By Lizzie Prosser
After three and a half hours of listening to Britney Spears and Mariah Carey, we arrived in Manhattan fired up and ready to see what the week of journalism had to offer.
We came armed with past yearbooks full of 365 days of pure girl power. We headed to our opening class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop. When first observing the class, all seemed well.
Everyone was the same breed of geeky journalism student, but the vibe was off somehow. What was so different? It hit me -- that odd stench I had detected earlier in the day wasn’t the hot, musky stairwell. It was, in fact, boy. It never had dawned on me this workshop would be so different from my journalism class in dear old Omaha.
For three years, I have attended Marian High School, an all-girl Catholic high school. It didn’t particularly startle me that I now had Y chromosomes in class, but this detail was just a bit off putting.
When introducing myself, the general reaction of girls from Kapaun Mt. Carmel in Wichita was, “Oh my God! Are you serious? How do you do that?” We’re both Catholic high schools -- both even the blue and white crusaders. I just chuckle at how foreign it seems to them and how foreign it was to me to have the male species in class.
After talking with the Kapaun girls, we broke down the pros and cons for the boy factor.
Marian is centered around empowering women. In fact, the slogan is “where girls are first.” Marian girls take pride in not having to get ready in the morning -- beyond deodorant, brushing teeth and occasionally brushing hair. The boyless environment takes the pressure off. Girls are able to be open and outspoken without having to worry about how dumb they look in front of the boys. Although the girls from Kapaun may be outspoken and not afraid to speak their minds, Bailey Buer admits that an all-girl environment would greatly strengthen the sisterly bond between friends.
The Kapaun girls couldn’t imagine not primping for school. While they are blow drying their hair and coating their lashes early in the morning, the average Marian girl is still sound asleep -- waiting until the very last seconds before it is absolutely time to leave. Kapaun girls slip on their below-the-knee grey skirts, white blouses and navy sweater vests, while Marian girls throw on their above-knee plaid skirts, green polos and maybe even a beaten-up grey sweatshirt.
Marian girl Brooke Urzendowski will admit when seeing the life of a Kapaun girl, she and fellow Marian girls somewhat miss out on the whole high school experience: football games, boys cracking jokes in class and the entertainment the opposite sex brings to the school day.
Girls from neither side, Kapaun nor Marian, can see themselves in the others shoes. From a Marian point of view, boys will always be from Mars, so why bring those UFO’s to school with you? Every day is a simulation of the real world at Kapaun, and every dance is a Sadie Hawkins dance at Marian.
All in all, it’s just school. Boys or no boys.
Lizzie Prosser is a senior at Marian High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publications Workshop.
Showing posts with label 2009 Workshop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2009 Workshop. Show all posts
7/17/10
Sunday reflection
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7/24/09
Thanks for an awesome week
Hi Advanced Writers--
Thanks for a super week. It was a reminder of how much I love writing and how lucky I am that Linda invited me back to work with such amazing young writers. I wish I had been able to write at your level when I was still in high school.
Enjoy the rest of your summer. And if anyone wants to share stories in the future, send them to me at barbara.hollingsworth@cjonline.com, and I'll post them here.
Thanks and best wishes.
Barbara
Thanks for a super week. It was a reminder of how much I love writing and how lucky I am that Linda invited me back to work with such amazing young writers. I wish I had been able to write at your level when I was still in high school.
Enjoy the rest of your summer. And if anyone wants to share stories in the future, send them to me at barbara.hollingsworth@cjonline.com, and I'll post them here.
Thanks and best wishes.
Barbara
7/23/09
Student story- Best intentions run out
By Meredith Osborne
Deep breath. It is early in the morning, the dew fresh on the grass. Kapaun Mt. Carmel senior, Sean Doyle laces his Asics and begins to run.
“I like running because it relieves stress. It also wakes me up in the morning,” Doyle said.
To any other camper, getting up earlier voluntarily seems almost cruel.
“After hitting the snooze button twice, I forced myself to get up, put on my compression and running shorts and go for it,” Doyle said.
Doyle began this week with good intentions, bringing his running shoes and planning to jog every morning. He scouted routes in advance. How many days did he run this week?
“One,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “I was too damn tired to run any other days.”
Meredith Osborne is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Deep breath. It is early in the morning, the dew fresh on the grass. Kapaun Mt. Carmel senior, Sean Doyle laces his Asics and begins to run.
“I like running because it relieves stress. It also wakes me up in the morning,” Doyle said.
To any other camper, getting up earlier voluntarily seems almost cruel.
“After hitting the snooze button twice, I forced myself to get up, put on my compression and running shorts and go for it,” Doyle said.
Doyle began this week with good intentions, bringing his running shoes and planning to jog every morning. He scouted routes in advance. How many days did he run this week?
“One,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “I was too damn tired to run any other days.”
Meredith Osborne is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- 8th grader brings skills and dance moves
By Courtney Johnson
Teenage journalists are everywhere.
They roam the Kansas State campus snapping photographs. They reside in the Holiday Inn, scampering through the carpeted hallways. They scribble indecipherable characters on notepads whenever possible.
Among these countless teen journalists, there are a few who are separated from the rest. Separated by their sincere passion for what they do.
One can tell, just by talking to Tavia Carter, that she is passionate about journalism.
Carter, an eighth grade student from Eisenhower Middle School, is here for the Diversity Discovery program at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop. The program is for middle school students interested in journalism.
“Basically, to me, we get to work on stuff that we haven’t worked on before,” Carter said.
The Diversity Discovery group has learned many journalism essentials —interviewing, writing and editing, to name a few.
After receiving all this new journalistic information, Carter will be able to add a few more tricks up her sleeve — a sleeve that’s already overflowing with loads of tricks. Some of which she never knew she had.
On Tuesday night, she flaunted her dancing abilities at the workshop dance competition, receiving second place. Apparently, no dance experience was needed to succeed.
“I have just watched dancing on TV before and I never thought I would be good at it,” Carter said. “But I just got out there and did it. It’s a good thing to do to take your mind off of stress. And when I was done, I just smiled.”
Along with being phenomenal on the dance floor, Carter has a knack for drawing.
“I like drawing. I draw okay. I’m not really artistic, though,” she said.
Her cousin Keisha, also in the Diversity Discovery program, disagreed. She soon interrupted, “Yeah, you are.”
Carter didn’t have much to say after her cousin’s comment. She looked down at her black and red sneakers – one possessing an untied lace.
So, it’s pretty much been established that Carter has skills. But there’s more.
“I really like to give people nicknames,” Carter said. She pointed to a friend, “I call her Ginger Snapple. I don’t really know why.”
But what is her true passion?
“I love writing,” Carter said. “I have hundreds of diaries. I just tell what’s happening in my life and how I feel. I tell my emotions.”
Carter hopes to pursue writing in the future, and write on a yearbook staff in high school.
“I would like to write about just things that happen. Big news. I want to make sure people know the right stuff. I want them to know the truth,” she said. “I would also like to be a news journalist someday. And I really want to be a teacher. Or a trainer in tennis. I’m pretty good at tennis.”
Next year, count on seeing Carter at journalism camp again. Maybe with even more skills than before.
“I love learning new things,” Carter said. “It makes me feel better about myself. Like I know something new.”
Courtney Johnson is a junior at Paola High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Teenage journalists are everywhere.
They roam the Kansas State campus snapping photographs. They reside in the Holiday Inn, scampering through the carpeted hallways. They scribble indecipherable characters on notepads whenever possible.
Among these countless teen journalists, there are a few who are separated from the rest. Separated by their sincere passion for what they do.
One can tell, just by talking to Tavia Carter, that she is passionate about journalism.
Carter, an eighth grade student from Eisenhower Middle School, is here for the Diversity Discovery program at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop. The program is for middle school students interested in journalism.
“Basically, to me, we get to work on stuff that we haven’t worked on before,” Carter said.
The Diversity Discovery group has learned many journalism essentials —interviewing, writing and editing, to name a few.
After receiving all this new journalistic information, Carter will be able to add a few more tricks up her sleeve — a sleeve that’s already overflowing with loads of tricks. Some of which she never knew she had.
On Tuesday night, she flaunted her dancing abilities at the workshop dance competition, receiving second place. Apparently, no dance experience was needed to succeed.
“I have just watched dancing on TV before and I never thought I would be good at it,” Carter said. “But I just got out there and did it. It’s a good thing to do to take your mind off of stress. And when I was done, I just smiled.”
Along with being phenomenal on the dance floor, Carter has a knack for drawing.
“I like drawing. I draw okay. I’m not really artistic, though,” she said.
Her cousin Keisha, also in the Diversity Discovery program, disagreed. She soon interrupted, “Yeah, you are.”
Carter didn’t have much to say after her cousin’s comment. She looked down at her black and red sneakers – one possessing an untied lace.
So, it’s pretty much been established that Carter has skills. But there’s more.
“I really like to give people nicknames,” Carter said. She pointed to a friend, “I call her Ginger Snapple. I don’t really know why.”
But what is her true passion?
“I love writing,” Carter said. “I have hundreds of diaries. I just tell what’s happening in my life and how I feel. I tell my emotions.”
Carter hopes to pursue writing in the future, and write on a yearbook staff in high school.
“I would like to write about just things that happen. Big news. I want to make sure people know the right stuff. I want them to know the truth,” she said. “I would also like to be a news journalist someday. And I really want to be a teacher. Or a trainer in tennis. I’m pretty good at tennis.”
Next year, count on seeing Carter at journalism camp again. Maybe with even more skills than before.
“I love learning new things,” Carter said. “It makes me feel better about myself. Like I know something new.”
Courtney Johnson is a junior at Paola High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student column— High schoolers come off like pros
By Caleb Chin
Something doesn’t feel right.
The Kedzie Krier staff has this elite reputation. But on this Tuesday night they seem like just another newspaper staff — not the professional-esque, up-and-coming team of journalists working together. People should be frantically walking back and forth, with phone lines ringing and papers flying. It’s the day before print, so there should be a hectic nature to the place.
Turns out, I’ve been watching too many movies.
There’s some chaos but it’s organized. In one room, “Holla,” “Peace Out,” “Woot” and other phrases scatter across the ceiling in marker. Music from Death Cab for Cutie and The Gorillaz play on a computer, while another person scrolls through fmylife.com. Bags of candy, Caribou coffee and Chipotle lie on desks. In one corner, some staff members watch and laugh at someone apparently doing the Wabash Cannonball dance incorrectly, and a circle of friends make monster noises, waving their arms. Someone brings in their dog. Students without shoes slide across the slick wood floor in their socks.
Everyone seems to be in a good mood. I’m even kicking a Tigger bouncy ball back and forth while I eat their candy.
The atmosphere feels relaxed, almost lazy. What was going on? I’m supposed to be scribbling notes and stepping out of their way as I feel journalistically inferior.
Some time and a more in-depth examination starts to clear my confusion. Among the words and drawings on the ceiling are inspirational quotes, presumptively to encourage stressed writers if they bring their gaze to the heavens in frustration. Every once in a while, there’s a drawn out groan, expressing disdain at the situation. The people usually don’t get sidetracked for long before they segue into discussions about layouts and trade opinions about things that can be tweaked. Some of those people goofing off and making monster noises are with The Collegian, the college newspaper.
But it’s still not enough. These people should be talking in impatient tones, being more aggressive, frustrated and overall jerks, like other regular newspaper staffs before print.
And then it becomes clear. These people are done. A few more proofreads here, a few adjustments there, and the Kedzie Krier will be ready to send to print.
Turns out, there are only seven people from the journalism camp working on the Kedzie Krier. They finished a 12-page paper in four days. It takes 17 students at my school with two weeks to complete eight pages.
There’s that journalistically inferior feeling.
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Something doesn’t feel right.
The Kedzie Krier staff has this elite reputation. But on this Tuesday night they seem like just another newspaper staff — not the professional-esque, up-and-coming team of journalists working together. People should be frantically walking back and forth, with phone lines ringing and papers flying. It’s the day before print, so there should be a hectic nature to the place.
Turns out, I’ve been watching too many movies.
There’s some chaos but it’s organized. In one room, “Holla,” “Peace Out,” “Woot” and other phrases scatter across the ceiling in marker. Music from Death Cab for Cutie and The Gorillaz play on a computer, while another person scrolls through fmylife.com. Bags of candy, Caribou coffee and Chipotle lie on desks. In one corner, some staff members watch and laugh at someone apparently doing the Wabash Cannonball dance incorrectly, and a circle of friends make monster noises, waving their arms. Someone brings in their dog. Students without shoes slide across the slick wood floor in their socks.
Everyone seems to be in a good mood. I’m even kicking a Tigger bouncy ball back and forth while I eat their candy.
The atmosphere feels relaxed, almost lazy. What was going on? I’m supposed to be scribbling notes and stepping out of their way as I feel journalistically inferior.
Some time and a more in-depth examination starts to clear my confusion. Among the words and drawings on the ceiling are inspirational quotes, presumptively to encourage stressed writers if they bring their gaze to the heavens in frustration. Every once in a while, there’s a drawn out groan, expressing disdain at the situation. The people usually don’t get sidetracked for long before they segue into discussions about layouts and trade opinions about things that can be tweaked. Some of those people goofing off and making monster noises are with The Collegian, the college newspaper.
But it’s still not enough. These people should be talking in impatient tones, being more aggressive, frustrated and overall jerks, like other regular newspaper staffs before print.
And then it becomes clear. These people are done. A few more proofreads here, a few adjustments there, and the Kedzie Krier will be ready to send to print.
Turns out, there are only seven people from the journalism camp working on the Kedzie Krier. They finished a 12-page paper in four days. It takes 17 students at my school with two weeks to complete eight pages.
There’s that journalistically inferior feeling.
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- The one-man J-band
By Caleb Chin
Tanner Maxwell, a junior at Goddard High, has a quiet, shy demeanor that belies his passionate motivation for journalism.
He’s the ads manager, online editor, visuals editor and editor-in-chief of his newspaper, along with co-editor-in- chief, ads manager and student life editor of his yearbook. He ticks off all seven jobs on his fingers, making sure he doesn’t lose track.
Maxwell is at his school until 5 p.m. every day working on the publications, once even staying until midnight. He’s the guy who carries the team, the one that does most of the work and makes the whole thing successful. If the Goddard High School journalism staff was Destiny’s Child, Maxwell would be Beyoncé.
“I started getting into journalism when I joined my J1 class in 7th grade”, Maxwell said. “I thought, ‘Hey, I like to write,’ and gave it a shot. Middle school wasn’t great, but it piqued my interest in it.”
Maxwell clearly enjoys high school journalism more. He attributes his dedication and overall domination of the journalism department to his adviser, Matt Deabler. Deabler won numerous awards and honors in his hometown of Omaha, Neb.
With all his responsibilities, Maxwell still finds time to fit in other activities. He has played violin since a young age and used to be in orchestra, but he dropped it in favor of his journalistic responsibilities. He is also an active member of Kansas Association of Youth and National Honor Society.
As for future plans, Maxwell has a lot of options going for him. He plans on a career in graphic design. He’d like to write for publications but just “good ones,” such as The New York Times, Portland Press Herald, The Washington Post or National Geographic. Who knows how many positions he could take there?
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Tanner Maxwell, a junior at Goddard High, has a quiet, shy demeanor that belies his passionate motivation for journalism.
He’s the ads manager, online editor, visuals editor and editor-in-chief of his newspaper, along with co-editor-in- chief, ads manager and student life editor of his yearbook. He ticks off all seven jobs on his fingers, making sure he doesn’t lose track.
Maxwell is at his school until 5 p.m. every day working on the publications, once even staying until midnight. He’s the guy who carries the team, the one that does most of the work and makes the whole thing successful. If the Goddard High School journalism staff was Destiny’s Child, Maxwell would be Beyoncé.
“I started getting into journalism when I joined my J1 class in 7th grade”, Maxwell said. “I thought, ‘Hey, I like to write,’ and gave it a shot. Middle school wasn’t great, but it piqued my interest in it.”
Maxwell clearly enjoys high school journalism more. He attributes his dedication and overall domination of the journalism department to his adviser, Matt Deabler. Deabler won numerous awards and honors in his hometown of Omaha, Neb.
With all his responsibilities, Maxwell still finds time to fit in other activities. He has played violin since a young age and used to be in orchestra, but he dropped it in favor of his journalistic responsibilities. He is also an active member of Kansas Association of Youth and National Honor Society.
As for future plans, Maxwell has a lot of options going for him. He plans on a career in graphic design. He’d like to write for publications but just “good ones,” such as The New York Times, Portland Press Herald, The Washington Post or National Geographic. Who knows how many positions he could take there?
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- Inspired to teach, Pritchett prepares for future
By Rebekah Burrow
Chairs surround three tables, empty space between them. Teachers and soon-to-be teachers fill the chairs, papers strewn on the table in front of them.
Chantelle Pritchett, a young woman barely in her 20s with locks of blonde hair cascading down her back, listens intently. The K-State senior picks up her pen, holds it for a few seconds, and then gently places it back on the table as she takes in every word. She wants to become a journalism adviser, and this is a place to achieve that dream.
The advisers class is a helpful to her because of what she is taught. In the class they discuss ways to deal with budget cuts and finding stories that are more unique to their schools.
The class has a combination of both newspaper and yearbook advisers, so she can go beyond her personal experience in high school of working on newspaper.
“I was always really strong on newspaper but had never done much with yearbook,” Pritchett said. “Having the other advisers there is really helpful because they’re experienced and know what they’re doing.”
The reason Pritchett wants to become an adviser is because she believes students should have teachers who will give advice about both the publications they work for and their personal lives.
"Advisers need to be somebody who can be a different person if they need to,” Pritchett said. “They should have good connections and inspire their students. They should be someone the students trust.”
Two people who inspired her were Tony Jimenez, a retired reporter, and Jill Chittum, who was her high school journalism adviser in Derby.
The class has been an eye-opener for Pritchett. She said the main reason she took the class was to be in an environment with plenty of experience and see how things went.
“I figured if I wasn’t meant to be an adviser, then I wouldn’t want to be one at the end of the day,” Pritchett said. “I still do.”
With the desire to be an adviser, she heads to the Landon room at the Holiday Inn every morning. She takes a seat.
As the screen lights up and the teacher gets up to start the day’s lesson, something also lights up in Pritchett. Desire. Hope. And above all else — passion.
Rebekah Burrow is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Chairs surround three tables, empty space between them. Teachers and soon-to-be teachers fill the chairs, papers strewn on the table in front of them.
Chantelle Pritchett, a young woman barely in her 20s with locks of blonde hair cascading down her back, listens intently. The K-State senior picks up her pen, holds it for a few seconds, and then gently places it back on the table as she takes in every word. She wants to become a journalism adviser, and this is a place to achieve that dream.
The advisers class is a helpful to her because of what she is taught. In the class they discuss ways to deal with budget cuts and finding stories that are more unique to their schools.
The class has a combination of both newspaper and yearbook advisers, so she can go beyond her personal experience in high school of working on newspaper.
“I was always really strong on newspaper but had never done much with yearbook,” Pritchett said. “Having the other advisers there is really helpful because they’re experienced and know what they’re doing.”
The reason Pritchett wants to become an adviser is because she believes students should have teachers who will give advice about both the publications they work for and their personal lives.
"Advisers need to be somebody who can be a different person if they need to,” Pritchett said. “They should have good connections and inspire their students. They should be someone the students trust.”
Two people who inspired her were Tony Jimenez, a retired reporter, and Jill Chittum, who was her high school journalism adviser in Derby.
The class has been an eye-opener for Pritchett. She said the main reason she took the class was to be in an environment with plenty of experience and see how things went.
“I figured if I wasn’t meant to be an adviser, then I wouldn’t want to be one at the end of the day,” Pritchett said. “I still do.”
With the desire to be an adviser, she heads to the Landon room at the Holiday Inn every morning. She takes a seat.
As the screen lights up and the teacher gets up to start the day’s lesson, something also lights up in Pritchett. Desire. Hope. And above all else — passion.
Rebekah Burrow is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student work- Tess at the front desk
By Hannah Lujano
Alone at the front desk, the young woman of medium height uses a paper cutter to shred plain white card stock. The scarf on her head reaches the small of her back, pulling her blond hair away from her face to expose the four piercings she has in her left ear.
“Tess,” her nametag reads.
The last name is more of a challenge.
“Ha ha ha, let me spell it for you: B-A-U-M-F-A-L-K,” said the Holiday Inn desk attendee during a slow time for the hotel.
Flint Hills Publication Workshop students are either in class or occupied with another activity not taking place at the hotel. The only people roaming the hallways are hotel employees.
It’s just another day in the job of a hotel clerk. Tess has been employed in four hotels for nearly five years and enjoys her work thus far.
“I get to meet new people. They are interesting. I also get to create friendships with the regulars. There’s not a whole lot I don’t like about this job,” Tess explains as she moves to answer the ringing phone on the opposite end of the desk.
“Good afternoon, thank you for calling Holiday Inn with the campus,” cooed Tess. “Thank you, mhm. You’re welcome.”
She hung up and returned to her paper shredding.
Tess is supporting herself through school, though not Kansas State University. She is enrolled in online courses at Colby Community College. She has already earned her bachelor’s degree and hopes to major in either biology or music.
“Well, I did music in high school, but I’d like to become a surgeon,” she said. “I just can’t decide what I want to do after I graduate.”
Tess contemplates her statement and glances up to see Jose, a deliveryman passing by.
“Hola, amigo,” Tess said.
They recalled funny moments from their collective past hotel experience. There are too many to count. From young basket ballers jumping through windows into the pool in January to hotel owners getting stuck in the elevator, there is never a dull moment.
Hannah Lujano is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writers class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Alone at the front desk, the young woman of medium height uses a paper cutter to shred plain white card stock. The scarf on her head reaches the small of her back, pulling her blond hair away from her face to expose the four piercings she has in her left ear.
“Tess,” her nametag reads.
The last name is more of a challenge.
“Ha ha ha, let me spell it for you: B-A-U-M-F-A-L-K,” said the Holiday Inn desk attendee during a slow time for the hotel.
Flint Hills Publication Workshop students are either in class or occupied with another activity not taking place at the hotel. The only people roaming the hallways are hotel employees.
It’s just another day in the job of a hotel clerk. Tess has been employed in four hotels for nearly five years and enjoys her work thus far.
“I get to meet new people. They are interesting. I also get to create friendships with the regulars. There’s not a whole lot I don’t like about this job,” Tess explains as she moves to answer the ringing phone on the opposite end of the desk.
“Good afternoon, thank you for calling Holiday Inn with the campus,” cooed Tess. “Thank you, mhm. You’re welcome.”
She hung up and returned to her paper shredding.
Tess is supporting herself through school, though not Kansas State University. She is enrolled in online courses at Colby Community College. She has already earned her bachelor’s degree and hopes to major in either biology or music.
“Well, I did music in high school, but I’d like to become a surgeon,” she said. “I just can’t decide what I want to do after I graduate.”
Tess contemplates her statement and glances up to see Jose, a deliveryman passing by.
“Hola, amigo,” Tess said.
They recalled funny moments from their collective past hotel experience. There are too many to count. From young basket ballers jumping through windows into the pool in January to hotel owners getting stuck in the elevator, there is never a dull moment.
Hannah Lujano is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writers class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
7/22/09
Student story- From the Other Side of the Counter
By Katherine Love
The black-aproned trio leans nonchalantly on the pepper-colored granite during a mid-morning lull in the hustle and bustle of the daily rush.
Jonathon Cole, sporting a black cap and accumulating black whiskers, shares that his band may perform Friday night. The two ladies respond with their plans for the weekend, giggling.
Suddenly, Jessica Lynn Milakis bolts through the wooden swinging door leading to the back room, grabbing an empty water pitcher on her way. The other two follow her lead, straightening their postures and scurrying to the coffee machines, their backs to the main walkway.
Today is not an average morning behind the counter at Caribou Coffee. Not every morning does the president of the company stroll through the building.
Dressed in full black suits and ties, carrying leather brief cases, he and his regime pass without a word.
Seeing that he has passed, the three employees return to their prior stand. Milakis, who arrived at 6 a.m. to redo the bakery labels in preparation for today’s important visitors, warns an approaching co-worker about to start her shift, “No drinks behind the counter. Wear your name tag. We have some big wigs here today.”
A student walks up to the counter and orders a medium mocha. Milakis swiftly punches the sequence of buttons she has memorized on the cash register. She swipes the student’s Cat Cash card, and Cole has the espresso prepared by the time the receipt has printed. So cohesive.
Besides the head honcho, the coffee crew encounters several other uncommon visitors: 200 high school journalism students attending the Flint Hills Publications Workshop. The young mob creates quite a chaotic scene for a July morning in the K-State Student Union. But Milakis, who has worked for more than a year at Caribou, has seen far worse.
“Coming out of class during the school year, a line forms out into the hall and around the corner,” she said.
Milakis, who also attends classes full-time, noted that unlike the college crowd, the high schoolers tend to purchase more frozen drinks than coffee.
A gray-haired, balding man approaches the counter slowly, thick side-burns streaking down the sides of his face.
“Don’t you ever go to work?” Jessica asks, sarcastically.
Donning a gray flannel shirt and navy pants, a ring of about twelve seemingly identical gold keys clinking at his right rear belt loop, the man responds that he is working a scaffolding job.
“Ugh! I don’t want to go to class!” Milakis says, glancing at her wristwatch.
“Don’t you ever skip?” the man asks.
“Oh, I skip a lot. But I just took off for five days.” She continues, “It’s statistics. Me, math, we don’t get along.”
The two continue to chat. Milakis informs him of some recent changes in the company, including opening stores in Hy-Vee grocery stores nationwide and their new slogan: “Eat. Learn. Live.”
“Well, I’ve got to go,” the man says, walking away.
“See you tomorrow,” she responds, slipping a large red purse over her shoulder.
After an eventful morning behind the counter, Jessica Lynn Milakis leaves for class, an adept of the company’s new slogan.
Eat. Learn. Live.
Katherine Love is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
The black-aproned trio leans nonchalantly on the pepper-colored granite during a mid-morning lull in the hustle and bustle of the daily rush.
Jonathon Cole, sporting a black cap and accumulating black whiskers, shares that his band may perform Friday night. The two ladies respond with their plans for the weekend, giggling.
Suddenly, Jessica Lynn Milakis bolts through the wooden swinging door leading to the back room, grabbing an empty water pitcher on her way. The other two follow her lead, straightening their postures and scurrying to the coffee machines, their backs to the main walkway.
Today is not an average morning behind the counter at Caribou Coffee. Not every morning does the president of the company stroll through the building.
Dressed in full black suits and ties, carrying leather brief cases, he and his regime pass without a word.
Seeing that he has passed, the three employees return to their prior stand. Milakis, who arrived at 6 a.m. to redo the bakery labels in preparation for today’s important visitors, warns an approaching co-worker about to start her shift, “No drinks behind the counter. Wear your name tag. We have some big wigs here today.”
A student walks up to the counter and orders a medium mocha. Milakis swiftly punches the sequence of buttons she has memorized on the cash register. She swipes the student’s Cat Cash card, and Cole has the espresso prepared by the time the receipt has printed. So cohesive.
Besides the head honcho, the coffee crew encounters several other uncommon visitors: 200 high school journalism students attending the Flint Hills Publications Workshop. The young mob creates quite a chaotic scene for a July morning in the K-State Student Union. But Milakis, who has worked for more than a year at Caribou, has seen far worse.
“Coming out of class during the school year, a line forms out into the hall and around the corner,” she said.
Milakis, who also attends classes full-time, noted that unlike the college crowd, the high schoolers tend to purchase more frozen drinks than coffee.
A gray-haired, balding man approaches the counter slowly, thick side-burns streaking down the sides of his face.
“Don’t you ever go to work?” Jessica asks, sarcastically.
Donning a gray flannel shirt and navy pants, a ring of about twelve seemingly identical gold keys clinking at his right rear belt loop, the man responds that he is working a scaffolding job.
“Ugh! I don’t want to go to class!” Milakis says, glancing at her wristwatch.
“Don’t you ever skip?” the man asks.
“Oh, I skip a lot. But I just took off for five days.” She continues, “It’s statistics. Me, math, we don’t get along.”
The two continue to chat. Milakis informs him of some recent changes in the company, including opening stores in Hy-Vee grocery stores nationwide and their new slogan: “Eat. Learn. Live.”
“Well, I’ve got to go,” the man says, walking away.
“See you tomorrow,” she responds, slipping a large red purse over her shoulder.
After an eventful morning behind the counter, Jessica Lynn Milakis leaves for class, an adept of the company’s new slogan.
Eat. Learn. Live.
Katherine Love is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- A Handy Manning
By Hailey Lapin
You may not ever notice him, but he walks with a confident strut through the fifth floor hallway. His volume never rises above a whisper, but it is apparent this guy knows what he’s talking about.
He pauses for a second to stare at a single fingerprint left on a mirror by the elevator and lets out a deep sigh.
That’s going to have to come out.
His eyelid slightly twitches with annoyance as he looks to the left, there’s smudge on the silver frame.
That’s coming out, too.
For 75-year-old Duane Manning, this is not simply a matter of being anal-retentive. He is just trying to do his job. For the last year-and-a-half his life has revolved around the Holiday Inn on the K-State Campus, and he just wants to keep it clean. He’s at home.
“On a good day, I can probably get through five to six rooms,” he boasts. “But that is on a good day.”
Manning makes one thing clear — he’s no cleaning lady. That’s not his job. He’s a man in “Holiday Care,” and his mission is to pick up what maintenance may have forgotten.
They replace shampoos. He makes sure the grout is still intact.
They fluff pillows. He retouches the paint job.
They make the beds. He makes sure there are no holes in the wall.
That happens sometimes.
The sixth floor is a little more problematic. Heavy rains on July 12 caused part of the roof to cave in, and now a bright rust colored crack in the roof runs down the hallway. Only four rooms on this floor are habitable. Buckets catch drips from the ceiling, and high power fans whine endlessly, blending together into one simultaneous, painful drone. Despite the fans, it feels like there is no air conditioning.
It’s time for another deep breath.
The air smells like wet carpet and wood rot.
He sticks his key into room 618. His name was printed with a label maker and stuck to the card, but that’s starting to fade now. A master key, he explains. He enters the room and looks at the ominous watermark staining the ceiling.
“I don’t know when that’s going to dry. When it does I can finally repaint the ceiling.” He sighs.
It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon as Manning makes his rounds. His hotel shift is during the day, so he rarely talks to guests. Sit and listen for a second and boy does he have a story to tell.
The year was 1979. Manning joined he Army at 19. He moved from Manhattan to heavy boot camp but never saw action. Instead he was sent back to training in Michigan to build tanks and airplane engines. His face glows as he recalls his military memories.
The military gig didn’t last long, so he joined Manhattan’s police department for a little while. Made friends with the doughnut shop ladies. Put on a little bit of weight. Nine years later he became a sheriff. He even came to K-State for a little bit studying business law.
Like your rimless silver glasses, Manning. He hears the complement and his clear blue eyes light up. He likes them too. This one time, trying to backup a fellow sheriff in a drug bust, he got hit in the eye with a pipe. His eye popped out. The doctors told him he’ll never see again. He had surgery. Lays claim to 20/20 vision.
Beat that.
Fun fact: He manufactured and installed more than 450 alarm systems in the state of Kansas. One is in the K-State Library. Another is in the museum.
He’s a healthy guy who just got a physical, listens to country music, likes westerns, those shows about criminal investigations and remembers the times of Mickey Mouse.
The other day, he picked up his miniature dapple dachshund from the vet. She’s a black and white dog with brown paws, a brown nose and a distinctly paintbrush fantail. Her name is Princess.
In his acre and a half of land he’s built a ranch where he pursues his interest in all things American. In the garage, he fixes electronics, cars and he repairs construction worker’s helmets. Manning’s a handy man. But not just a handy man. As he opens the door to Executive Suite 618, he ponders another question: Any other interests?
Manning turns slowly.
“I can do anything.”
He smiles.
Hailey Lapin is a senior at Blue Valley Northwest High School and a student in the advanced writing class of the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
You may not ever notice him, but he walks with a confident strut through the fifth floor hallway. His volume never rises above a whisper, but it is apparent this guy knows what he’s talking about.
He pauses for a second to stare at a single fingerprint left on a mirror by the elevator and lets out a deep sigh.
That’s going to have to come out.
His eyelid slightly twitches with annoyance as he looks to the left, there’s smudge on the silver frame.
That’s coming out, too.
For 75-year-old Duane Manning, this is not simply a matter of being anal-retentive. He is just trying to do his job. For the last year-and-a-half his life has revolved around the Holiday Inn on the K-State Campus, and he just wants to keep it clean. He’s at home.
“On a good day, I can probably get through five to six rooms,” he boasts. “But that is on a good day.”
Manning makes one thing clear — he’s no cleaning lady. That’s not his job. He’s a man in “Holiday Care,” and his mission is to pick up what maintenance may have forgotten.
They replace shampoos. He makes sure the grout is still intact.
They fluff pillows. He retouches the paint job.
They make the beds. He makes sure there are no holes in the wall.
That happens sometimes.
The sixth floor is a little more problematic. Heavy rains on July 12 caused part of the roof to cave in, and now a bright rust colored crack in the roof runs down the hallway. Only four rooms on this floor are habitable. Buckets catch drips from the ceiling, and high power fans whine endlessly, blending together into one simultaneous, painful drone. Despite the fans, it feels like there is no air conditioning.
It’s time for another deep breath.
The air smells like wet carpet and wood rot.
He sticks his key into room 618. His name was printed with a label maker and stuck to the card, but that’s starting to fade now. A master key, he explains. He enters the room and looks at the ominous watermark staining the ceiling.
“I don’t know when that’s going to dry. When it does I can finally repaint the ceiling.” He sighs.
It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon as Manning makes his rounds. His hotel shift is during the day, so he rarely talks to guests. Sit and listen for a second and boy does he have a story to tell.
The year was 1979. Manning joined he Army at 19. He moved from Manhattan to heavy boot camp but never saw action. Instead he was sent back to training in Michigan to build tanks and airplane engines. His face glows as he recalls his military memories.
The military gig didn’t last long, so he joined Manhattan’s police department for a little while. Made friends with the doughnut shop ladies. Put on a little bit of weight. Nine years later he became a sheriff. He even came to K-State for a little bit studying business law.
Like your rimless silver glasses, Manning. He hears the complement and his clear blue eyes light up. He likes them too. This one time, trying to backup a fellow sheriff in a drug bust, he got hit in the eye with a pipe. His eye popped out. The doctors told him he’ll never see again. He had surgery. Lays claim to 20/20 vision.
Beat that.
Fun fact: He manufactured and installed more than 450 alarm systems in the state of Kansas. One is in the K-State Library. Another is in the museum.
He’s a healthy guy who just got a physical, listens to country music, likes westerns, those shows about criminal investigations and remembers the times of Mickey Mouse.
The other day, he picked up his miniature dapple dachshund from the vet. She’s a black and white dog with brown paws, a brown nose and a distinctly paintbrush fantail. Her name is Princess.
In his acre and a half of land he’s built a ranch where he pursues his interest in all things American. In the garage, he fixes electronics, cars and he repairs construction worker’s helmets. Manning’s a handy man. But not just a handy man. As he opens the door to Executive Suite 618, he ponders another question: Any other interests?
Manning turns slowly.
“I can do anything.”
He smiles.
Hailey Lapin is a senior at Blue Valley Northwest High School and a student in the advanced writing class of the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-All Hail the Queen
By Lynn LeCluyse
The plastic room key franticly slides into the key slot.
Whoosh! The door bursts open, almost hitting the wall. In flies the queen, sailing at the speed of light. “You’re late, your majesty.”
“My dress!” she screams to no one in particular, her eyes darting around the room in a panic. She plucks a plum colored, sleeveless, sparkly dress from a hanger and dashes into the bathroom to change.
Emily Taft , a senior at Notre Dame de Sion, is one of the 13 female students nominated to be the Flint Hills Publication Workshop queen at the dance and mixer. But the night hasn’t exactly started out on the right foot, as she races to get ready after returning late to the hotel room.
After slipping on the dress and combing through her hair a few times, she begins smearing on “Lady Danger” lipstick — the shade she bought while playing a prostitute in Rockhurst High School’s production of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.” Katy Perry’s “Hot N’ Cold” is blaring in the background through her rectangular, white iHome speakers placed on a desk in the corner. Still hustling, she brushes on a touch of “Cobalt” bright blue eye shadow to add a lively splash of color, a few swipes of Maybelline mascara, and she’s ready to go.
Queen Taft darts toward the elevator like she’s running from a life or death situation. She presses the down button with a quick, pecking movement, and the small arrow illuminates. Waiting. Waiting. With no time to spare, she heads for the stairs like a bat out of hell.
Racing down like Cinderella at midnight, Taft’s silver ballet flats are starting to slip off her feet. She reaches down to adjust them, takes a deep breath and heads into the Holiday Inn Ballroom. Not a minute to spare.
Introductions of the royalty have already begun. Taft scans the room for her group members, who promised to give her a winning introduction. Her group is nowhere to be found. “Is that everyone?” the DJ calls out through the microphone. Hesitantly, the flustered queen nominee steps forward. She looks around helplessly for a group member’s face in the crowd. Nothing. A friend from another group steps in.
After the introductions wrap up, it’s time for a little dancing before the winners are announced. Taft kicks off her shoes underneath a table and hits the dance floor. After a quick series of songs, the lights come on. The moment of truth has arrived.
The nominees line up. Taft is not selected, but it doesn’t bring her down. The lights dim and she’s back on the dance floor, laughing and smiling.
“It was a chaotic night,” she said, “Not at all what I expected. But I still had a great time.”
Lynn LeCluyse is a senior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class of the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
The plastic room key franticly slides into the key slot.
Whoosh! The door bursts open, almost hitting the wall. In flies the queen, sailing at the speed of light. “You’re late, your majesty.”
“My dress!” she screams to no one in particular, her eyes darting around the room in a panic. She plucks a plum colored, sleeveless, sparkly dress from a hanger and dashes into the bathroom to change.
Emily Taft , a senior at Notre Dame de Sion, is one of the 13 female students nominated to be the Flint Hills Publication Workshop queen at the dance and mixer. But the night hasn’t exactly started out on the right foot, as she races to get ready after returning late to the hotel room.
After slipping on the dress and combing through her hair a few times, she begins smearing on “Lady Danger” lipstick — the shade she bought while playing a prostitute in Rockhurst High School’s production of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.” Katy Perry’s “Hot N’ Cold” is blaring in the background through her rectangular, white iHome speakers placed on a desk in the corner. Still hustling, she brushes on a touch of “Cobalt” bright blue eye shadow to add a lively splash of color, a few swipes of Maybelline mascara, and she’s ready to go.
Queen Taft darts toward the elevator like she’s running from a life or death situation. She presses the down button with a quick, pecking movement, and the small arrow illuminates. Waiting. Waiting. With no time to spare, she heads for the stairs like a bat out of hell.
Racing down like Cinderella at midnight, Taft’s silver ballet flats are starting to slip off her feet. She reaches down to adjust them, takes a deep breath and heads into the Holiday Inn Ballroom. Not a minute to spare.
Introductions of the royalty have already begun. Taft scans the room for her group members, who promised to give her a winning introduction. Her group is nowhere to be found. “Is that everyone?” the DJ calls out through the microphone. Hesitantly, the flustered queen nominee steps forward. She looks around helplessly for a group member’s face in the crowd. Nothing. A friend from another group steps in.
After the introductions wrap up, it’s time for a little dancing before the winners are announced. Taft kicks off her shoes underneath a table and hits the dance floor. After a quick series of songs, the lights come on. The moment of truth has arrived.
The nominees line up. Taft is not selected, but it doesn’t bring her down. The lights dim and she’s back on the dance floor, laughing and smiling.
“It was a chaotic night,” she said, “Not at all what I expected. But I still had a great time.”
Lynn LeCluyse is a senior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class of the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- Adviser returns to school each summer
By Brooke Pritchett
For 11 years, teacher Susanne Gray has been coming to the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
And unlike most advisers, she signs up for classes right alongside the students. By now, she’s taken pretty much all of them.
“It helps me in that it reminds me what it takes to do quality journalism,” said Gray, who teaches at Wichita Southeast High School. “It’s nice to actually be around people who do what I do.”
Currently, she is taking photography for the second time.
“I’m still not a good photographer,” Gray said, laughing and smiling. “I enjoy photography because it’s very active”
One of her other most memorable years was her first. She had been signed up for the advisers’ section by Southeast’s previous adviser and loved the story she did on tattoos and body piercing places that year. She vividly remembers walking into one of the tattoo and piercing parlors. Music was playing.
Skin Heads Rule
I’m a tool.
The lyrics filled the air as she researched her story on the worker and an 18-year-old student who was getting the cartilage on her ears pierced. She really enjoyed doing the story, interviewing and writing.
Gray gets emotional when discussing her friend, Tim Janicke, whom she met that year. A regular instructor at the camp, Janicke hasn’t been able to come for the past two years since facing brain cancer.
Her worst year, she said, was in 2007. She was loving her new media class when she got a phone call. She picked up the phone to discover that her oldest child had just been rushed to the hospital by ambulance because of a severe asthma attack. That night was hard for Gray.
“I was just waiting to find out what was going on,” she said.
She hurried home and spent the next four days with her child in intensive care.
So far, she has only missed one year, after giving birth in 2001.
She plans to return.
“As long as I have students who want to come, I’ll be there with them” Gray said. “I just think that we’re really lucky to have a place like this in Kansas.”
Brooke Pritchett is a sophomore at Derby High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
For 11 years, teacher Susanne Gray has been coming to the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
And unlike most advisers, she signs up for classes right alongside the students. By now, she’s taken pretty much all of them.
“It helps me in that it reminds me what it takes to do quality journalism,” said Gray, who teaches at Wichita Southeast High School. “It’s nice to actually be around people who do what I do.”
Currently, she is taking photography for the second time.
“I’m still not a good photographer,” Gray said, laughing and smiling. “I enjoy photography because it’s very active”
One of her other most memorable years was her first. She had been signed up for the advisers’ section by Southeast’s previous adviser and loved the story she did on tattoos and body piercing places that year. She vividly remembers walking into one of the tattoo and piercing parlors. Music was playing.
Skin Heads Rule
I’m a tool.
The lyrics filled the air as she researched her story on the worker and an 18-year-old student who was getting the cartilage on her ears pierced. She really enjoyed doing the story, interviewing and writing.
Gray gets emotional when discussing her friend, Tim Janicke, whom she met that year. A regular instructor at the camp, Janicke hasn’t been able to come for the past two years since facing brain cancer.
Her worst year, she said, was in 2007. She was loving her new media class when she got a phone call. She picked up the phone to discover that her oldest child had just been rushed to the hospital by ambulance because of a severe asthma attack. That night was hard for Gray.
“I was just waiting to find out what was going on,” she said.
She hurried home and spent the next four days with her child in intensive care.
So far, she has only missed one year, after giving birth in 2001.
She plans to return.
“As long as I have students who want to come, I’ll be there with them” Gray said. “I just think that we’re really lucky to have a place like this in Kansas.”
Brooke Pritchett is a sophomore at Derby High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-Pool or school?
By Lynn LeCluyse
A curtain of clouds drapes the broad sky above the stone Kansas State University buildings. A peaceful breeze sweeps through the streets as high school students hurry from across the street and shuffle inside for classes.
It’s a July morning, the perfect weather for hanging out poolside. But the work must continue for the students at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
For these aspiring journalists, talk of ledes, editing tips and page designs edge out poolside dreams. Each person has different motivations for sacrificing valuable summer days, but these incentives all benefit one thing: student publications.
“This camp will get the staff excited,” senior Brianna Searles, from Manhattan High School, said. “That will help us encourage the student body to read the paper.”
For publication staffers passionate about what they do, giving up a small chunk of summer only seems natural.
“Our paper needed a redesign, so we’re here in order start the year off right,” Jordan Priddle, a senior at Manhattan High School, said. “I hope to leave with new layout ideas and writing techniques.”
But journalistic tips and tricks aren’t the only thing the K-State campers are leaving with. Irreplaceable memories and acquaintances will embed the minds of participants long after the awards have been distributed and the campers have diverged in different directions away from the quaint Manhattan college campus.
“The most memorable experience I’ve had a camp would definitely have to be the great race,” Danielle Valliere, a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School said. “Our instructor, Barbara Hollingsworth, had all the girls run down the hallway to determine our class queen.”
In the end, the consensus seems to be that summer freetime can wait — the publications come first.
“I came to this camp because my publication means a great deal to me,” said Nikki Koppers, a junior at Notre Dame de Sion High School. “My fellow staff members and I are more than willing to give up a small portion of our summer for the benefit of our publication. It’s turned out to be a really fun week.”
Lynn LeCluyse is a senior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
A curtain of clouds drapes the broad sky above the stone Kansas State University buildings. A peaceful breeze sweeps through the streets as high school students hurry from across the street and shuffle inside for classes.
It’s a July morning, the perfect weather for hanging out poolside. But the work must continue for the students at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
For these aspiring journalists, talk of ledes, editing tips and page designs edge out poolside dreams. Each person has different motivations for sacrificing valuable summer days, but these incentives all benefit one thing: student publications.
“This camp will get the staff excited,” senior Brianna Searles, from Manhattan High School, said. “That will help us encourage the student body to read the paper.”
For publication staffers passionate about what they do, giving up a small chunk of summer only seems natural.
“Our paper needed a redesign, so we’re here in order start the year off right,” Jordan Priddle, a senior at Manhattan High School, said. “I hope to leave with new layout ideas and writing techniques.”
But journalistic tips and tricks aren’t the only thing the K-State campers are leaving with. Irreplaceable memories and acquaintances will embed the minds of participants long after the awards have been distributed and the campers have diverged in different directions away from the quaint Manhattan college campus.
“The most memorable experience I’ve had a camp would definitely have to be the great race,” Danielle Valliere, a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School said. “Our instructor, Barbara Hollingsworth, had all the girls run down the hallway to determine our class queen.”
In the end, the consensus seems to be that summer freetime can wait — the publications come first.
“I came to this camp because my publication means a great deal to me,” said Nikki Koppers, a junior at Notre Dame de Sion High School. “My fellow staff members and I are more than willing to give up a small portion of our summer for the benefit of our publication. It’s turned out to be a really fun week.”
Lynn LeCluyse is a senior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-Coffee, coffee, FHPW students love their caffeine
By Danielle Valliere
Caribou Coffee offers a somewhat hectic scene in the early morning.
A long line forms. People anxiously sway side to side. They order.
A nearly indescribable look of satisfaction comes when the barista hands them their drinks over the counter, after a wait that was so worth it.
At Caribou Coffee, Flint Hills Publication Workshop students are thrown in with Kansas State University students and staff, all sharing the same mission: getting that caffeine.
“I’m not usually a coffee addict,” Kapaun Mt. Carmel student Bailey Buer said. “But I am here.”
Blue Valley Northwest student Conner Ahnen began her relationship with caffeine during elementary school. Pop was her first caffeine staple.
“As I got older, more homework was assigned, so caffeine became kind of necessary,” Ahnen said. “But pop was so sugary and I needed an extra kick of caffeine, so I turned to coffee.”
For years, her parents would drive her to obtain her brew. When she got her driver’s license, her coffee drinking increased.
“In the morning, I’ll always have it if it’s made,” Ahnen said. “If I don’t have it in the morning, I’ll have some in the afternoon or the evening. Pretty much any time I can find coffee, I’ll drink it.”
Ahnen was in the habit of drinking coffee about three or four days a week before coming to the FHPW.
“Now, I have a routine in the morning. Wake up. Go to the Union. Then Caribou Coffee to get my coffee,” Ahnen said. “It’s a daily thing here.”
Both Ahnen and Kapaun Mt. Carmel student Bailey Buer said they notice that they are more focused after drinking coffee in the morning.
“I’m on the Kedzie Krier and I know that I need to be able to really focus right after breakfast, as soon as I go to class,” Buer said. “Before coffee, I’m like ‘I don’t really care and don’t want to do this at all.’ After, I’m a lot more motivated and focused on what I am doing.”
Danielle Valliere is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Caribou Coffee offers a somewhat hectic scene in the early morning.
A long line forms. People anxiously sway side to side. They order.
A nearly indescribable look of satisfaction comes when the barista hands them their drinks over the counter, after a wait that was so worth it.
At Caribou Coffee, Flint Hills Publication Workshop students are thrown in with Kansas State University students and staff, all sharing the same mission: getting that caffeine.
“I’m not usually a coffee addict,” Kapaun Mt. Carmel student Bailey Buer said. “But I am here.”
Blue Valley Northwest student Conner Ahnen began her relationship with caffeine during elementary school. Pop was her first caffeine staple.
“As I got older, more homework was assigned, so caffeine became kind of necessary,” Ahnen said. “But pop was so sugary and I needed an extra kick of caffeine, so I turned to coffee.”
For years, her parents would drive her to obtain her brew. When she got her driver’s license, her coffee drinking increased.
“In the morning, I’ll always have it if it’s made,” Ahnen said. “If I don’t have it in the morning, I’ll have some in the afternoon or the evening. Pretty much any time I can find coffee, I’ll drink it.”
Ahnen was in the habit of drinking coffee about three or four days a week before coming to the FHPW.
“Now, I have a routine in the morning. Wake up. Go to the Union. Then Caribou Coffee to get my coffee,” Ahnen said. “It’s a daily thing here.”
Both Ahnen and Kapaun Mt. Carmel student Bailey Buer said they notice that they are more focused after drinking coffee in the morning.
“I’m on the Kedzie Krier and I know that I need to be able to really focus right after breakfast, as soon as I go to class,” Buer said. “Before coffee, I’m like ‘I don’t really care and don’t want to do this at all.’ After, I’m a lot more motivated and focused on what I am doing.”
Danielle Valliere is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-Life behind the lens
By Anne-Marie Albracht
A shaggy headed teen pops a kick-flip amidst the hustle and bustle of a standard New York City street.
Snap.
Two women smile triumphantly as they present a birthday cake lovingly coated in creamy vanilla frosting and topped with dozens of flickering candles.
Click.
A man aides his young son as he makes his first meager efforts to ride solo on a two-wheeler in front of a narrow, semi deserted alleyway.
Flash.
Cary Conover, Flint Hills Publication Workshop instructor, lives for these moments. And not only does he become part of them. He preserves them.
Armed with his 1970 Leica M4-P film camera he hits the streets of New York City everyday, ready to stop time and capture precious nanoseconds of daily life. Knowing what will make a good shot is instinctual, Conover said. He sees, he melds, he shoots. He blends in and becomes one with his work.
“When you see a good shot your whole body leaps and you just stretch to get that picture,” Conover said. “You have to have it.”
But there are all different kinds of picture-worthy scenes. Some, he said, are explosive and attention grabbing, while others capture those quiet graceful moments that you find yourself staring at forever. Conover doesn’t play favorites.
“I like shooting everything,” he explained. “Couples, romance, nightlife. Just the crazy, quirky things you only see in New York City.”
Dedicating your life to capturing the lives of others might make some lose touch with the person behind the camera, but Conover claims the opposite.
“I get to discover the world and things about myself,” Conover muses, “I look at pictures I’ve taken and each one tells me something about myself I might have never known. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the pictures they take.”
Conover’s dedication to his craft is one that has no hours, holidays or limits. It follows him everywhere, down alleyways, around deserted street corners and into the lives of others he will never know.
"There are some photographers who go out to get a picture," he explained, "and there are others, like me, who are laissez faire and go into real life and bring the camera regardless of whether or not they plan on using it."
Conover works not only for pay but for the love of the game. It is a lifelong sport in which he will always compete. The sign of true passion.
"There's the work you do for them and the work you do for yourself," Conover said. "It's fun to be paid to take a picture, but for me, photography is as much a way of life as it is a way of living."
Anne-Marie Albracht is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
A shaggy headed teen pops a kick-flip amidst the hustle and bustle of a standard New York City street.
Snap.
Two women smile triumphantly as they present a birthday cake lovingly coated in creamy vanilla frosting and topped with dozens of flickering candles.
Click.
A man aides his young son as he makes his first meager efforts to ride solo on a two-wheeler in front of a narrow, semi deserted alleyway.
Flash.
Cary Conover, Flint Hills Publication Workshop instructor, lives for these moments. And not only does he become part of them. He preserves them.
Armed with his 1970 Leica M4-P film camera he hits the streets of New York City everyday, ready to stop time and capture precious nanoseconds of daily life. Knowing what will make a good shot is instinctual, Conover said. He sees, he melds, he shoots. He blends in and becomes one with his work.
“When you see a good shot your whole body leaps and you just stretch to get that picture,” Conover said. “You have to have it.”
But there are all different kinds of picture-worthy scenes. Some, he said, are explosive and attention grabbing, while others capture those quiet graceful moments that you find yourself staring at forever. Conover doesn’t play favorites.
“I like shooting everything,” he explained. “Couples, romance, nightlife. Just the crazy, quirky things you only see in New York City.”
Dedicating your life to capturing the lives of others might make some lose touch with the person behind the camera, but Conover claims the opposite.
“I get to discover the world and things about myself,” Conover muses, “I look at pictures I’ve taken and each one tells me something about myself I might have never known. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the pictures they take.”
Conover’s dedication to his craft is one that has no hours, holidays or limits. It follows him everywhere, down alleyways, around deserted street corners and into the lives of others he will never know.
"There are some photographers who go out to get a picture," he explained, "and there are others, like me, who are laissez faire and go into real life and bring the camera regardless of whether or not they plan on using it."
Conover works not only for pay but for the love of the game. It is a lifelong sport in which he will always compete. The sign of true passion.
"There's the work you do for them and the work you do for yourself," Conover said. "It's fun to be paid to take a picture, but for me, photography is as much a way of life as it is a way of living."
Anne-Marie Albracht is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story- Where the wild writers are
By Nikki Koppers
After the longest session of the longest day, the campers groggily stumbled back to the Holiday Inn. It took them in and out of minutes and what felt like hours to finally arrive at the place where the journalists slept.
But the Advanced Writing class stayed after hours. They read. But they did not read Pulitzer Prize winning stories. They read a children’s book, “Where The Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak.
The class reverted back to their preschool days. They formed a circle. They sat criss-cross applesauce. A few laid on their stomachs. They giggled. They thought they were above this. They had graduated to chapter books a long time ago.
But their adviser, Barbara Hollingsworth, put her own twist on the picture book. In between each page she mentioned the many writing devices Sendak had worked into his children’s book.
“A forest grew and grew and grew, until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world.”
She paused.
“That’s my favorite line in the whole book. It really puts you in the story.”
The class listened more attentively after that. Every comment she made they could apply to their work. And all of this was in a children’s book.
She read on.
“They roared their terrible roars!”
“They gnashed their terrible teeth!”
"They rolled their terrible eyes!”
She looked up and faced her class.
“Do you guys see how he used repetition there?”
Heads nodded.
Some students laughed at how obvious these tricks had been used.
Hailey Lapin walked away with a new outlook on children’s literature.
“I totally agreed with Barbie,” she said. “Children’s authors have a gift. With only eight or nine words on a page they can tell a story. This book has taught me that being concise is better than being superfluous.”
When you read a book like this as a child, the seven words on the page transport you to another world. Why should it be any different today?
Nikki Koppers is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
After the longest session of the longest day, the campers groggily stumbled back to the Holiday Inn. It took them in and out of minutes and what felt like hours to finally arrive at the place where the journalists slept.
But the Advanced Writing class stayed after hours. They read. But they did not read Pulitzer Prize winning stories. They read a children’s book, “Where The Wild Things Are,” by Maurice Sendak.
The class reverted back to their preschool days. They formed a circle. They sat criss-cross applesauce. A few laid on their stomachs. They giggled. They thought they were above this. They had graduated to chapter books a long time ago.
But their adviser, Barbara Hollingsworth, put her own twist on the picture book. In between each page she mentioned the many writing devices Sendak had worked into his children’s book.
“A forest grew and grew and grew, until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world.”
She paused.
“That’s my favorite line in the whole book. It really puts you in the story.”
The class listened more attentively after that. Every comment she made they could apply to their work. And all of this was in a children’s book.
She read on.
“They roared their terrible roars!”
“They gnashed their terrible teeth!”
"They rolled their terrible eyes!”
She looked up and faced her class.
“Do you guys see how he used repetition there?”
Heads nodded.
Some students laughed at how obvious these tricks had been used.
Hailey Lapin walked away with a new outlook on children’s literature.
“I totally agreed with Barbie,” she said. “Children’s authors have a gift. With only eight or nine words on a page they can tell a story. This book has taught me that being concise is better than being superfluous.”
When you read a book like this as a child, the seven words on the page transport you to another world. Why should it be any different today?
Nikki Koppers is a junior at Notre Dame de Sion and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-Campaigning doesn't guarantee the crown
By Danielle Valliere
The race to royalty for Flint Hills Publication Workshoppers led to breathless sprints, computer trash-talking and shameless sidewalk promotions.
Revived for the 50th anniversary of the camp, the king and queen tradition had been out of practice since 1972. Workshop director Linda Puntney encouraged students to clench their class’ nominations before competing for the official title. Both the class elections and campaigns took interesting turns.
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Barbara Hollingsworth, instructor of the Advanced Newspaper Writing class, conducted a race for the queen title.
10 a.m. Monday: Ten girls took part in the race on the second floor of the K-State Student Union.
Anticipation ran high, as the rules for the race were set.
Whispers of “why can’t we just vote for queen?” and “I’m really afraid I’ll be knocked down” could be heard near the starting line. Regardless, the race was clean.
All were silent as Hollingsworth hollered “Go!”
With a thumping of bare feet, the runners took off.
After a short sprint, Notre Dame de Sion student Nikki Koppers was proclaimed queen.
Once the class had nominated its candidates, it made no joke of campaigning for them.
“Advanced writers laying down the gauntlet: our queen will outrun your queen candidate any day,” the class tweeted Monday. “Vote Nikki Koppers.”
In support of its king, McPherson High School student Caleb Chin,
it tweeted, “Caleb Chin (advanced writing) promises world peace if voted king.”
11 a.m. Tuesday: Election Day. Candidates took to the podium to campaign. Some speeches were single sentences, while others were much more involved.
“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be here. I’m from a small town, Wichita,” Kapaun Mt. Carmel photography student Marcella Brooks said, jokingly. “I mean, I came here to learn, not to be royalty.”
Diversity Discovery student Kerry Upsey justified his desire to be king simply.
“I wanna be king, because I’m like the greatest, you know,” Upsey said.
8:45 p.m. Tuesday: Advanced newspaper writing students campaigned with sidewalk chalk advertising — efforts that would prove futile come 11 p.m.
10 p.m. Tuesday: Now, to the dance. Classmates introduced candidates in many ways: one rap, one fabricated story, one catchy slogan, one flex of the arm muscles and multiple speeches.
Throughout the night, students checked their candidates’ progress in the election, which was determined through a “penny drive.”
11 p.m. Tuesday: Time for the results. Everyone crowded the dance floor, as Kapaun Mt. Carmel students Tom Wittler and Erika Reals swept the titles.
The pair danced to Jason Mraz’s “I’m yours,” while the other students swayed in tune around them.
Wittler attributed his win to the support of his fellow KMC students, who numbered 21.
“I feel really great,” Wittler said. “Words can’t express how I feel right now.”
For Wittler, the crown mainly means a comfortable place to sleep.
“There are three guys in my room, so one has to sleep on the floor,” he said. “I will no longer be sleeping on the floor. One of them can do it, because I’m boss now.
“Other than that, I plan to rule with dignity.”
Danielle Valliere is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
The race to royalty for Flint Hills Publication Workshoppers led to breathless sprints, computer trash-talking and shameless sidewalk promotions.
Revived for the 50th anniversary of the camp, the king and queen tradition had been out of practice since 1972. Workshop director Linda Puntney encouraged students to clench their class’ nominations before competing for the official title. Both the class elections and campaigns took interesting turns.
javascript:void(0)
Barbara Hollingsworth, instructor of the Advanced Newspaper Writing class, conducted a race for the queen title.
10 a.m. Monday: Ten girls took part in the race on the second floor of the K-State Student Union.
Anticipation ran high, as the rules for the race were set.
Whispers of “why can’t we just vote for queen?” and “I’m really afraid I’ll be knocked down” could be heard near the starting line. Regardless, the race was clean.
All were silent as Hollingsworth hollered “Go!”
With a thumping of bare feet, the runners took off.
After a short sprint, Notre Dame de Sion student Nikki Koppers was proclaimed queen.
Once the class had nominated its candidates, it made no joke of campaigning for them.
“Advanced writers laying down the gauntlet: our queen will outrun your queen candidate any day,” the class tweeted Monday. “Vote Nikki Koppers.”
In support of its king, McPherson High School student Caleb Chin,
it tweeted, “Caleb Chin (advanced writing) promises world peace if voted king.”
11 a.m. Tuesday: Election Day. Candidates took to the podium to campaign. Some speeches were single sentences, while others were much more involved.
“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be here. I’m from a small town, Wichita,” Kapaun Mt. Carmel photography student Marcella Brooks said, jokingly. “I mean, I came here to learn, not to be royalty.”
Diversity Discovery student Kerry Upsey justified his desire to be king simply.
“I wanna be king, because I’m like the greatest, you know,” Upsey said.
8:45 p.m. Tuesday: Advanced newspaper writing students campaigned with sidewalk chalk advertising — efforts that would prove futile come 11 p.m.
10 p.m. Tuesday: Now, to the dance. Classmates introduced candidates in many ways: one rap, one fabricated story, one catchy slogan, one flex of the arm muscles and multiple speeches.
Throughout the night, students checked their candidates’ progress in the election, which was determined through a “penny drive.”
11 p.m. Tuesday: Time for the results. Everyone crowded the dance floor, as Kapaun Mt. Carmel students Tom Wittler and Erika Reals swept the titles.
The pair danced to Jason Mraz’s “I’m yours,” while the other students swayed in tune around them.
Wittler attributed his win to the support of his fellow KMC students, who numbered 21.
“I feel really great,” Wittler said. “Words can’t express how I feel right now.”
For Wittler, the crown mainly means a comfortable place to sleep.
“There are three guys in my room, so one has to sleep on the floor,” he said. “I will no longer be sleeping on the floor. One of them can do it, because I’m boss now.
“Other than that, I plan to rule with dignity.”
Danielle Valliere is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student story-So you think you can't dance
By Meredith Osborne
As my roommates and I were getting into the elevator, we were thinking of what could be going on at the dance.
“What if like, two people just met at the dance and fell in love and got married?”
“I hope they play good music.”
“We better not be overdressed.”
When the elevator doors opened to floor G, most of our questions had been answered. (The first has yet to be determined.) Loud, rap music pulsed through the ballroom doors and girls in dresses scuttled through the entryway. The Flint Hills Publication Workshop dance was in full swing.
We were instantly greeted by cups bearing the faces of our king and queen hopefuls. We charged through the room, ready to survey the dance floor. Empty.
The crowd was enjoying a the common spectator sport known as “empty dance floor gazing.” This sport takes place at most high school dances, within the first 15 minutes of the doors opening. Everyone uncomfortably stares at the dance floor and wishes they had the courage to dance. Practice moves are seen in the corner. The crowd’s gaze never falters until someone is brave enough to break the ice.
In this case, it was a group of girls from Notre Dame de Sion. Giggling and holding hands, they screamed onto the dance floor, abandoning any sense of pretentiousness.
The Sion presence had a ripple effect. They let everyone know that at camp we could both memorize journalism’s style rules and dance to “Thriller.” By “we,” I meant everyone but myself, of course.
Do I know how to dance? Yes. Do I like to dance in my room, looking at myself in the mirror and performing various acrobatics that could in no way qualify as one specific move, only a series of seizures? Maybe.
When it comes to group dances, I seem to only know one move. Some may be familiar with the “bend and snap” from Legally Blonde, however, my signature move is something I like to call the “bend and clap.” I bend my knees. While clapping my hands. Did you get that? In unison.
Finally, my friends convinced me hit the floor. I tried some other moves. Point at the ceiling. Point at the people I was dancing with while randomly shaking my hips. I saw a camera flash and realized I could be photographed doing this accusatory move. Dejected, I walked away from the scene.
Every time I thought I could give dancing another try, I would remember my previous failure, walk back to a table and sit by myself.
I will forever remember those fearless girls who jumped on the dance floor first. If you are reading this right now, how about lessons?
Meredith Osborne is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
As my roommates and I were getting into the elevator, we were thinking of what could be going on at the dance.
“What if like, two people just met at the dance and fell in love and got married?”
“I hope they play good music.”
“We better not be overdressed.”
When the elevator doors opened to floor G, most of our questions had been answered. (The first has yet to be determined.) Loud, rap music pulsed through the ballroom doors and girls in dresses scuttled through the entryway. The Flint Hills Publication Workshop dance was in full swing.
We were instantly greeted by cups bearing the faces of our king and queen hopefuls. We charged through the room, ready to survey the dance floor. Empty.
The crowd was enjoying a the common spectator sport known as “empty dance floor gazing.” This sport takes place at most high school dances, within the first 15 minutes of the doors opening. Everyone uncomfortably stares at the dance floor and wishes they had the courage to dance. Practice moves are seen in the corner. The crowd’s gaze never falters until someone is brave enough to break the ice.
In this case, it was a group of girls from Notre Dame de Sion. Giggling and holding hands, they screamed onto the dance floor, abandoning any sense of pretentiousness.
The Sion presence had a ripple effect. They let everyone know that at camp we could both memorize journalism’s style rules and dance to “Thriller.” By “we,” I meant everyone but myself, of course.
Do I know how to dance? Yes. Do I like to dance in my room, looking at myself in the mirror and performing various acrobatics that could in no way qualify as one specific move, only a series of seizures? Maybe.
When it comes to group dances, I seem to only know one move. Some may be familiar with the “bend and snap” from Legally Blonde, however, my signature move is something I like to call the “bend and clap.” I bend my knees. While clapping my hands. Did you get that? In unison.
Finally, my friends convinced me hit the floor. I tried some other moves. Point at the ceiling. Point at the people I was dancing with while randomly shaking my hips. I saw a camera flash and realized I could be photographed doing this accusatory move. Dejected, I walked away from the scene.
Every time I thought I could give dancing another try, I would remember my previous failure, walk back to a table and sit by myself.
I will forever remember those fearless girls who jumped on the dance floor first. If you are reading this right now, how about lessons?
Meredith Osborne is a senior at Kapaun Mt. Carmel High School and a student in the advanced writing class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Student column- Embedded reporter details sleep troubles
By Caleb Chin
Guys don’t like sharing things with each other. Especially with guys we don’t know.
Especially a bed.
Maybe it’s developed over time from society standards. Maybe it’s innate. Whatever. We just don’t. This is a gender so obsessed with our own personal territory that we become paranoid if someone gets too close at the urinals.
So I wasn’t too happy when I found out that there’d only be two beds for four guys, — two of whom I don’t know at all and the third I know as a weak acquaintance. The situation wouldn’t be nearly as bad if I knew any of them as a good friend, where there was an established history and background.
It’s not like I hate meeting new people. But the awkward level goes off the charts when your first day of meeting someone new ends with sleeping in the same bed. As far as I know, none of us are prostitutes.
And our room isn’t the only one with a bedding predicament. To see who gets their own bed and who gets the floor, some guys are operating by the first come, first serve rule, while others adhere to the tried and true system of drawing straws. If it worked for the Freedom crew in “Armageddon,” it’ll work for three high schoolers.
And one unfortunate guy is getting the short end of the straw every night in a room with two other older campers who require him to change beds every night. That must feel prostitute-y.
Our room is still trying to figure out what we’re doing. The general idea is to never share a bed. Two guys are always on the floor. Two very, very, unhappy guys.
But the more I think about it, the more I can’t help but wonder why guys are so uncomfortable with sharing a bed with each other.
Gender has become such a big deal in our society that we spend all this time and effort emphasizing our sex. And because societal movements and technological advancements have opened the doors for transsexuals, homosexuals and cross dressers, people feel more desperate to assert their straight sexual identity.
To tell the truth, I don’t really like thinking about it too much. I don’t like falling into the approved, learned patterns of masculinity. It just seems too indoctrinated.
That said. I’ll be happy to have the bed to myself tonight.
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writers class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
Guys don’t like sharing things with each other. Especially with guys we don’t know.
Especially a bed.
Maybe it’s developed over time from society standards. Maybe it’s innate. Whatever. We just don’t. This is a gender so obsessed with our own personal territory that we become paranoid if someone gets too close at the urinals.
So I wasn’t too happy when I found out that there’d only be two beds for four guys, — two of whom I don’t know at all and the third I know as a weak acquaintance. The situation wouldn’t be nearly as bad if I knew any of them as a good friend, where there was an established history and background.
It’s not like I hate meeting new people. But the awkward level goes off the charts when your first day of meeting someone new ends with sleeping in the same bed. As far as I know, none of us are prostitutes.
And our room isn’t the only one with a bedding predicament. To see who gets their own bed and who gets the floor, some guys are operating by the first come, first serve rule, while others adhere to the tried and true system of drawing straws. If it worked for the Freedom crew in “Armageddon,” it’ll work for three high schoolers.
And one unfortunate guy is getting the short end of the straw every night in a room with two other older campers who require him to change beds every night. That must feel prostitute-y.
Our room is still trying to figure out what we’re doing. The general idea is to never share a bed. Two guys are always on the floor. Two very, very, unhappy guys.
But the more I think about it, the more I can’t help but wonder why guys are so uncomfortable with sharing a bed with each other.
Gender has become such a big deal in our society that we spend all this time and effort emphasizing our sex. And because societal movements and technological advancements have opened the doors for transsexuals, homosexuals and cross dressers, people feel more desperate to assert their straight sexual identity.
To tell the truth, I don’t really like thinking about it too much. I don’t like falling into the approved, learned patterns of masculinity. It just seems too indoctrinated.
That said. I’ll be happy to have the bed to myself tonight.
Caleb Chin is a senior at McPherson High School and a student in the advanced writers class at the Flint Hills Publication Workshop.
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