A former 80,000-square-foot laundry facility in Muncie holds limitless possibilities. Boombox music fills the second floor while artists move tables to set up for First Thursday, a monthly event to draw people to explore art and culture downtown. A woodworker helps children build birdhouses while Steven Knipp colors hair in his salon a few doors down. Adjacent businesses invite people in for gift shopping or ax throwing.
With a bottle of water, reading materials and a phone charging on the table beside her, Sharon Kay Brown sits in her favorite rocking chair every Tuesday evening and tunes into NBC’s “Chicago Fire.”
When Stacy Steggs was about 8 years old, her grandmother was her first student she taught sign language to.
There’s Sarah, whose mother tries to drown her; Bruno, who sneaks into a concentration camp to help a Jewish boy; and Katniss, who volunteers to take her sister’s place in an annual event where 24 kids fight each other to their deaths.
With the 2020s soon approaching, Ball State President Geoffrey Mearns reflected on the successes of the university in the past decade, things to improve on and the roadmap for the future.
At nearly 5 a.m. every morning, Kileah Adkins’ alarm — a small voice full of more energy than she’ll have all day — sounds from beside her bouncing in bed waiting for mommy.
After nearly 30 years of reporting, experts are mixed on the measurable effectiveness of the law.
Imagine a sea of Ball State students gathering in front of the Arts Terrace at the David Owsley Museum of Art, not for graduation, but demonstration. At 10:30 a.m. May 7, 1970, a student yelled into a microphone, “Ball State, where are you?”
Behind a layer of synthetic rubber and paint, Jonathan Becker gains a greater understanding of himself and the world around him.
While some experts say there is no crime too great to disqualify someone from working at a university, others would say hiring officials would be better off excluding those with a violent past.
