in my heart rate informs me that my old friend adrenaline has arrived.

The time is 1:31 p.m. I climb aboard the yellow, metal cage along with an employee. He slides the cage door closed. A hydraulic winch pulls us out of the valley, into the sky.

During what seems like a slow journey to the top, I watch my friends shout words of encouragement while they grow smaller and smaller. I begin to feel small myself, vulnerable.

My memory of skydiving comforts me less and less as the winch, like the hand of God, pulls us higher and higher. The employee notices my quiet unrest.

“You jump before?” he asks.“No,” I answer.The time is 1:35 p.m. We have

Story and layout by LOGAN NICKLESONPhotography by CASEY WOODARD & HEIDI DUNCOMB (inset photos)

10 || Eagle Eye

THE JUMP

reached the top. At 400 feet, I can see out of the valley and for a long distance.

Beautiful. My attention rests for a moment on

a slum just past the road we arrived by. I feel like a child observing an ant farm, disconnected from it all.

Interrupting my reflection, the employee instructs me on the correct way to jump: lean forward and dive rather than jump outward. Jumping outward increases the likelihood of an extremely unpleasant whiplash.

The employee slides the cage door open.

The thump of my heart pounds against my chest, pulsates in my ears. My breathing is shallow as my lungs try to suck oxygen from the thin air.

I carefully walk out of the metal cage and onto a narrow platform extending from the doorway. With his hand on my harness, the employee steadies me.

“¿Está listo?” he asks. “Ready?”I nod. Feeling a subtle push forward, I

open my arms wide as if to soar. I fall.The horizon scrolls out of sight. My peripheral vision blurs. I only see the ground toward which

I am plummeting. My heart sinks to the pit of my

stomach.Falling, falling, falling!Terrified and exhilarated, I release

an instinctual “woooo!”

The elastic rope stretches, slows me and reels

me back up like a human yo-yo. I fall again.And then, after a couple of bounces,

it is all over, finished. Hanging from my ankles, I embark

on the tortuous three-minute descent. Gravity pulls what feels like all the blood in my body to my head. My toes tingle. My veins bulge. My head throbs.

Finally, I land back on earth red-faced and a little dizzy but feeling accomplished, alive.

11|Spring 2012 |

“I don’t want to romanticize some of the mistakes that I made,” Andrew Smith began, causing me

to shift my weight to the edge of my seat in anticipation of some exciting tales of a former life.

“I basically was a free spirit,” Smith explained. “I was a hobo. I was a wanderer, a traveler. Now the second time I did that, I had a family, but Lisa and Ruby and I lived in a Ford Econoline Van. We traveled all over the continental United States and went camping and went exploring.”

Smith said that becoming a professor of writing and American Literature at Tennessee Technological University was never his plan.

“Essentially, teaching was almost an accident and a necessity,” he said.

Smith, 44, has more spunk and energy than many people half his age. I was able to sit down with him and soak up some of the wisdom he has earned from a life spent searching for, as he said, “what’s right, what’s true, what’s real.”

“I experimented with everything you could imagine in the counterculture,” Smith said. “I have a wild side. And that’s been tamed pretty well. I currently don’t drink or use drugs, and I’m very happily married. But I had some adventures when I was younger. That’s for sure.”

Smith graduated from high school and started his college career at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio, in 1986. He described the school as “super experimental,” “bohemian,” “very artsy” and, a term that could be used to aptly describe his own personal journey, “non-traditional.”

Smith said he soon became disillusioned and dropped out of Antioch after a year. He explained how his upbringing played a role in his decision.

“I probably was one of those people who was downwardly mobile on purpose, meaning I didn’t care about money because money was never a problem when I was little,” he said. “I cared about social justice, and I cared also about beauty. You know,

the two things that were probably the most important to me in life were joy and justice. And so if I wasn’t protesting a war or going on a peace march or something like that, I was going to a festival or going to a concert, or I was writing poetry. And I was interested in truth. You know, I wanted to sort of ‘find’ myself or ‘discover myself.’”

Smith also attributed his unnatural level of idealism to his worship of the ‘60s and icons like the Beatles, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bono from U2.

“Eventually, I grew up, you know, and I settled down. But it took me a long time,” Smith said with a jovial chuckle.

After Smith dropped out, he spent three years exploring life before moving to inner city Detroit, Mich., to attend Wayne State University.

“That’s when I really did college, in Detroit from ‘90 to ‘94,” he said.

Smith graduated from Wayne with a bachelor’s degree in English. But his time in Detroit was spent on more than academia. Smith referenced his involvement in the Detroit poetry community and writing for

the local weekly and university newspaper. “I put my roots down in Detroit,”

he said. “It was a really easy place to be a community activist and be a college student.”

Smith elaborated on the thrill of living in a city renowned for its dangerous streets and crime.

“I kind of liked it when I was there,” he said. “You know, I felt kind of like invincible because I was a tough guy. And I’m not really a tough guy, but I felt like a tough guy because I’d lived in Detroit.”

It was during his time at Wayne that Smith realized teachers were not necessarily limited to the responsibilities of homework-assigners or test-givers.

“My English teacher was also the person I would see at the poetry reading,” Smith said. “This is the model that I grew up around in Detroit where the artist was also the teacher.”

Smith remembered his English professor when he himself began his teaching career.

“You know, work is work, and they say ‘work’ is a four-letter word,” he said. “And so when I first came into teaching, I had this idea that this is my day job, and that really I’m a poet. I’m an organizer of rock concerts. I’m a traveler. I’m somebody who loves nature. I’m somebody who gets involved in activism.”

Soon after becoming a teacher himself, Smith realized that teaching could be an artform.

“I’m still a poet,” he said. “I still produce concerts. I still go to concerts. I still write essays and do pop culture journalism. I’m involved in the outdoors. I hike. I try to garden—I’m not very good at it. I’m a spiritual person. I seek spiritual things in all of my affairs. And so I’m still all of those other things.”

Following his graduation from Wayne in 1994, Smith, together with his then-partner Lisa and their daughter, Ruby, moved from the Michigan metropolis to the Tennessee countryside to be closer to Lisa’s family. Smith, Lisa and several friends bought a farm in Dekalb County called Pumpkin Hollow, where Smith remained from 1996 to 2009.

12 || Eagle Eye

Professors are People TooStory and layout by LOGAN NICKLESONPhotography by ALLIE SAMPSON

”

“We were

trying to have basically a hippy

commune.

- Andy Smith

“We were trying to have basically a hippy commune,” he said. “Some of the people would be uncomfortable with the phrase ‘hippy,’ but that’s essentially what we were. We were having a little commune.”

With bills to pay and a child to care for, Smith soon realized he needed a steady job with consistent income. To his disappointment, he learned that his dream of earning money solely from writing was not a viable option.

“I had done some freelance writing when I was in college and actually sold my writing for money,” Smith remembered. “It was a great part-time job while I was in college, but it wasn’t enough to support myself completely. And I think I had this idea that I would do freelance writing, you know, from home, and never actually have to get a real job, and not actually make that much money, but not actually need that much money.”

Smith jumped to the end.“That didn’t work out,” he said

succinctly. “So I went to graduate school at Murfreesboro in 1997 out of complete necessity.”

After graduate school, Smith haphazardly found his way to Cookeville,

Tenn., through a suggestion from a colleague who thought he would like Tech.

“I just drove up here one day—called first, sent an email, whatever I needed to do—and got an interview,” Smith said. “I came up here and started working here as an adjunct instructor in 2001. And I fell in love with Tech and with Cookeville. The students here are amazing.”

Smith said the financial frustrations of teaching English as an adjunct instructor led him to partner with the American Association of University Professors and protest inequities within higher education.

Smith also protested the invasion of Iraq in 2003. In retrospect, he views the decision to protest as in line with his morals but as a “bad career move.” At the time, he worried about what effect his activism would have on his long-term employment.

“My picture was in the newspaper because in March of 2003, the day that the United States started bombing Iraq, I went to jail for non-violent, peaceful protest outside the Senator Bill Frist’s office in downtown Nashville,” Smith said. “So I’m a rabble-rouser at heart. But I try to do it

peacefully, you know—not into fighting in the physical sense.”

After a divorce in 2009, Smith left the Pumpkin Hollow commune and abandoned the riskier aspects of his former lifestyle.

“I would say that I had a spiritual awakening in my 40s that made me more responsible and more faithful as a person, and it was a very good thing for that to happen to me,” he said.

In addition to teaching at Tech, Smith is again a student himself.

“Now, I’m going to school at Vanderbilt Divinity School, which is completely a 180, because I wasn’t a very religious person for most of my 20s and 30s,” he admitted. “I always believed in God. But I didn’t go to church, and I certainly was a very sinful person by most people’s standards. Church for a 20-year-old who’s into rock ‘n’ roll and poetry is the church of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. It’s not the church of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”

Andrew Smith—writer, free spirit, traveler, nature-enthusiast, hobo, poet, event-organizer, husband, activist, father and, lest we forget, teacher—ended our conversation with one simple sentence: “Life is very good today.”

13|Spring 2012 |

A lover of the natural world, Smith recites poetry in Dogwood Park, a peaceful place he frequents on nice days.

Innocently Wrapped

I look down at the table that holds my coaster-stained drink. In my lap, my thumb rubs across the top of my hand, trying

to hide my nerves. The night started like any other bachelorette party; my future

sister-in-law was about to be married to my only brother. We gathered at a friend’s house to give her a surprise lingerie party.

The 10 of us were standing around, mingling while drinking our glasses of wine and snacking on miniature appetizers when we heard the car pull into the driveway.

“Are those gifts for me?” Kelly said as she walked through the door.

“Yes,” everyone said in unison.Buying her surprise lingerie gift was a little awkward for me,

but I couldn’t show up to a party empty-handed.Kelly sat in the middle of the living room, while everyone

whispered and giggled at what they had bought her.“Here goes the first one,” Kelly said in excitement. She picked up a small, wrapped package that had a simple

stick-on bow as decoration. As she began to unwrap it, the room filled with silence.

“It’s from Tedder,” Kelly informed as she slowly lifted the tissue paper from the box. “Oh, how cute.”

Cute? Really? Who says “cute” about something they get at a lingerie shower? I looked up from my plate of food to examine this “cute” item. It was red, plaid pajama pants and a matching tank top.

Poor thing, I thought to myself. Kelly seemed excited about the gift, but who really wants pajamas at a bachelorette party, especially the pants kind? The next gift will be better, I said to myself.

But it wasn’t; it was another set of pajamas. All the gifts leading up to mine were Fruit of the freaking Loom pajamas. Cotton. Who wears cotton on their honeymoon? Maybe I’ve been watching too much “Sex in the City” or something, but I thought you were supposed to buy black and red lace, see-through, blushing cheeks at the Victoria’s Secret counter, sexy, lingerie.

That’s what was hiding in my delicately wrapped box, and it was about to be exposed.

“Kota,” Kelly said with a rapturous voice and picked up my gift. “You really have to show me how you make these bows.”

Little did she know, the bow was the only part of the gift I wasn’t embarrassed by.

With each tear of the wrapping paper, my heart fell deeper into my chest. Scrambling for what I was going to say, I was left dumbfounded, blank, nothing. I couldn’t even think of a lie that would cover this up. So I picked up my cubed Colby cheese on a stick and stared at the back wall.

The whispers disappeared as Kelly began to lift the top box off the other.

There it was, the not-so-secret, secret that I bought from Victoria’s in the middle of the mall. The lace seemed to be more risqué as she held it up for the light to shine through, so everyone could see.

“I think this is for the night of,” Kelly said as everyone oh’ed and aw’ed.

Gross, I thought to myself. I wanted my gift to me nice but not show-stopper nice. I didn’t need the details of how it was going to be used; I just wanted to be a good guest.

“Where did you get it?” the girls asked. “It’s so sexy.”Awesome. My gift was the one described as sexy. Why

couldn’t I just have gone with cute? I sit back against the couch, blushing, taking more than a sip

of my white zinfandel as Kelly picks up another gift to open.

Story by DAKOTA WEATHERFORDPhotography by JESSICA REEVES (left) & BISKIE HOLMAN (right)Layout by BRANDON STEPHENSON

14 || Eagle Eye

THE SEASON

This time of the year always pulls at my heartstrings. It isn’t so much the warmth or the sunshine; it’s the

season. Baseball season. God’s season. America’s season. Maybe that imagery is too strong for some, but to me it may be too weak. Nothing can quite compare to how I feel about this season or the memories it has brought me. I look out at the grass gently swaying in the wind and can’t help but think about the first time I really noticed it. I might have been the most unnoticeable 4-year-old on plan-et Earth. Scrawny, big-eared, curly-headed. Despite all that, my dad thought it would behoove a boy of my age to learn about America’s pastime. We went to the store and returned clad in shiny, new cleats and a glove fit for a (diminutive) king. Algood T-Ball wasn’t ready for this whirlwind. My first game on that field of dreams ended with me clinging to a chain-link fence screaming for my dad because Coach Phillips had screamed, “GO HOME!” The Bible says the meek shall inherit the Earth, and I say so shall the scrawny earn it. I had to claw my way through that rough start, but I knew I was hooked. Every year for the next 16 years, you could find me on the field or at least thinking about it. My social life revolved around

the guys I played with. Heck, without the season, I would have never met my first girlfriend. Memories flicker through my mind like an old 8 millimeter film strip. There was the All-Star showcase where my team got obliterated by a Knoxville traveling team. They scored their first runs on a grand-slam by their third baseman, who hap-pened to have two prosthetic legs. We lost 32-0. Later in that tournament, my best friend, David, hit a home run with a bat he found in a dumpster. You can’t make those memories up, and you sure as heck can’t recreate them. My life wouldn’t be the same without the lessons in trust and teamwork. How would I be able to know Mikey would lit-erally smash someone’s face in for one of his friends? I wouldn’t have, and to this day, he most certainly would oblige you with a punch if you talked bad about his friends. The winters were the worst. I just waited for February to roll around, so I could toss the ball with my dad. It was the epitome of Heaven to me. I’m older now; nothing more than a memory to those I left behind on the diamond. All I have left to prove I ever shared the scars of brotherhood is a blurry right eye from a line drive to the face and some old photos. Still the spring wind smells ever-so-sweet to me. That sea of grass moving ever-so-gently seems as lush as Eden. This season will always hold my heart.

Story by BRANDON STEPHENSONLayout by DAKOTA WEATHERFORD

15|Spring 2012|

Funded by the Quality Enhancement Plan of Tennessee Tech Universitywww.tntech.edu/qep

EaglE eye magazineCommunications/Journalism Programwww.tntech.edu/communication/journalismTennessee Tech UniversityCampus Box 5072Cookeville, TN 38505Jour@tntech.edu

Eagle Eye Magazine is printed on 100% recycled paper