Many other artists took a similar approach in creating their artwork–some reread the book, some interviewed those who had read the book, and others simply looked at the book’s historical effect on our state, nation and world.

The Alabama Humanities Foundation’s hope for TKAM2010 is that people (not only in Alabama, but the world over!) will pick Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird back up, reread it, and, most importantly, share their new thoughts, feelings and insights with others–just like our wonderful 30+ contributing artists have done.

We’re seeing and enjoying a true humanities approach to our event, and we hope you’ll join in!

**Event tickets available for purchase!

Written by: Katie C.

When I was in kindergarten, my mom asked her mom if she could have the family piano. To make the trip from Birmingham to Meridian, Mississippi, would be quite a trek for the instrument, but my grandmother agreed. After all, my mom (and her brothers) had grown up tinkling away at the piano’s pearly keys, and she wanted two of her granddaughters, my sister and me, to be able to take lessons, as well.

I remember the day the U-Haul brought the piano to our house in Meridian. My dad remembers it better, because he backed that U-Haul right into the roof of our carport. (There is still a ding in the woodwork.) But after the drama of the mishap, the piano settled into a cozy corner of our living room, where it sat and never moved for the better part of 20 years.

I began taking lessons right away. From kindergarten until I graduated high school, I took them every week without fail. Though my sister eventually latched on to the violin, I held fast to my love for piano playing. At first, I liked catchy and easy tunes–later on in my life as a pianist, I decided Chopin was my favorite composer.

When I went off to college, I missed the piano. I would steal away to the University of Alabama’s music building to play from time to time, but without practice and direction, I eventually lost a bit of my “touch.” And lately, I have been wanting to get that “touch” back.

My husband and I bought our first house a few months ago. Instantly, I thought of the piano. Of course, since I played it more than anyone else and had for almost a lifetime, I felt a certain ownership over the instrument. Initial pleas to my mom to hand it over, however, were unsuccessful.

At first she, politely, refused. Later, she said she would “think about it.” Then, she said she was “still thinking about it.” All the while I itched and itched: I had to have the piano. I lamented to my uncle, who to my surprise said, “Now wait a minute, that’s my piano.” (I’d forgotten he once laid claim to it, too.)

After months of waiting, and probably selfishness on my part, my mom gave me her answer: yes. There were, of course, conditions. One, I would have to begin taking lessons again. Two, I would have to mop and vacuum her entire house. I agreed to both, and am now happy to say that the family piano sits in a cozy corner in my new living room. It has returned to Birmingham, its first home.

The feeling, I must admit, is bittersweet. When the U-Haul came and took it from my parents’ house a few weekends back, I was left looking at the empty corner in the living room where the piano once stood. I learned, quickly, that it wasn’t just the piano. It was the room where it sat, the corner where it lived, the walls that adsorbed so many songs, so many memories, that made it, and make it, the family piano. Now when I return to my childhood home, there will be no piano for me to play. On future Christmas Eves, there may not be as much music. And for my mom, she no longer has her mother’s piano sitting in her living room.

These feelings of guilt will, no doubt, cause me to take exceptional care of the piano. I will soon begin research on area piano teachers, and build up a sheet music collection. And while I ended up telling my mom she could have it back if she ever wanted it, in the end, I came away with more than the piano. I learned, a new and hard way, the humanities-type approach to music–that a song or instrument is also a feeling, a place, a past, and something irreplaceable and inspiring.

Written by: Katie C.

When you do something over and over again, like go to the fair, it’s easier to look back on life. Fairs have the same rides they’ve always had, same food, same smells. I like this fact. Yet, I found myself afraid to get on the Gravitron, which I owned in fifth grade. A candy apple seemed like too much of a hassle. Instead, I paid $1 to see a ginormous pig, and enjoyed petting goats and cows. This fair had a kangaroo and a camel. I wasn’t impressed. The piglets, however, really wowed me, and the bumper cars, an unexpected plus.

Because of the culture crosses, and opportunities to learn about our neighbors and ourselves, I say going to the fair gives a fair view of the humanities. Fair enough?

The fair offers a unique view of culture–albeit a bit dizzied. (Ride the Tilt-O-Whirl and you’ll know what I mean.) It, too, provides certain exposures–I, for one, encountered lots of different languages on my recent visit, both verbal and non. I learned there is a universal get-me-off-this-ride-right-now look, and similar tastes across ethnicities. At the fair, it seems we share a lot with those around us: long lines, fears, excitements, and, as the naysayers would point out, germs.

Because of the culture crosses, and opportunities to learn about our neighbors and ourselves, I say going to the fair gives a fair view of the humanities. Fair enough? It lacks a little in the academic and scholarly categories, to be sure. The fair, however, is about as true as it gets. In the chaotic mass that it is, somehow, a figurative gap is closed. There are no rose-colored glasses at the fair. We see society in its simplest form. All in all, if the humanities explore what it means to be human, well then, a lot can be learned at a fair.

In such a dirty place, I found the purest thing. It wasn’t the air, that’s for sure, nor the Port-O-Potty I was forced to visit. It was the chance to learn, and the consistency. These places never change. May they always stay the dilapidated, confused mix of society that they are. If so, I’ll keep coming back. I owe it to the nice man running the mini pony rides, who, when I asked if I was too big to give it a go, said, “No, the pony’s just too small.” Truth is, I am too big. The ponies have always been mini. And I doubt they’ll be changing anytime soon.

Written by: Katie C.

The fact is, however, we all know what the humanities are, we just don’t know we do. Furthermore, we’re all involved, in one way or another, in the humanities disciplines. This is what the Kudzu Twines Journal is out to prove.

The fact is, we all know what the humanities are, we just don’t know we do.

While at the Alabama Humanities Foundation we pride ourselves on programs involving the state’s best humanities scholars; offering stellar educational opportunities to the public (for free!); and shedding light on the rich culture and history of the state, we readily recognize our work isn’t just for those well-versed in literature, jurisprudence, history or art history, to name a few. We see a true need for community conversation and civic engagement; we know the Internet is a great forum for important and relevant discussions.

This is where you come in:

We want to gather your interesting input on cultural issues. We want to hear your takes on literature written by Alabama authors, and we want to read your Alabama stories, too. We want you to, as our mission states, find ways to explore human values and meanings through the humanities. And we hope, if you’re like us, you’ll enjoy learning new things about the state and the world as a whole.

So, sit back, read and relax (and contribute!)–and become enveloped in the humanities. (It’s likely you’ll find you already are.)

Special note: congratulations to rebecca_morrow, winner of the AHF Twitter competition.

Written by: Katie C.