Why storytelling and art matters.
It was late and I had just finished a French film that made me think but also annoyed me. Clearly it was a good time to read an article from my favorite multi media news and critique sources before getting some shut eye.
But I clicked on the wrong article to induce peaceful sleep.
"Donald Trump moving forward with plans to kill National Endowment for the Arts, PBS and NPR," the chilling headline announced. And below it, an equally cold subtitle: "Federally funded art programs stand to be eliminated as part of 2018 budget." My heart dropped to my stomach. I scrolled down; my insides threatened to do the opposite.
I had heard this might happen during the next four years. I first read about it on Inauguration Day; in fact, this rumor was the exact fuel that fed my passion to begin a daily video project during the days President Trump is in office. If my desired career choices were going to be devalued, defunded, and denied entry into civil conversations, I was going to make some sort of thumbprint to be found when this is all over. After only 33 days, I have been frustrated at times but always determined to continue without missing a post. I still feel I must do my part to put thought into art.
According to the article, a final budget is expected to be announced on March 13th. That's a Monday, but I honestly checked the calendar to see if it was a Friday. And only a day after I turn 23. Happy late birthday to me.
Every time I open Facebook, someone is ranting about the dishonest media, the disrespectful and ungrateful liberals, the need to pray for our leaders and give them a fighting chance. I will never say "F**k Trump" because that really isn't something I wish to say about any individual. I also will never regret my vote (which I will not be talking about here, except that it was not for Trump).
I just want to process with you, my fellow human beings, about what the arts and freedom of the press have done for me. I'm not sure how many of you will even care to finish this post (probably left when I made that Friday the 13th joke), but for those of you who give even half a damn about me or the feelings I am processing tonight, here we go. Bear with me as I get a little wordy.
Telling stories is the only thing I have ever wanted to do with my life. First it was through stupid little fiction pieces I wrote inspired by the Barbie worlds I had created with my siblings. Then came the angsty teenage blogs I wrote on this very platform...which I have not deleted because they tell my story. While I was trying to avoid my parents' pleas with me to decide what I wanted to do with my life, I stumbled upon Northwestern at a college fair. Writing & Rhetoric. I was intrigued...and after a visit to the snow blown campus, I fell in love with everything about that school. But especially the English department.
When I arrived at Northwestern, I dove into a Publishing class that almost immediately inspired a fascination with editing. I learned what a copy editor did and decided, right then as an awkward 18 year old, that I needed to have that job someday. And then I did get that job; three times, in fact. First for a magazine blog, then for a literary journal, and finally for the school newspaper. My love for writing blossomed into a more specific passion for helping polish others' words. Every word told a story of its own, revealed a tiny glimpse into its history of usage and abuse.
I met my current friend group as a sophomore, and all of them--literally all of them--loved either writing or theatre. My heart broke as I watched them struggle in writing workshops and come home from rehearsals exhausted; then it soared with them as they were published in journals and handed awards at festivals. We collaborated on seven films the next year, and during our preparation for those films, we collected stories from all over campus to share with an attentive audience.
I learned how to sound design for a production; I wrote a one act play and directed another. My love for art and artists grew with every project I took on. While my relationship with words had changed to something quite unrecognizable compared to my junior high attempts at fiction, I loved words more than I ever could have as a child. Every person had a story, and every story had tiny tidbits of stories waiting to be revealed if told by the right person.
I watched tears and laughter and indignation and heart wrenching pain come out of words during those four years. When I graduated and moved to Ames, I lost my connection to most of those resources and nearly all of those people, at least in physical closeness. I longed for the comfort of an environment where the people around me actually cared if I stretched myself through art. Before graduation, I had people surrounding me who wanted to help me create new pieces of beauty. But now...now I only had social media connections. And all I saw for eight months was hatred, bigotry, and division.
No more stories were being told openly. When someone tried to begin, they were met with cold Facebook rejections and petty, biased articles leaning left or right, depending on the original point of view. So many passive aggressive, holier than thou posts full of so much crap that I could barely recognize people I thought were Christians. And when I occasionally reposted an article, hoping for a discussion, no one bothered to respond. When I shared a video from my project, longing for at least one person to express a different point of view or ask me to have a one-on-one conversation, I didn't get a single bite.
And so now we have arrived at the present. By talking of eliminating funding for the arts (of all kinds), this administration is sending a message to storytellers like me. That message reads, "We don't care about your stories. You aren't a priority." Our stories already only receive 0.003% of the annual budget, but now there could be concrete proof that these stories are not wanted.
I know some people may view artists as lazy, entitled, or just liberal (which is used as an insult instead of a label for a political viewpoint). But without us, there would be no books. Even instruction manuals and science textbooks require a layout designer and several editors, not to mention the freaking writers. Without us, radio and television and film simply could not exist. Without us, museums could not have even been imagined (an artist had to design the building and all the pieces on display). Architecture and construction work would not be possible. Music would be limited to the natural sounds of the outdoors and whatever squeaky wheels didn't get oiled.
Maybe it's a silly idea to try and imagine what the world would be without artists. But I don't think so. To tell us we don't deserve any funding at all is to tell us you wish we would not express ourselves freely. If it comes down to what is best for "everyone" in this country, artists make up the majority. It isn't only the small group of young hippies wishing for an end to violence. It's also the intellectuals and the creators and the logical thinkers who make this country different in every state, town, and home.
I've written so many words, and I am sure 99% of them are practically worthless. What would I know? I'm just a lazy millennial who wants to create art that makes people think. If anything in this post is salvageable, feel free to point it out to me. Oh, and here is the link to the article I mentioned. Also the National Endowment for the Arts' website. It's a cool place.
Consequence of Sound article
National Endowment for the Arts
But I clicked on the wrong article to induce peaceful sleep.
"Donald Trump moving forward with plans to kill National Endowment for the Arts, PBS and NPR," the chilling headline announced. And below it, an equally cold subtitle: "Federally funded art programs stand to be eliminated as part of 2018 budget." My heart dropped to my stomach. I scrolled down; my insides threatened to do the opposite.
I had heard this might happen during the next four years. I first read about it on Inauguration Day; in fact, this rumor was the exact fuel that fed my passion to begin a daily video project during the days President Trump is in office. If my desired career choices were going to be devalued, defunded, and denied entry into civil conversations, I was going to make some sort of thumbprint to be found when this is all over. After only 33 days, I have been frustrated at times but always determined to continue without missing a post. I still feel I must do my part to put thought into art.
According to the article, a final budget is expected to be announced on March 13th. That's a Monday, but I honestly checked the calendar to see if it was a Friday. And only a day after I turn 23. Happy late birthday to me.
Every time I open Facebook, someone is ranting about the dishonest media, the disrespectful and ungrateful liberals, the need to pray for our leaders and give them a fighting chance. I will never say "F**k Trump" because that really isn't something I wish to say about any individual. I also will never regret my vote (which I will not be talking about here, except that it was not for Trump).
I just want to process with you, my fellow human beings, about what the arts and freedom of the press have done for me. I'm not sure how many of you will even care to finish this post (probably left when I made that Friday the 13th joke), but for those of you who give even half a damn about me or the feelings I am processing tonight, here we go. Bear with me as I get a little wordy.
Telling stories is the only thing I have ever wanted to do with my life. First it was through stupid little fiction pieces I wrote inspired by the Barbie worlds I had created with my siblings. Then came the angsty teenage blogs I wrote on this very platform...which I have not deleted because they tell my story. While I was trying to avoid my parents' pleas with me to decide what I wanted to do with my life, I stumbled upon Northwestern at a college fair. Writing & Rhetoric. I was intrigued...and after a visit to the snow blown campus, I fell in love with everything about that school. But especially the English department.
When I arrived at Northwestern, I dove into a Publishing class that almost immediately inspired a fascination with editing. I learned what a copy editor did and decided, right then as an awkward 18 year old, that I needed to have that job someday. And then I did get that job; three times, in fact. First for a magazine blog, then for a literary journal, and finally for the school newspaper. My love for writing blossomed into a more specific passion for helping polish others' words. Every word told a story of its own, revealed a tiny glimpse into its history of usage and abuse.
I met my current friend group as a sophomore, and all of them--literally all of them--loved either writing or theatre. My heart broke as I watched them struggle in writing workshops and come home from rehearsals exhausted; then it soared with them as they were published in journals and handed awards at festivals. We collaborated on seven films the next year, and during our preparation for those films, we collected stories from all over campus to share with an attentive audience.
I learned how to sound design for a production; I wrote a one act play and directed another. My love for art and artists grew with every project I took on. While my relationship with words had changed to something quite unrecognizable compared to my junior high attempts at fiction, I loved words more than I ever could have as a child. Every person had a story, and every story had tiny tidbits of stories waiting to be revealed if told by the right person.
I watched tears and laughter and indignation and heart wrenching pain come out of words during those four years. When I graduated and moved to Ames, I lost my connection to most of those resources and nearly all of those people, at least in physical closeness. I longed for the comfort of an environment where the people around me actually cared if I stretched myself through art. Before graduation, I had people surrounding me who wanted to help me create new pieces of beauty. But now...now I only had social media connections. And all I saw for eight months was hatred, bigotry, and division.
No more stories were being told openly. When someone tried to begin, they were met with cold Facebook rejections and petty, biased articles leaning left or right, depending on the original point of view. So many passive aggressive, holier than thou posts full of so much crap that I could barely recognize people I thought were Christians. And when I occasionally reposted an article, hoping for a discussion, no one bothered to respond. When I shared a video from my project, longing for at least one person to express a different point of view or ask me to have a one-on-one conversation, I didn't get a single bite.
And so now we have arrived at the present. By talking of eliminating funding for the arts (of all kinds), this administration is sending a message to storytellers like me. That message reads, "We don't care about your stories. You aren't a priority." Our stories already only receive 0.003% of the annual budget, but now there could be concrete proof that these stories are not wanted.
I know some people may view artists as lazy, entitled, or just liberal (which is used as an insult instead of a label for a political viewpoint). But without us, there would be no books. Even instruction manuals and science textbooks require a layout designer and several editors, not to mention the freaking writers. Without us, radio and television and film simply could not exist. Without us, museums could not have even been imagined (an artist had to design the building and all the pieces on display). Architecture and construction work would not be possible. Music would be limited to the natural sounds of the outdoors and whatever squeaky wheels didn't get oiled.
Maybe it's a silly idea to try and imagine what the world would be without artists. But I don't think so. To tell us we don't deserve any funding at all is to tell us you wish we would not express ourselves freely. If it comes down to what is best for "everyone" in this country, artists make up the majority. It isn't only the small group of young hippies wishing for an end to violence. It's also the intellectuals and the creators and the logical thinkers who make this country different in every state, town, and home.
I've written so many words, and I am sure 99% of them are practically worthless. What would I know? I'm just a lazy millennial who wants to create art that makes people think. If anything in this post is salvageable, feel free to point it out to me. Oh, and here is the link to the article I mentioned. Also the National Endowment for the Arts' website. It's a cool place.
Consequence of Sound article
National Endowment for the Arts
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