Omnibus

By Meredith Radford

Every Monday and Tuesday, two best friends cook together in a rented-out kitchen, in an otherwise empty building, preparing fresh and locally sourced meals for their Chapel Hill customers.

Cordon McGee and Lizzie Jacobs started Goodness Cooks at the end of 2019, making healthy, feel-good food for customers to pick up and enjoy at home. They’ve known each other since 2014 and were nutritionists and holistic chefs for many years prior. A love for food, health and cooking brought them together.

“It’s quite a journey to go on as friends to create a business together, and I think we’re doing a pretty good job of it,” Jacobs said.

They are both self-taught, learning first from cooking for their families and helping heal their own health issues, like food allergies. After years of cooking separately, they decided to come together and start a business to spread their love of food to their customers. 

“We’re passionate and driven in that way too because we know that the foods you eat affects everything – mental, physical, emotional health,” Jacobs said.

After starting in December 2019, their business was built during the pandemic. But they were perfect for it. They created their business around the idea of customers taking their food home and enjoying it on their own time, not in a traditional restaurant.

They started at Midway Community Kitchen, but after it closed they had to find a new, more permanent home. That brought them to Blue Dogwood Public Market in June.

A community of cooks

Blue Dogwood is a public market, meaning it rents out vendor and kitchen space to businesses. Prior to COVID-19 shutdowns, it was an indoor community space. After the pandemic began, it transitioned to takeout and outdoor dining only. 

Doug Bright, a Blue Dogwood project manager, began working with the market in April. He said Blue Dogwood’s thoughtful pandemic plan made him feel confident working there, despite the general uncertainty as to how restaurants would operate safely at that time.

“The people that I live with are really kind of COVID conscious, so I wanted to make sure that I didn’t have to be in a place that was acting irresponsibly,” Bright said.

Although Blue Dogwood is historically an in-person marketplace, Bright said, COVID-19 caused it to shift to more of a commissary kitchen model, where it brings in businesses that are focused on takeout. 

The three permanent vendors, Big Belly Que, Rumi Persian Cafe and Vegan Flava Cafe, have also been able to stay at the market during the pandemic. 

Piedmont Pennies is a new addition. Founded by Kenan-Flagler Business School MBA candidate Becca Jordan Wright, Piedmont Pennies launched in August and has been at Blue Dogwood since September, using their kitchen to bake the cheesy, straw-like snacks.

“I came across Blue Dogwood because it’s a convenient location and also I like the idea of being with other food vendors and food stalls and just learning from them and kind of having a community within the space,” Wright said. 

Wright works in the kitchen at nights a couple of days a week, adding to the multifaceted nature of Blue Dogwood’s space. She said that although starting a business during the pandemic made her nervous, she knew that her Pennies could bring smiles to people during this uncertainty.

Similarly, Goodness Cooks doesn’t have a restaurant space – they only need the kitchen. This has helped them avoid the hardship of dealing with closings and capacity limitations due to the pandemic.

“We’re almost sort of like tunneling under all of that fluctuation,” McGee said. “In a way, we’re not as affected by it.” 

The only change the business had to make was temporarily ending its Eco Program, which involves packaging customers’ food in reusable glass jars. 

The health department has since let them bring the program back. 

They also don’t have to worry much about food waste, like a normal restaurant might, because they only buy ingredients for the orders they have each week.

Their promise of gluten- and dairy-free meals and locally sourced, organic ingredients has attracted a loyal base of customers who rely on them for meals.

“And that’s what we want,” Jacobs said. “To see people resting back a little bit in the week knowing that, OK, I’ve got a really busy week ahead, but Goodness Cooks is going to come and nourish me for these three days, so I’ve got that covered.”

Intentional culinary creations

Every week, McGee and Jacobs think carefully about the menu items they put together for their customers. During the week of the election, they put extra thought toward comfort and familiarity. 

“We’re starting with roasted potatoes and rosemary, just something like, so kind of comforting and grounding and homey,” Jacobs said. “Everyone loves roasted potatoes.”

They included the customer favorite oven-baked thyme, lemon and garlic chicken dish, easily-digestible soups and pumpkin bread. They always include one soup dish on their menu, but they added another after McGee got a text from her mom asking them to include something extra comforting for customers to reach for during a stressful time. 

As another comfort, they added a chai latte to the menu, “spiked” with reishi mushroom, which Jacobs said helps with sleep. 

For McGee and Jacobs, the act of cooking is a special part of the process. Hovering over each product as if it’s their child, the pair work carefully to make sure every dish they create is perfect.

“Every time that I cook or handle a vegetable, I am absolutely blown away by the power of taste and the variety of taste and how nourishment feels,” Jacobs said. “And that brings me a lot of joy, creating and knowing that the food is going to be reached to a wide variety of people, and they’re going to be nourished by these ingredients that comes from, a lot of it coming from North Carolina soil, and farmers that we know.”

Because Blue Dogwood is closed to the public on Mondays and Tuesdays, Goodness Cooks are the only ones there, leaving plenty of socially distanced space for them to prepare meals.

On Mondays and Tuesdays, one employee helps McGee and Jacobs cook while McGee’s mom helps package the meals. Then on Tuesday evenings, customers arrive in the parking lot for the best friend chefs to carefully place the meals in their trunks. Later, another employee helps clean up. 

When McGee and Jacobs finish cooking, they compost their food scraps and take it to their friend, who has a large garden, every week.

“Knowing that all that waste, all that food waste, is going to be turned into a rich compost to then create more vegetables is such a wonderful feeling,” Jacobs said.

Edited by Anne Tate

By Maeve Sheehey

Fourth-grader Isabel Trumbull wracked her brain for a word that began with the prefix, trans. She was with her reading tutor, playing a game where all the kids had to come up with a different word. One of her classmates had already said “transform” and another said “transportation,” so Isabel said the first thing she could think of: 

“Transvestite.” 

Her tutor looked uncomfortable. “Um, can you think of another?” she asked. 

“Transsexual?” Isabel asked. 

“OK, let’s give it one more shot,” the tutor said. 

Isabel heard her mom laughing in the waiting room and wondered what she did wrong. Uncertainly, she tried out the last word she could think of: “Transylvania?” 

Anyone who’s seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” would recognize the grouping of these words from the song, “Sweet Transvestite,” performed by Tim Curry in the original 1975 film. In a normal year, before the pandemic, people would dress up in fishnet stockings and corsets to celebrate the cult classic on Halloween night. For Isabel, now a UNC alumna, the tradition began before she was even old enough to be allowed out that late. 

She remembers sitting on her family’s old green couch to watch the movie when she was about four years old. In fact, it’s the first movie she remembers ever watching. Despite the ample sexual content, the bulk of it was innuendo that went over her head — besides, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen while selling lemonade at the gay pride parade in Boystown, Chicago.  

“The men in lingerie were more covered up than the assless chaps that were at pride parade every summer,” she said. 

Isabel’s introduction to “Rocky Horror” is not the norm, she’s quick to say, though her enthusiasm for the movie is shared by many. Most fans of the cult classic find it later in life, when they’re old enough to attend the raucous Halloween showings. One such spectacle happens each year at the Varsity Theatre in Chapel Hill, with a shadow cast performance — where actors put on the show right in front of the movie screen — by UNC’s Pauper Players. 

A horde of students traditionally mobs the area outside the Varsity before it opens, costumes including lingerie, wigs, suspenders and a general lack of clothing. This year on Halloween, the Varsity sat desolate, as it has since March due to the Covid-19 pandemic. 

UNC students were left without an outlet for their fishnet stockings, and the Pauper Players canceled its 2020 production — but that doesn’t mean “Rocky Horror” went unrecognized. Through home productions, virtual commemorations and personal viewings, the “Rocky” spirit lived on in Chapel Hill this Halloween. 

Finding acceptance through art. 

For UNC senior Kathryn Brown, “Rocky Horror” has been part of life since she was cast in the Pauper Players production her first year in college. She played Dr. Frank-N-Furter, arguably the most iconic role in the film. And though Dr. Frank is typically the least clothed person on the stage, Kathryn said she was the most — that is, at the beginning of the show. 

Kathryn stripped off layers with each song when she felt comfortable. As a plus-sized woman, she didn’t always feel like she could be seen as sexy in the entertainment industry, a world that almost exclusively values a size zero. But during that last number, “Science Fiction/Double Feature,” she stared down the audience, scantily clad, and felt safe in her body for the first time while onstage. 

For Kathryn, “Rocky Horror” is about acceptance — body acceptance, queer acceptance and the acceptance of all things weird. 

“It’s all about communion,” she said. “Like, not in a crisp, Catholic sense — but communion in this merging of energies, this sharing in a safe space, in expressing yourself and loving yourself and loving the people you’re around.” 

A new take on a UNC tradition. 

Even though the pandemic foiled Kathryn’s plans of being involved in a “Rocky Horror” production this year, she wasn’t ready to give up the tradition. That’s why she and her housemates, also self-described theater nerds, projected the movie on the side of their house and dressed up for the occasion. 

Though Kathryn wanted to reprise her role as Dr. Frank, a housemate thought she deserved a turn in the corset — and “Rocky Horror” is, first and foremost, about everyone getting a chance to be whoever they want for a night. And so, Kathryn utilized her already-hot-pink hair to dress up as Magenta, instead.

Though members of the UNC Pauper Players could not take the stage at the Varsity to act out “Rocky Horror” on Halloween night, the student theater company couldn’t let the holiday pass with no mention of the movie. So, the group put together a music video, featuring former cast members of all different graduating classes — not just current UNC students. 

The video was set to “Time Warp,” one of the most well-known “Rocky Horror” songs. Members dressed up in makeshift costumes and danced around their houses to the directions in the movie: a jump  to the left, a step to the right, hands on the hips, knees in and, of course, a pelvic thrust. 

Pauper Players Executive Director Maria Cade is used to an interactive show that draws the audience to call out lines at the screen and put newspapers on their heads when it rains in the movie. 

“It’s truly like nothing I’ve ever experienced before in any other form of theater,” she said. 

Even though this year wasn’t quite the same, Maria was glad the company got to celebrate the message of self-acceptance and expression that lies in the movie. After all, she said, it is a “Chapel Hill staple.” 

A celebration of self amid a pandemic. 

Despite early exposure to the movie in Chicago, Isabel saw her first live production of “Rocky Horror” in Chapel Hill. She’d always wanted to go growing up, but there was a curfew for kids out after 11 p.m. on weekends. Plus, as she says, it isn’t the kind of thing you want to go to with your parents — even cool, pro-”Rocky” parents like hers. 

So, her first year of college, she lined up outside the theater on a cold October night, dressed as Rocky in gold shorts and Doc Martens and painted-on abs. She knew the movie, her favorite of all time, well enough to quote it. But there was nothing like seeing it in a community for the first time. 

To celebrate in 2020, Isabel pulled out the gold shorts to wear for the first time since that October night, even though her body “freshman year of college after being a varsity athlete for four years is very different than being in the workforce for a year in quarantine.” 

Dressed as Rocky once again, Isabel sat in her living room and put the movie on. It wasn’t a shadow cast, but she still knew all the lines to shout at the screen. Watching “Rocky Horror” on her own wasn’t the full experience, but it brought her back to throwing toast at the screen in a crowded theater in college, and cuddling up with her parents to watch for the first time at age four. 

“Rocky Horror” is about community for Isabel, and acceptance for Kathryn, and self-expression for Maria. But really, for all of them, it’s about a night of celebrating and being themselves. 

They weren’t going to let the pandemic stop them from celebrating the cult classic that means so much to them. And until live showings of “Rocky Horror” can resume again, they’ll be waiting in antici… pation. 

Edited by Makenna Smith

By Blake Weaver

For four UNC students, their apartment looks relatively similar to what one might expect. A fridge full of Natural Light beer and leftover pizza; textbooks and medical journals on the living room table; and a box of CDC-approved N95 masks and a bottle of hand sanitizer by the door.

Wyatt Cox, Andrew Fregenal, Nick Cooper and Matt Black are roommates and they all are self-proclaimed “clean freaks.” However, they haven’t always been so focused on germs nor do they want to be. Cox, Fregenal and Cooper are paramedics and Black works at an assisted living facility just south of Chapel Hill. For them, contracting COIVD-19 could mean the end of their work and potentially the end of someone’s life.

“I don’t mean to always sound so serious when I talk about the coronavirus,” Cox said. “I helped transport someone to a different facility and she looked at me and said ‘If I get it, I will die.’ We can’t help but take it seriously.”

Each of them starts each day the same. They get out of bed and start their personal coffee maker. They each have their own so they can avoid contamination if one of them is exposed to the virus. They check their temperature while they wait for the cherished “bean juice,” as they call it, to brew.

While they wait for their coffee to cool, they check their bags. They count their masks and gloves to make sure they have extras before sitting down at their desks to attend their classes for the day.

The Origin of Friendship 

Since they were young, all four have had aspirations to enter the medical field. They all met in their introductory Biology course and bonded over their annoying professor and hefty workload. They would sit in each other’s dorm rooms, order a couple of pizzas, and study for an exam that week before putting down their books and picking up their Xbox controllers.

“I’ve heard so often that the medical field is one of the loneliest. That’s always intimidating to students just starting to learn and prepare for it,” Fregenal said. “Having that circle helped to get through the early years of a cutthroat major and it’ll keep helping the further we get into the career.”

A Day on the Job

After the course, the four grew closer and decided to live together in their sophomore year. Cox, Fregenal and Cooper all got jobs at the same ambulance company. They rarely work the same shifts given their varied class schedules, but they all say seeing a familiar face, even for a passing minute, makes working such a hard job much more bearable.

“Because of where we work, it’s never truly the ‘he’s dead, Jim,’ intense calls, more of just transport. It’s still hard though. The precautions and the stress of potential exposure, feeling like you’re covered in disease,” Cooper said. “It’s nice walking in and fist-bumping one of your boys. They’re coming out of the thick of it, so I know I can too.”

When they’re working in the back of the ambulance, their job becomes just wires and needles, blood-pressure cuffs and temperature checks. Sitting in the break room, playing cards, even with masks and gloves on, gives them just a bit of human relief.

Black sometimes wishes he had the same kind of experience working the same job as his roommates, but he’s glad he can still come home at the end of a shift and talk about his work with them, and they’ll actually understand.

“Sometimes I feel like my area in the healthcare field is looked over. I want to be a physician’s assistant and work right alongside these guys, doing the same things, but this is how I want to cut my teeth, helping the people I support,” Black said. “They’re struggling too, and it’s really hard seeing case after case with them. They’re really vulnerable.”

Coronavirus Experience 

Black had COVID-19 over the Summer. He didn’t have many symptoms aside from fatigue, a fact for which he is still grateful.

“The guys were so helpful with that, bringing me food and drinks and continually checking on me,” Black said. “We’d play games from our own rooms while in a Zoom meeting, just so I wouldn’t feel lonely or left out.”

They continued the group Zoom gaming sessions into the Fall, which they all agreed worked wonders for them to relieve stress from their online classes and the dangers from their jobs.

“Regardless who wins the election or if we have in-person classes next year, I can’t imagine things will be the same as before for a long time,” Fregenal said. “I’ll probably always wear a mask and keep sanitizer with me.”

Right now, the four of them are focused on doing their jobs well and making it through this semester’s finals. They try not to worry about next semester because things are continually in flux. However, that’s not always possible.

“I really just want to know what’s going to happen. Not just with next semester, but in general. I want to know when I can actually smile at a patient or not worry that I might be exposing them or my friends.,” Cooper said. “I’m just anxious about it all.”

Until they receive an email from their university, the four of them will keep opening up a Zoom meeting and playing their game, Among Us, together.

Edited by: Luke Buxton

By Britney Nguyen

As her friends are waking up for classes in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Claire Shu is burrowed in the bottom of her sleeping bag, trying not to freeze in her single-person tent in Flagstaff, Arizona. Sometimes, Shu is already hiking trails and scaling rocks even before her friends on the east coast are awake.

If it were a normal semester, Shu would be in Chapel Hill finishing the first semester of her senior year at the UNC-Chapel Hill. When the coronavirus pandemic forced universities to move classes online, Shu decided to take a gap semester to do something completely different.

She said the conservation and trail work she’s doing in Arizona has taught her what her economics and English classes at UNC-CH and her life in Chapel Hill could not.

When UNC-CH classes moved online after spring break, Shu felt as if a depression had settled over Chapel Hill.

“It was horrible,” Shu said. “It was not conducive to learning, and all of my friends were talking about how hard it was just to get up and go to class. Having experienced that, even just for six weeks, definitely played a role in me deciding not to go back.”

Her creative writing professors were so inspiring, and in-person and online classes did not have the same level of energy or learning.

At the beginning of June, Shu moved into the house she and her friends were excited to live in for senior year. Knowing that her friends were also miserable with online classes helped Shu think about what to do with the upcoming semester.

“We all decided as a collective not to take classes,” Shu said. “I definitely couldn’t have done it if they hadn’t also decided.”

One of Shu’s roommates, Alaina Plauche, was the first to bring up the idea of a gap semester.

“I was being dramatic then because I didn’t think all of this would actually happen,” Plauche said. “I was thinking of doing something elsewhere but then decided that I would just stay here because it was easier to find jobs that could help me pay rent.”

Over the summer, Shu’s mom, Lisa, helped her look for week-long conservation and trail work programs on the Appalachian Trail since Shu had enjoyed hiking a section of it before.

Lisa was worried that Shu would drop out of college, so she tried to get her engaged in something for the time. Shu wanted to be away for the whole semester, so she started looking into paid longer-term conservation experiences.

“It has absolutely nothing to do with what I study, but it just felt like the right thing to do at the time,” Shu said. “When else am I in my life going to be able to take this time off and do something not really related to my career?”

 

Hitching the trails

Shu found an AmeriCorps position with the American Conservation Experience that placed her in Flagstaff, Arizona where she is living now.

For eight days, Shu and her AmeriCorps cohort camp on site and work on building and maintaining nature trails. When the cohort returns from camping, they have six days off to explore.

“The eight days, we call them hitches,” Shu said. “The first hitch we did trail maintenance, so we cleaned up around the trail and flattened out the path to make it more accessible.”

Recently, Shu and her cohort sprayed herbicides on invasive species in Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico. Afterwards, she said they returned to their tents looking like Smurfs because of the blue dye they used to spot the invasive species.

On her days off, Shu hikes urban trails around Flagstaff, explores caves and once visited Zion National Park in Utah.

“Zion was the absolute hardest and most rewarding hike of my life,” Shu said. “We got up at 4 a.m., hit the trail around 5:30 a.m. while the stars were still out, which was absolutely insane.”

Shu and her friends hiked around 14 miles for 12 hours as the sun rose around them, highlighting the sandy trails and red rock. She said as they scaled rock faces, they looked up to see mountain goats standing above them.

“When the sun rose, I looked around and was like, ‘It does not feel like I’m on planet Earth right now’,” Shu said. “I felt like I was on Mars.”

 

Is this the right trail?

Shu is the only person in her cohort of 18 to 35-year olds who is still in school, which is surprising to her.

“Before I came over here, I was telling people I was taking a semester off and everyone was like, ‘Oh, that’s such a good decision’,” Shu said. “I told people I was going to Arizona and they were like, ‘Oh, that’s a great idea’.”

But she said she felt nobody else was taking the initiative.

“For a long time, I was like, ‘Is it a good idea? Literally nobody else is doing this’,” Shu said. “I definitely felt like it was right, and it’s proven to be right,” Shu said.

There are times when Shu misses being with her friends in Chapel Hill as she camps under the vast Arizona sky. One 40-degree morning on a hitch, she saw on Snapchat that her house had invited friends over the night before.

“There have definitely been a few times when I feel like I’m missing out,” Shu said. “But honestly, for the most part, I feel like I’m in the right spot.”

Within the first few weeks of being in Flagstaff, Shu and some of her new friends hiked Humphreys Peak, the highest natural point and second highest peak in Arizona.

“I was looking around and thinking that there’s absolutely nowhere else I would rather be or I should rather be,” Shu said.

Shu said part of her feels guilty for taking time off from school to travel, but she also realizes she would not have that opportunity if not for the pandemic.

“I definitely want to have four years of college, and I know that’s not for everyone which is fine,” Shu said, “but I’m definitely set up to graduate, if not in a semester, then definitely in a year.”

Shu said her mother made it very clear that she needs to graduate from UNC-CH.

“I definitely know I’m going to, but there was this weird fear in the back of my head that maybe I find I love it out here and move out here,” Shu said. “I absolutely love it out here, but do I value a degree? For sure.”

For now, Shu is preparing for colder nights in the Arizona desert with her cohort and looking forward to climbing more peaks with her friends.

“I cried when I left Chapel Hill, but at the same time, I had no doubt in my mind the entire time that I was making the right decision,” she said.

 

Edited by: Evan Castillo

By Anne Tate

When Dan Goolsby, 65, approached the rows of colorful food stands outside of J.S. Dorton Arena, which wafted the familiar scent of sugar-dusted funnel cakes through the air, he got goosebumps. He was teary-eyed thinking about the fair that he went to multiple times every year for 50 years.

Although the N.C. State Fair was cancelled due to the coronavirus pandemic, fair food trucks and stands opened for 11 days of fried fun on the Raleigh fairgrounds. Hand-washing stations replaced ticket booths and masks covered smiles, but the familiarity of food on a stick and other once-a-year treats kept most spirits high.

The N.C. State Fair Food Event, featuring 22 North Carolina vendors, gave Dan Goolsby an afternoon of normalcy, where all he had to worry about was how long the lines would be. On their first day at the event, Dan Goolsby and his wife, Carolyn, waited in line for an hour for Italian sausages. But that didn’t stop them from coming back – and they planned to go again for a third day in a row.

“The best thing out here is the roasted corn,” Carolyn Goolsby said.

As they ate a garlic chicken pita and ribbon fries, the couple said that they were especially excited for the fair this year. They just turned 65 and planned to take advantage of the free fair admission for patrons 65 and older.

“We were planning on coming every day if we could,” Dan Goolsby said, a dab of tzatziki sauce on his nose.

In all the years they’ve visited, the couple will never forget the electric energy of going to the fair in the morning, cheering on UNC-Chapel Hill against N.C. State University at Carter-Finley Stadium in the afternoon, and celebrating a Tar Heel victory back at the fair in the evening. That, and when Carolyn Goolsby placed fifth in the cross-stitch competition.

They agreed that the fair food event definitely boosted their mood.

Lower-energy, but still fun

Bryan Farr, 35, came to the fair food event to enjoy “some unhealthy but comfortable snacks.” His favorite fix: the deep-fried crab ball stuffed with melted pimento cheese. He missed some aspects of the fair, but seemed content sitting in the afternoon sun eating his gourmet pumpkin spice funnel cake.

“It’s all about the food. Food is number one,” Farr said. “But I don’t mind risking my life on a fair ride.”

Without the blinking lights of rides and the music amplified from game booths, the event seemed to have less energy than the lively crowds of prior years, Farr said.

“I think from the mood of the pandemic, people are quieter these days,” Farr said.

Away from the lengthy lines, Christina Lane, 37, and Josh Menzone, 32, watched four-year-old Aria climb over a 200-pound watermelon and a 500-pound pumpkin. They were disappointed about missing the fair, but figured they’d grab some food because, “it’s obviously the best part,” Christina said.

“Did you like what you ate so far?” Lane asked her daughter.

“Uh-huh,” Aria replied, scaling the pumpkin.

Aria didn’t get to see her favorite part of the N.C. State Fair – the pig races – but she seemed satisfied with her corn dog, french fries, and the prospect of a candy apple and some cotton candy.

“It’s definitely not the same,” Lane said. “But it’s nice to just be here doing something different with the family and not have to worry so much about COVID and everything because it’s so spaced out and it’s not crowded.”

“I actually enjoy it like this, there’s nobody here,” Menzone said.

“He likes it better,” Lane replied, laughing.

COVID-19 concerns

When UNC-Chapel Hill sophomore Leighann Vinesett, 19, arrived at the fairgrounds on a date with her boyfriend, Brandon Conquest, 22, she felt like she had stepped back into 2019, before the pandemic began. And she wasn’t happy about it.

It was a Saturday, the lines were huge, and people kept taking their masks off to eat, she said. It felt like the regular State Fair and Vinesett didn’t feel safe.

“Do other people here feel that? Did anyone else feel anxious or was that just me being paranoid?” Vinesett asked. “Honestly, I thought it was terrifying.”

Vinesett skipped the crack-n-cheese-stuffed smoked turkey leg and left without buying any food.

Ragin’ Cajun owner Chris Wrenn, 50, also felt the familiarity of pre-COVID-19 life. But he liked it.

Each day, Wrenn looked out from behind the plexiglass barrier of his stand and saw something “close-ish” to normal. He saw people smiling with happy kids on their shoulders, wearing little masks and holding corn dogs and candy apples in both hands. Behind him, his staff skewered lightly breaded alligator tail and fried jalapeño bacon pimento cheese fritters to dip in Cajun ranch sauce. Every day, these specialties fought for fan favorite.

Although the event only lasted about a week and a half, the income from Ragin’ Cajun helped Wrenn beyond keeping his business afloat. His only daughter is getting married in December, and the fair food money helped with the dress shopping.

“It’s been good to be out here and generate some income to give her the wedding that her mom and I want her to have,” Wrenn said.

A chance to “reach a hand out” to those in need

Wrenn didn’t just give back to his family. Every vendor at the event contributed $100 to donate to the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina for Food Lion Hunger Relief Day.

“We’ve got to remember that one of the biggest things we can do right now, I think everybody can do, is to find somebody you can help,” Wrenn said. “Just reach a hand out, no matter what color or political affiliation.”

Fat Boys BBQ owner and pitmaster Bobby Scott, 55, was very excited about the $2,200 donation – and to show off his 14-foot-long meat smoker, equipped with a 12-foot smokestack.

“Everybody says, ‘That looks like an atomic bomb,’” Scott said.

Usually, Fat Boys wouldn’t need to bring the smoker on-site, but during the event they couldn’t cook the meat fast enough. It was the busiest Scott had ever been in his career, he said.

He was shocked that the crowds were so big, and he was worried about a COVID-19 outbreak being traced back to the fair. But he appreciated that most people wore masks and seemed to be social distancing.

Despite his fears, he recognized that most people wanted to get out of the house. And he was glad to see new people.

“COVID turned everything for everybody upside down,” Scott said. “This one event has turned it back right side up for me.”

Edited by Natalia Bartkowiak

By Brittany McGee

 

A woman sits in a lawn chair next to the white door, waiting for people to exit the brick building, so she can offer “I voted” stickers that have been conspicuously absent during this election cycle.

 

A young man and woman stand at their post, which is a table filled with colorful flyers under the large blue tent next to the sidewalk that leads toward the building. Blue and white campaign signs stick up in the ground in front of them.

 

“Would you like a Democratic sample ballot?” they ask voters as they pass the table.

 

Next to the blue tent is a smaller table. An older man in a “Make America Great Again” hat chats with the woman sitting with him. They just finished putting together their own display, complete with their own predominantly red campaign signs.

 

“We just wanted to come and make our presence known,” said the man. He greets everyone at the Carrboro Town Hall polling site.

 

All the canvassers, poll watchers and poll workers have been on the frontlines, watching the increase in young people and African Americans early voting, which experts indicate can potentially impact the results of the 2020 election.

 

According to TargetEarly, voters between the ages of 18 and 29 cast almost 640,000 ballots, and African Americans cast more than 920,000 in North Carolina through absentee ballots and early voting in 2020. These numbers are a significant increase from 2016, during which these groups cast around 400,000 and 700,000 respectively.

 

 

‘She knows the power in voting’

 

 

Diamond Blue makes her way past the man in the MAGA hat, politely accepts a ballot from the young woman under the blue tent, continues down the sidewalk and up the steps into the building from which four Black Lives Matter flags flew.

 

Blue was too young to vote in 2016, but she’s always been a politically charged person. Raised in Southern Pines until she was 13, her parents ensured she was educated on the key issues.

 

They raised her to be proud to be Black, teaching Blue to be firm in her morals and beliefs. She was raised to advocate not only for herself, but those in her community, too. Her mother regularly made her watch the news to see what was happening in the Obama Administration as a child.

 

“This is so important for you to see,” Blue’s mother would say. “A Black man running the country.”

 

When she was a child, Blue decided she wanted to be president like Obama; he was the only one who looked like her.

 

She wanted to be an example of what Black women can do. Though Blue is older, she holds to the importance and value of using her voice. She knows she wants to get rid of Trump, she knows she wants better policies for Black Americans and she knows the power in voting.

 

Because of her convictions, Blue is part of a demographic of voters who increased vastly from the 2016 elections to the 2020 elections.

 

 

A change of mindset

 

At the same polling site, Julia Yates leans against a bicycle rack holding the sticker she received from the woman sitting in the lawn chair outside the white door. She is joined by her friend, Ian McKeown, who had just finished filling out his ballot.

 

Both grew up in Onslow County, where Donald Trump prevailed by a 35-point margin in the 2016 election.

 

Yates and McKeown have spent their time at UNC-Chapel Hill learning about issues that weren’t discussed in their homes growing up. McKeown has been studying white supremacy, and Yates is a religious studies major.

 

“I’ve spent the last four years unlearning the conservative crap I’ve been fed all my life,” McKeown says with eyes rolling.

 

McKeown and Yates say that through their studies, they are more politically aware of and exasperated by the white supremacy and misinformation that has been circulating throughout the country.

 

The two have made two promises to themselves and each other: first, get Trump out of office, and second, stay an active voter for life.

 

 

‘Voting is a family affair’

 

 

14 miles away in Durham, the vibrant atmosphere is starkly different from the quietly active feeling at the Carrboro Town Hall.

 

There’s a full parking lot at the South Regional Library. A DJ is blasting early 2000s era hip-hop and R&B music. A green tent is set up by the Black Youth Project 100 where young activists are handing out information, water and candy in front of a sign that reads “Unapologetically Black.”

 

An artist is next to them, observing the action and creating images of Black faces.

 

A Democratic poll watcher asks everyone leaving the library if they had any issues voting.

Republican poll watchers from Washington D.C. stand awkwardly away from the crowd, politely joking about being assigned to a Democratic hotbed.

 

A young man in a yellow shirt with a clipboard assist people in cars inquiring about ballot drop-offs or curbside voting.

 

For this group of people, predominately Black, voting is a family affair. Parents bring their young adult children to vote.

 

To set an example, other parents bring their kids who are too young to understand. 28-year-old Norman Jones II brings his infant son, Kayson, for the first of what he promises to be a lifelong tradition. For them, not voting won’t be an option.

 

Like his mother did, Jones is setting the standard for his son.

 

Jones grew up in Washington, D.C. where he was surrounded by politics. He moved to North Carolina to attend North Carolina Central University. Though he majored in political science, he ended up working in the financial sector after graduation.

 

He came up in the Obama era and admittedly became complacent. However, he recognizes the importance of not only voting, but staying politically active between elections as well.

 

 

Biggest issues on each ballot differ

 

 

Many of the voters here are disillusioned with the political process, but still believe it was important to come out and vote anyway. Against the backdrop of months of protesting for Black Lives Matter, police brutality and white supremacy are the biggest issues on the ballot.

 

“We need to create and provide platforms to truly look out for our best interests and those in our community because we can’t always depend on politicians to do it,” Jones explains.

 

For some voters, the COVID-19 pandemic and economy are not at the forefront of the ballot.

 

Mother and daughter Gerri Self and Elisha Turrentine, who came to vote together, have always been active voters. For Self, 56, COVID-19 is not her main issue this election.

 

“We have to survive COVID, but we have to survive the police, too.” Self says, her voice hard.

 

Back in Carrboro, Blue smiles proudly, showing off her sticker.

 

She is young, but engaged. She might be the type of voter Kayson will one day grow up to be. She knows what the news has been saying about the turnout for people like her, and she is optimistic. But right now, she’s just celebrating finally being old enough to make a difference.

 

This is what her parents taught her.

 

They taught her to vote.

 

 

Edited by Annelise Collins

By Jake Schmitz

At 7:30 a.m., Tony and Davina Edmonds wake up in the tent serving as their home, located deep in the bamboo woods surrounding Interstate 40. It’s raining, which usually means this will be a “low” day for them. They carefully step around the booby traps Tony has rigged using skills he learned during 13 years in the Army. Then they eat breakfast and pray before doing what they’ve done for most of the past month – panhandling.

Tony and Davina stay on opposite sides of U.S. Route 501, known as 15-501, and panhandle there for roughly 12 hours daily. They’ve chosen this strategy so they can interact with people coming from both sides of I-40. They also have a constant view of each other, helping them ensure mutual safety from drivers – and other panhandlers.

“Because there are some shady people out there, I want to keep my eyes on her and make sure she’s okay,” Tony says.

A “good day,” which they attribute to drivers’ benevolent moods, means the Edmonds make between $200 to $300. They then use this to rent a motel room off of the highway. They wash their clothes, shower, sleep in a bed and enjoy other everyday comforts that have become luxuries.

On a “low day,” as Tony calls it, they’ll make between $10 to $20. On these days, they grab dinner and return to their tent, which they call “The Shire,” a reference to Lord of the Rings. Regardless of how bad they’re feeling, they never take a day off.

“If you’re in a bad mood you just don’t make as much money,” Davina says. “It doesn’t do any good just sitting around and sulking like, ‘Why me? Why me?’”

‘You don’t look homeless’: harmful stereotypes

At four p.m., Tony, clad in a neon construction vest, has made about $30. Davina, on the other hand, has hit her “little goal” of roughly $80 for the day, so she’s checking on her husband before they get dinner. The couple’s three-year anniversary is on Oct. 31, and their life together has never looked like this.

Tony is an Army veteran with a degree in marine biology, and Davina is a professional hairdresser. When the pandemic hit, Davina’s hair salon closed. Tony never received his veteran benefits, which can take anywhere from three to five years to deposit, so the couple was forced out of their home. It’s been hard for them to grapple with their homelessness considering their job credentials and experience.

“A lot of people tell me, ‘You don’t look homeless,’ and I thank them,” Davina laughs. “A lady asked me the other day about my nice Ugg boots, and I was like, ‘Yeah, I bought them six years ago. Six years ago, I had money. What do you know?’”

Tony says a few of his Army friends have also recently become homeless, but it’s still been hard for the Edmonds to come to grips with their new life. It’s been especially difficult dealing with negative stereotypes cast upon panhandlers, like assumptions of widespread drug and alcohol use. The Edmonds say they keep to themselves and try to maintain a distance from the other panhandlers scattered up and down 15-501. They often refer to them as “these people.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, ‘Are you going to go buy drugs?’” says Tony. “A lot of these people use drugs and stuff, but we’re just using it to feed ourselves and just live,” Davina adds.

‘God’s got our back’: faith and love provide strength to carry on

Despite all of this, Tony and Davina agree that their relationship has never been stronger, and they depend on each other’s support more than ever. They spend their entire day in the same place, always keeping an eye on one another. They also take breaks for meals together every day.

“If we can get through this, we can get through anything,” Davina says. “We rely on each other, and it really is us against the world. And, of course, God’s got our back.”

They cite their faith as a major reason why they’ve been able to endure homelessness. Tony’s handmade sign reads in bright orange and blue text, “ARMY VET Looking for work Anything Helps may God Bless everyone.” They trust in God to provide for them and firmly believe that he will deliver them from this eventually.

“We’re very, very grateful for all the blessings we receive,” Davina says. “God will provide,” Tony chimes in.

For the Edmonds, this is a temporary gig, and they’re treating it like any other job they’ve had. They wake up early even if they’re feeling bad, eat three meals daily, avoid distractions and spend their money wisely. Because of this structure, their relationship and their faith, they’re hopeful – at least for now.

“If you come and see me six months from now and I’m still here, I might say different,” Tony says. “But, I’m pretty sure we’re going to figure something out,” Davina adds.

Edited by Ellie Heffernan 

By Anna Mudd

Onstage at Radio City Music Hall, Eddie Yacynych’s back was turned to the rows packed with “America’s Got Talent” audience members. The blacklights illuminated the neon stripes on his white outfit, as if someone had taken a huge highlighter to him. Then, the music started: The electropop tune of “Closer” blasted through huge loudspeakers. The jump rope in his hands began slicing the air, his feet tapping the floor. Hitting each beat, he was a human metronome.

He wasn’t nervous. He and his Flight Crew Jump Rope teammates had practiced this routine for two weeks, perfecting each flip, each repetition of the ropes, and each bounce on the huge built-in trampoline. The producers had even brought stand-in judges to create a more realistic practice environment. When the real Heidi Klum flashed before Eddie’s eyes rather than her blonde stand-in, it was if they had already met.

Back home in Ellicott City, Maryland, Bob and Marianne Yacynych sat on the couch in their TV room, their eyes glued to the screen watching their son. They feared he would trip, fall or miss a beat. With jump rope, mistakes are hard to conceal.

“We had a lot of problems breathing,” said his father.

The beginnings of a jump rope champion

Now 28, Eddie’s been jump roping since first grade. “I remember starving myself and practicing like crazy,” he said, thinking back to his early competing days. He’d spend hours practicing in his driveway, the rope becoming a part of him, the movement as natural as his heartbeat.

He remembers the first time he was drawn to the sport. The Yacynychs were at the local fall festival with the usual kids shrieking, hay rides, a corn maze, crunching leaves and people biting into crisp candy apples. But Eddie’s eyes fixed on the Kangaroo Kids, a children’s jump roping team. They were all in-sync. Suddenly, one kid flipped, landing in rhythm with the team, the jump ropes never faltering.

Eddie went home and tried to mimic the jumpers. Eventually, his parents encouraged him to try out for the Kangaroo Kids, which had teams for kindergarten through high school. But Eddie was too shy.

So, his mother tricked him, saying they were just watching a practice. In the gym, the coach asked Eddie to go jump in the corner, then she asked to see his tricks. Later, she declared Eddie had made the team. He was angry with his mom, but he went back the next day, and began practicing regularly with the group.

“After a while he was always the first one in the car to go to practice,” said Bob. By fifth grade, Eddie advanced to the competition team.

It wasn’t always easy. Not everyone saw the sport in the same light as Eddie or others in the jumping community. Over the years, kids at school called him names like “pansy.”

“I was bullied for it. It’s so funny because it was people who didn’t really know what it was but once they saw they were like, ‘holy shit that’s actually cool.’”

His middle school math teacher, Ms. Sites, learned he was a jumper and made him perform in front of the class. As the class shuffled down to the cafeteria to watch Eddie, his heart beat out of his chest. But after his routine, everyone understood it was more than average playground jump roping.

Even if they hadn’t changed their minds, it wouldn’t matter to Eddie.  He loved performing. Once he began jumping, nothing stopped him.

“One task of parenting is to help your kid find his passion,” said Bob. “And when he does you don’t have to make him practice or work at it. Eddie found this in jump rope.

His first competition was at their local high school. There weren’t many competitors, but Eddie was scared out of his mind. He’d picked the song accompanying his routine, “At the Hop,” from his parents’ 1950s mixtape. He completed the routine perfectly, hitting every move, jump and trick in sync to each “bop, bop, bop.”

After this came many more competitions. Eddie said he was so scared of making mistakes, he never made any.

His coach, “Mister Mac,” told him to smile at the judges. “I took that to heart.  It became my signature. I would always have a goofy smile on my face,” said Eddie.

Jumping around the world

That year, he made it to nationals at Disney World. A lot of the parents on his team told him not to expect much, warning that he probably wouldn’t even place.

He and his partner got the bronze medal, surprising everyone.

By high school, Eddie was at the top of his age group, placing in every competition and going to nationals every year. He made Team USA and went to worlds in Canada, South Africa, and London. Judges, parents, and fellow competitors recognized his smile, precision, and how high he could jump. Even Bob became a staple in the crowd. He was known to scream “shock the world,” to Eddie, his voice bellowing over the fellow parents.

As Eddie met people from across the world, the shy kid persona he had before competing faded. “People knew I was good at what I did and there was this confidence with it, which really helped me,” Eddie said.

After he graduated, Eddie went to the University of Maryland, where there was no jump rope team. But, his love for it never faltered over the four years. Encouraged by his parents, he put off physical therapy school after graduating, and he pursued jump rope professionally for two years.

Even when jumping was Eddie’s income source, it never became monotonous. “One thing that keeps me passionate about this sport is the rhythm of it — the choreography, the creativity, the music.”

Flight Crew’s mission to jump

Lee Reisig, founder of Flight Crew Jump Rope, met Eddie at one of the competitions. Flight Crew is an assortment of jumpers from across the country, many of whom connected back in their competing days.

Reisig had a similar experience. His obsession began the first moment he picked up a rope. He loves the possibility of constantly taking it to the next level. “Eventually I became the guy who was doing skills that had never been done before,” he said. He decided to stick with it.

“If you’re one of the top people in the world at something, there should be a way to make that a career, and that was my goal,” said Reisig.

Jump roping is becoming more well-known because of people like Reisig and Eddie. Instagram accounts like @eddiejumprope showcase jumpers doing crazy tricks and boost the sport past the confines of school gymnasiums.

“Even if it’s a five second clip of somebody doing a really crazy trick, more people have seen it and understand what you mean when you say ‘oh, I’m a competitive jump roper,’” said Reisig.

More collegiate jump rope teams are emerging too. Recent UNC-Chapel Hill graduate, Graham Booth, started Carolina Jump Rope in 2017 during his freshman year. The club competes in the yearly National Collegiate Jump Rope Summit. In Booth’s first year, there were only seven teams competing, but fast forward to his senior year there were 25.

“A great thing that Eddie and Lee have done is expose jump rope to more people, making it more mainstream so people see it before running into it on a college campus,” said Booth.

Eddie joined Flight Crew after graduating from college. With them, he performed on Disney Cruises and resorts across the world. He booked gigs like Audi commercials and “The Late Late Show with James Corden”.

The highlight for both Flight Crew and Eddie remains their 2014 debut on “America’s Got Talent” where the team made it to the semifinals.

Standing on the stage at Radio City for that last performance of the show, Eddie looked at the audience thinking “this is nothing.” He had prepared his whole life. He’d taken the passion  discovered on the asphalt driveway of his childhood home and turned it into a profession on the world stage.

Edited by Alana Askew

By Drew Wayland

“This is the OG,” said Sheel Chandra, grinning as he pulled a set of keys from his sweatpants pocket. The lone keychain in his collection is a black Hot Wheels car, a Cadillac ATS with spinning silver rims.  “This is where it all started.”

The ATS on his keyring is a mirror image of the Cadillac in his driveway, only with more scratches and dings from years of childhood play. Chandra’s “big boy car” is well maintained, a sleek low-riding machine that serves as a testament to his love for vehicles that put the driver just inches from the road.

The rise of passion

“I had the super typical car person upbringing,” he said, “from the Hot Wheels to working on cars with my dad, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to start messing around with my own cars once I was old enough. Finding the community that comes with being into cars didn’t happen until I got to college.”

Chandra, 20, is the president of Carolina Cars, an organization that began as a UNC-Chapel Hill interest club and has since expanded to a community of over 130 drivers in the Triangle. Since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, Carolina Cars has become a thriving community of support and socially distant recreation for its members. Chandra founded the club in the beginning of 2019 with Max Nunez, a fellow car fanatic from his hometown of Cary, North Carolina.

“It was a little different for me,” said Nunez, “growing up I didn’t know much about cars at all until I was in high school and I stumbled into the local car community.” Nunez, who drives a 1998 five speed Honda Prelude, started hitching rides to car meets in Raleigh when he was 15 and fell in love with the culture.

“Cars feel different from other hobbies because it’s usually not something you actively participate in, like sports or art.” said Nunez. “It’s more about expression and enjoyment, creating an extension of yourself.” He pointed at his Prelude, customized with colorful interior lighting and a specialized turbo engine, “I look at that and I can say, ‘that’s me.’”

Cars have always brought people together, from the humble roots of the modern car meet-up in 1960s California to drag racing, drifting, and other vehicle sports that have emerged in the decades since.

The Triangle is home to one of the East Coast’s most active car scenes; there are weekly meets in Raleigh and Durham which host hundreds of cars in Cookout parking lots and empty warehouse loading zones. The meets begin as legal gatherings, but as the night goes on and rubber burns with increasing noise, the police routinely roll in to break up the events.

The start of it all

Chandra met Nunez at a Shell station in Cary, both on their way to a car meet in Raleigh back in 2018. Chandra wanted to look under the hood of Nunez’s Prelude, and when he saw the custom engine, he knew they would be friends for a long time.

“At the time we both independently had ideas about creating a car club at UNC but were pretty lost as to how we could make it happen,” said Nunez. “But when we had two brains on the project, both of us constantly talking about our cars and the meets we missed from back home, we were finally able to put something together.”

After struggling to find people who were interested in joining the club, Chandra suggested trying something a little unorthodox.

“I said to Max, ‘I have a crazy idea,’” Chandra said. “Let’s put the whip on the quad.”

Without seeking permission from the university, because according to Nunez, it’s “better to ask for forgiveness,” the two students woke up at the crack of dawn and drove a show car onto a brick plaza on UNC’s lower quad. By 8 a.m., university security was already preparing to tow the vehicle, but enough photos had been taken of the electric blue Subaru to spread the word about Carolina’s newest car community.

“We had over 70 people show up to our interest meeting after that,” says Chandra, “and once we had said our piece about what we wanted this car club to be, we told everyone they were free to go. Not a single person stood up, and we all hung out until like 1 in the morning.”

Over the next year, Carolina Cars became the kind of community that all college clubs strive to create. Members became close friends, went to meets together, helped each other with car builds and went driving down backroads on weekends. The feature events have always been the weekly cruises, where everyone gets together and drives a preset route, usually on two-lane roads in nearby Chatham County.

Not even the pandemic can separate them

The club was growing at a steady pace until March, when the university instructed clubs to end all in-person activity due to the coronavirus pandemic. Luckily, Chandra and Nunez knew that if there was anything one can do safely in a world of social distancing, it was driving cars.

“We’re really fortunate that we’ve seen even more growth and activity since COVID started,” says Chandra. “We stopped encouraging people to go to meets and instead started leaning heavily on our cruises, which get between 50 and 70 cars on a good day where they used to get 30 at most.”

Chandra likes to show off the organization’s group chat, which he claims is the most active group chat at Carolina.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing at his phone screen. A notification from the Carolina Cars group buzzes in every few seconds. “That’s basically all the time. Hundreds of messages a day, about cars obviously but mostly just friends talking and helping each other out with things.”

Nunez adds that he has to put the chat on mute if he ever wants to use his phone for something else.

As the community continues to grow, Chandra and Nunez’s friendship strengthens alongside it. They formed their own ‘bubble’ during the pandemic, with Nunez quarantining in a tent outside of Chandra’s house for two weeks, just so they could work on a 1970s Jeep restoration they started back in January.

“Cars bring people together; that’s what we’re here for,” said Nunez. “It sucks having to be apart from my friends and family, but Sheel and I get to drive our backroads and fix our cars up whenever we want. That’s really the release I need in a time like this.”

On any given Saturday morning, they will be out on the pavement, taking tight turns at speeds most people (including the police) might find aggressive, enjoying the thrill and company of someone who shares their passions.

“Max still kicks my a– on Luther Road,” Chandra joked, “but I usually get a smoother ride than him on just about every other spot we hit.”

“He’s just talking sh–,” said Max, “he’s jealous ‘cause the Caddy can’t keep up with me.”

Edited by Sarah DuBose

By Molly Weisner

The road into Warrenton was quiet Monday night.

State Road 1001 dallied through the hills and clusters of forest in Warren County. The sun already set behind the county line, where the impending darkness mixed with the remaining rays.

Only the occasional truck driver rode down the highway, his cockeyed baseball cap and long, white beard reflecting in the windshield. Downtown Warrenton comes into view at the end of a few more quiet miles, and Main Street cuts it clean down the middle.

The street, like the road and the county and the night, was quiet and lightless. However, at its end, right at 7:00, fluorescent lights flashed on. Light spilled from a handsome brick building onto a few pickups parked in front. A garage door cracked open. In the parking lot, heavy boots jumped down from truck beds, and voices greeted each other in the night.

“You ready to get started?” calls an older man in a navy polo to a teenage boy in a sweatshirt and khakis.

“Yes, sir,” he says, leading a group of 14 other teens inside the Warrenton Rural Volunteer Fire Department.
—

Warren County Junior Firefighters Program
Bradley Pritzing calls to order the monthly meeting of the Warren County Junior Firefighters Program. The 16-year-old is an aspiring firefighter and current president of the program.

The program is a popular and well-known activity for local 12- to 18-year-olds. Professional firefighters working in and around the county help juniors organize monthly meetings, training, competitions, fundraisers, and public events.

Members come from 18 municipal departments within the county’s Firemen’s Association, which includes five departments outside Warren County that provide fire protection and other first-responder services.

The youth also help install fire detectors in residents’ homes and host information sessions in public schools.

“They are visible in the community,” Warrenton Mayor Walter M. Gardner, Jr. said. In a town of fewer than 1,000 people, when there is an emergency or house fire, it is comforting to see a familiar face arrive on the scene, he said.

Sometimes, the juniors ride along to calls, running equipment between responders and trucks.

“They are what we call gophers,” John Franks said, the program’s lead adviser and a career fireman. “Go-for this, go-for that.”

Pitzing stands in the center of a conference room in the back of the station. The other teenagers — mostly boys — sit in a semi-circle of white plastic chairs, dressed in mud-stained jeans, swatches of camo, and baseball caps.

Pitzing stands, turns toward the American flag in the corner, and leads the group through the Pledge of Allegiance. Another boy then recites a group prayer.

Now, they can get to business.

The meeting

The youth-run through their agenda for the meeting: discussing a movie night at the station, preparing for the annual junior competition in April, and planning meetings around the upcoming hunting season, which members insisted not to miss. They discuss recent fires in the community and recap prior training.

“Several people learned that fire is hot,” one boy said, and the group fell into laughter.
Franks corrals the group back to budget talks and what kind of shirts would make the best competition uniforms.

Franks and another graduate of the program, D.K. Trotman, attend meetings to keep the discussion “from falling off the rails.” After they adjourn, the chatter rises again as the group heads back into the garage for an hour of training.

Skinny bodies and lanky limbs get buckled into nearly 45-pound fire suits, complete with jacket, boots, and helmet. They look comically out of proportion with the heavy gear, but they flit and jump among each other as if weighing nothing.

Most of the youth wear helmets of red, black, and green. Each color denotes rank in the simple service: black for professional, red for the captain, and white for chiefs. As a group, they are all learning, but they come from varied experience levels and backgrounds.

History and requirements  

Pitzing’s father, Mark, is the battalion chief for Vance County Fire Department. A few of the other youth also come from two, three, and even four generations of firefighters in the community.

Julian “Juice” Greene, a former junior and current firefighter, said that is common but not required.

“I think the history of volunteer fire service is just that,” said Gardner. “They follow the footsteps of family members that started out years ago.”
Bradley Pitzing then leads the group through ladder-climbing exercises. He quizzes them on terminology and accompanies new members up the ladder.

“Once I got in it, I loved it from then,” he said.

To be a certified North Carolina firefighter in North Carolina, applicants must be at least 18 years old and have a high school diploma. They must also complete a series of training and tests, but this program gives them a head start.
“Some of the most rewarding stuff was being able to take your classes and get your certification,” said Greg Henry, former program president, and current firefighter for Wilson Fire/Rescue Services. “Just to get that incentive from the program and know that somebody was behind you and somebody was pushing you to go that extra step, get that education, and learn more.”

Henry said mentors pushed him to pursue his degree in fire administration from Liberty University.

The mentors do not receive pay — even full-time firefighters will only make between $30,000 to $40,000 a year on average — but they understand how valuable the program is to community building.

A community rooted in service 

“When I joined this program,” Bradley Pitzing said,” I really opened up. It made me feel like I’m not alone here. I have friends.”

The youth learn how to use thermal imaging cameras and slide face-first down a ladder, but they also learn how to support each other, building critical social skills. When Bradley Pitzing’s grandfather died in June, his teammates sent him food, letters, and flowers.

“He was the biggest thing in my life. But that right there did me in,” Pizing said. “It made me love this program even more.”

The program makes the spacious, rural county feel small, bringing together participants and mentors from small towns in every corner. Each firefighter said they leave the house in the mornings and work with their second family at the Warrenton Rural Volunteer Fire Department.

“We want these kids to understand there’s more to the fire service than just driving our big, shiny red truck, grabbing a firehouse and spraying water,” Mark Pitzing said.

When Trotman’s home caught fire on Sept. 15, the department pulled together to raise money for Trotman and his family. Calls poured in from his “public safety” family.

“In the fire service, it’s always been about brotherhood,” Mark Pitzing said. “These are not only people you’re working with, they’re your friends. This is your family.”

Not every youth who goes through the program will become a firefighter, Franks said, but everyone leaves with the necessary skills and support to be a successful young professional.

Gardner said some youth would never see outside their town or county if not for the program’s travel opportunities through its competitions.

“We want these kids to understand there’s more to the fire service than just driving our big, shiny red truck, grabbing a firehouse and spraying water,” Mark Pitzing said.

The junior firefighters also meet and network with other junior programs in Florida, Texas, and West Virginia.

“When we come in, we come in not knowing a whole lot of people,” Bradley Pitzing said. “But we don’t build friendships; we build our own little family.”

Alongside Greene, Trotman, and Franks, other firefighters supervise the training and chat with the youth, asking how they are doing and what is new with their families. The program is in its twelfth year and has seen many alums return to the station as mentors.

For current and returning members, that is the greatest reward.

“Learning your purpose and the reason you’re doing what you’re doing,” Henry said. “Being able to get out and see the needs in the community, and how much the community actually appreciates what you do.”

Edited by Aashna Shah