Eddie Ifft

Higher Learning

Recently a friend from England was in Pittsburgh and found himself at the University. I laughed as he marveled at the height of the Cathedral of Learning. Why he found it strange that one could be educated nearly at cloud level was beyond me. Then I remembered that when I was a Pitt freshman my education never ventured much higher than the Nationality Rooms. That was by choice. I had visions of elevator cables snapping, power failures, and depletion of oxygen in small spaces.

I know these fears are irrational. I even read books on how to kick my phobia. The consensus was I needed to confront my fears, but scheduling low-altitude classes was less stressful.

That worked fine until the day before my political science final exam. I showed up at the second-floor classroom only to find a sign stating that the class had been moved to the 42nd floor.

I hit the stairs. By the time I reached my class, I felt, looked, and smelled like I’d just come from an intramural basketball game at Trees Hall. The next day was the final, scheduled to take place in the same skyscraper classroom. My moment of truth had come. I figured I had a better chance of having a heart attack from running up 42 flights of stairs than from claustrophobia in an elevator. When the doors opened, I got on, and have ridden elevators ever since.

My friend didn’t want to hear about how I beat my phobia. He was too excited talking about the view from the top of the Cathedral. I wouldn’t know. I never looked out the classroom window; I have a terrible fear of heights.
—Eddie Ifft (CGS ’94) is a comedian who has appeared on Comedy Central. He lives in New York City.

Behind the Lines

It wasn’t her first stop. But it was the place Julie Orr remembers best, along with the town of rutted streets and a couple of grocery stores. There in Petersfield, Jamaica, was a one-room library, not much bigger than a living room. Orr, a senior sociology major, was among a dozen Pitt students who went to Jamaica last summer to help clean up trash, paint over graffiti in the town square, and do other jobs. Students received course credit for their work, sponsored by the University’s Amizade Global Service-Learning Center.

What makes the memory of the library stick is how few books it had, only 150. "I was looking on the shelves; I didn’t see much for kids," she says.

Several months later, back in Pittsburgh, junior English literature major Emily Beyer was having similar worries about limited resources. She had just finished her first couple months as a Jumpstart Pittsburgh tutor, where she reads to preschoolers, hoping to spark a lifelong interest in reading. Jumpstart recruits and trains college students to work in early childhood education.

Why all the fuss about reading" Research shows that children who read well in the early grades are more successful during their later years of schooling.

Beyer worried that her preschoolers were getting attached to certain books simply because there weren’t enough choices. As a child, she became attached to mysteries until her parents introduced her to other genres, she says. Beyer, who plans to become a teacher like her mother and father, wanted to expand her pupils’ interest in books, just like her parents once did for her.

As a result, she—like many of the Amizade volunteers—became involved in a University book drive. Collection boxes were distributed at 11 locations around campus. "We did pretty well," says Beyer, who helped pick up the donated books. The drive netted about 1,000 books. They will be donated to America Reads-Pittsburgh, Jumpstart Pittsburgh, and the library in Petersfield, Jamaica, which will have its holdings tripled overnight.
—Kris B. Mamula

After-Hours Club

It’s finals week and the hottest spot on campus is Pitt’s Hillman Library, more affectionately known as Club Hillman. This nightspot is open 24 hours a day for two special weeks a year. Normally, the library is open only until 2 a.m.

At Club Hillman during finals, coffee replaces the usual late-night choice of drink for students, and the identification needed isn’t proof of age but a Pitt I.D., which is scrupulously inspected by Club Hillman’s bouncer, the night guard, at the ground-floor entrance.

Deep into the night, every table remains filled, and every computer is occupied. Anxiety seems to permeate the stacks as students are, no doubt, nightdreaming of that perfect grade-point average when their minds wander from the books in front of them.

As the early a.m. hours progress at Club Hillman, loud chatter by the ultimate procrastinators competes with the shushes from those who have passed their fail-safe time for buckling down.

The mini café in the Cup and Chaucer reading room on the ground floor offers a peaceful escape from the grind for some; for others, it’s just a pit stop to fuel up for more cramming.

When the darkness gives way to daylight, the procrastinators-turned-studious trickle from the library—weary, yet somehow rejuvenated. Few can be seen doing any last-second cramming on the walk to their finals. They’re ready.
—Ellenmarie Agnew

Bruce Dobler

Stone Unturned

As an associate professor of English at Pitt, Bruce Dobler seems like a good person to talk to when it comes to writing books. After all, in a span of just four years at the beginning of his career, he published two novels and a biography. But after some promising literary reviews and a fruitless string of movie offers, his literary recognition faded. He continued writing and began teaching but hasn’t had another book published for 28 years. 

I ponder that while watching the documentary Stone Reader in one of Pittsburgh’s few remaining non-chain movie theaters. The filmmaker, Mark Moskowitz, made this nationally acclaimed movie after reading a novel called Stones of Summer, published in 1972, but out of print for more than 20 years. Moskowitz considered it a classic; he was shocked to learn that the author, Dow Mossman, had disappeared from the literary community. The movie, which won two prizes at the Sundance Film Festival, chronicles Moskowitz’s on-the-road trek to find the forgotten writer.

An hour or so into the film, I glance down at what’s left of my popcorn and take another handful. When I look up, I see Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill pharmacy streaking by on-screen. Then, a video store on Murray Avenue. I want an explanation and get one: The narrator says, "I came to the last name on the list—Bruce Dobler, University of Pittsburgh."

Am I dreaming" No. There he is! On the big screen! A true pro, talking literature, saying something like this: "Exceptional talent often goes unnoticed. Apparently, I attended the University of Iowa Writer’s Conference with Mossman — who sounds like a lost, gifted author — yet I was unaware of his existence until now." Then, he adds wryly, "Who is he again?"

As I watch Dobler speak on camera, part of me wants to stand up and cheer. Since the spring of 1979, Dobler has taught creative nonfiction writing courses at Pitt. And because English writing is part of my major, I’ve had Dobler for more than one class. I find him one of the most approachable writing professors on campus. Now, for five minutes at least, my professor is a literary giant.

The next day, I visit Dobler in his Cathedral office. I ask him about Stone Reader. He says, "Yeah, [that film has] really opened doors for me. Because of it, I’ve found an agent, I’m shopping [my new book] around again ". Things are looking up."

I think for a moment. Perhaps my professor will be the next Dow Mossman, who was ultimately rediscovered by Moskowitz and whose book is back in print, thanks to the documentary. "This could be the year of Bruce Dobler," I say. "The great, lost, finally rediscovered author."

Dobler nods his head. "I hope so," he says.

I hope so, too.
—Matthew Stroud (CAS ’04)

Pay It Forward

Dan Kettering is nervous. The walk from the National Student Partnership office in downtown Pittsburgh to Miryam’s Women’s Shelter only takes a few minutes, but worry can tug at your sleeve like an insistent child, and, for Kettering, it always does for what he is about to do.

As a volunteer coleader of the local NSP, Kettering— who is a University of Pittsburgh senior pre-law student— has represented NSP at shelters before. Still, he always wonders: How do you strike the balance between convincing and misleading"

He reaches the shelter and heads to the dining area, where women sit chatting at round tables. Their lunches have been cleared. He greets them and then launches into his spiel about NSP, a student organization that aims to help Americans in need find employment and become self-sufficient.

Down the street are offices manned by student volunteers, who can help you with, well, whatever you need help with. We can help you find a job or an apartment. We can teach you interviewing skills, resume-building. How to find medical insurance. Childcare. That’s what we do. Teach a man to fish.

It sounds great, and that is what worries Kettering; he isn’t promising a future, just a road map. He knows that when NSP succeeds, it’s those in need who do most of the work. The students just help navigate the process—the research, the red tape, the Internet.

And they learn, along with the people they help. Kettering, through his volunteering, knows how to help those in need, like the women at Miryam’s. It has been so rewarding for him that he plans to work on pro-bono cases once he is practicing law. He believes in a web of interdependence, that the fate of one person affects us all. "Everyone is connected," he says.

And so here he is at Miryam’s, concerned about presenting NSP fairly, wondering if any of these women will show up at the office, if his visit will make any difference. He has no way of knowing, of course, when one woman approaches him after his talk, that she’ll have a new life four months from now—a home, a job, college classes. "I’ve got big plans," she says to him. He doesn’t know if he can help her meet them. But he believes in that web, and maybe he’s right. After all, it’s through her success that he’ll be able to look back and realize his own.
—Heather McEntarfer

Story Time

She pours the totem pieces from a cloth bag onto a long, white table in a Posvar Hall classroom. Pieces of plastic and wood lay in a jumble. Their shapes mingle. Some are flat, some more rounded, some dark, some painted. The pieces have the aura of ancient bone fragments. "Come closer," she says. "Fill in the space in front of me."

Five or six of us move closer, sliding into chairs nearer to Vernell Lillie, founder and artistic director of Pitt’s Kuntu Repertory Theatre. Kuntu, Pittsburgh’s oldest and largest Black theater group, has produced more than 80 plays on campus by many acclaimed playwrights. An early Kuntu member was Pulitzer-Prize-winner August Wilson as was playwright-in-residence Rob Penny.

Twelve people have gathered in the bright classroom to audition for Buffalo Soldiers Plus One. The play offers a story about the all-Black cavalry units recruited after the Civil War to quell Native Americans on the Western frontier. This will be Kuntu’s first production of the spring semester. The audition, open to Pitt students and the community, has attracted a group that reflects a mix of colors, ages, and acting experience.

Lillie, an associate professor of Africana Studies in the School of Arts and Sciences, holds one of the totem pieces in her hand as she talks about the play, which she authored. She asks us to pick up a totem piece. "Tell me a story," she says to a seemingly shy Black man with a youthful face. Others in the room look around. What’s she up to" What kind of audition is this" We clutch our totem pieces. "Tell me a story," she repeats softly to the man. He rises, tentatively, from his chair. He tells the story of how he arrived in this Posvar Hall classroom.

She looks at the next face. "Now, tell me a story," she says. And so we do, one by one, holding our individual totem pieces in a kind of rite of passage. One woman cries as she talks about the day’s events, marking the marriage anniversary of her deceased parents. Another man talks about his niece, who encouraged him to audition, though he has never acted. As the evening unfolds, there are stories of sibling rivalry, teenage angst, adoption, near-death, a parent’s love.

With a simple bag of totem pieces, Lillie uncloaks emotions and connections that can be used in service to her tale about the Buffalo soldiers, ultimately an affirmation of common bonds and shared humanity.

"Come closer," she says. "Tell me a story."
—Cindy Gill

Alley Fight

	Sam Scheinman, DIY’s Brian Nave, Ben McMillen, team captain Mark Smorul and “Ballmonger”

The DIY—Do It Yourself Network cameraman points his lens at the Pitt students and gives them a thumbs- up. They jump up and down, excited. Now the shooter gives them a thumbs-down. They do their best to look dejected.

Inside the warehouse-size television studio in Knoxville, Tenn., are Ben McMillen, an electrical engineering graduate student, and seniors Sam Scheinman, a physics major, and Mark Smorul, a computer engineering major. They are competing against a team from Tennessee Tech University in an episode of Robot Rivals on DIY.

The cameraman shadowed the trio as they designed and constructed their robot, stopping them to catch close-ups or asking them to redo actions that he missed. When the three-minute competition begins, the cameraman will keep a wide shot of the two teams; thus, the bit of acting became necessary to capture "reaction shots."

The longtime robotics hobbyists and members of Pitt’s Robotics Club arrived in Knoxville with the requisite knowledge needed to build whatever was asked of them by DIY. During the first challenge, the team had eight hours to build a robot that could bowl. The show’s producers had given them prior notice of the robot’s task, so Scheinman had holed himself up in Benedum Hall’s computer lab to draw up preliminary plans for a mechanical kingpin. "I spent eight hours learning the software and six hours CAD-ing up the design," Scheinman says.

In the studio, the team gives birth to "Ballmonger," a robot that works like a softball pitching machine, with two wheels to push the bowling ball forward.

For the match, the studio is transformed into a bowling alley. Each team has three minutes to knock down as many bowling pins as possible; the winner moves to the next round. As the camera rolls, Scheinman keeps helping Ballmonger with his approach. So, Scheinman can’t focus on the other end of the lane. "I had no idea how [Ballmonger] was doing at all, except after one turn I heard someone yell, ‘Strike!’"

To find out Ballmonger’s final score, tune into the "Bowling Robot" episodes of Robot Rivals, airing in April on DIY.
—Amy Sousa