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AUTUMN 2012 Volume XXVI
BACKTRACKS
THE MAGAZINE Backtracks is Andover’s oldest general interest magazine. For 26 years, the magazine served as a creative and intellectual outlet for the Phillips Academy community. Backtracks publishes exceptional non-fiction writing - including essays, reviews, letters and op-ed - as well as outstanding artwork and photography twice a term. Original writing falls into one of our six sections - Hit List, Notes & Dispatches, Reports, Humane Letters, or Reviews. For each issue, our editors also scour other publications for noteworthy people and articles to feature in Readings or Interviews & Special Features sections.
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Janine Ko MANAGING EDITOR
Virginia Fu LAYOUT EDITORS
Jordan Boudreau Sierra Jamir LAYOUT ASSOCIATE
Joey Salvo
SUBMISSIONS Backtracks welcomes submissions of student ART & INTERIVEWS & work from all disciplines. If you are unsure if PHOTOGRAPHY SPECIAL FEATURES the content of your piece is suitable for our Soha Sanchorawala Jen Sluka magazine, send it to us anyway; we are always seeking fresh perspectives. Please e-mail original HITLIST non-fiction writing, reporting, artwork or phoNOTES & DISPATCHES tos to backtracks@andover.edu. Artwork in digKai Kornegay Angela Leocata ital format may be e-mailed to the above address as well . If an electronic version is not available, HUMANE LETTERS please contact the Art & Photography editor. CONTACT Backtracks would love to hear your comments, suggestions, and questions. to contact our editorial staff, please e-mail jko@andover.edu or vfu@andover.edu. We reserve the right to publish letters in future issues of the magazine.
Lily Zildjian
ARTISTS AT LARGE
WRITERS AT LARGE
Caroline Chen Claire Carroll Jordan Johnson Larry Flynn SUBSCRIPTIONS Julia Kim Annika Annual subscriptions to Backtracks cost $50 Neklason on campus. Off campus subscriptions carry a nominal shipping fee. E-mail backtracks@andover.edu for more information.
COLUMNISTS
READINGS
Rebecca Chen REPORTS
Eric Meyers REVIEWS
Eric Alpert
CHIEF WRITER
Madeleine Katherine Vega Lippey Katia Lezine Rosalyn Chen
BUSINESS MANAGERS
Stephanie Kim
DISCLAIMER Autumn Plumbo Backtracks is printed by Flagship Pres of North Andover, Massachusetts. All images, text and COPY EDITOR other media contained herein, unless otherMayze Teitler wise specified, are the property of Backtracks and the Trustees of Phillips Academy. The views and opinions expressed in Backtracks can be solely attributed to the author of the article Featured Photographers & Artists: 37/47/60 - Emma Kahn in which they appear. Flagship Press holds no Front Cover/18 - Niswarth Back cover/20/45/50/51/64/65 responsibility for the material printed herein. 5/6/7/8/9/10/11 - Kieto Mahania Jordan Boudreau 14/15/19/20/21 - Lily Scherlis 71 - Gina Sawaya 72/74 - Laura Ippolito ©1986-2012 Backtracks and the Trustees of Phillips Acad- 33 - Molly Magnell emy 3/32/33/34/35 - Caroline Chen 76 - Soha Sanchorawala
CONTENTS VOL.XXVI, ISSUE I Hitlist Top 10 Ways to Save Money Downtown 6 Brooke Bonds Best Secret Recipes in Commons 11 Rhaime Kim Notes & Dispatches Dear Oxford, Please Love Me 14 Sirus Han They’re Back in the Village 16 Soha Sanchorawala Check 20 Joey Salvo You Talkin’ to Me? 24 Annika Neklason Jazz 26 Alex Anderlik The Phillipian Addiction 28 Janine Ko Flower Disease 31 Madeleine Lippey Reports Theater of War 34 Catherine Tousignant Bread & Circuses 38 Eric Meyers Fact or Fiction 40 Lily Grossbard Golden Arches 43 Kana Rolett
Si, Se Puede 46 Loida Pan Because There is Only One 48 Rosalyn Chen Humane Letters Dear Sweet Child(ren) 52 Katherine Vega To T.H. White 54 Ida Dhanuka Dear Part-Time CVS Worker 56 Katherine Tobeason Unique 58 Katia Lezine Reviews Nothing Special 61 Annika Neklason Guide to Sleep Deprivation 62 Caroline Lu Readings Shame and Growth Farris Peale Best of: Amazon Reviews The Internet
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Interviews & Special Features Profile: Tom McGraw 74 Larry Flynn Pastors for One Church 76 Ingrid Sanchez
hitlist hitlist
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Top 10 ways to downtown
10.
Obligatory piece of boring advice: Unless you’re a total health freak (not that there’s anything wrong with that; freaks make the world go round, man), save yourself the time and get groceries from CVS, not Whole Foods. It’s still not the cheapest thing, but it’s a tad bit less expensive.
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save money
by Brooke Bond
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Bring your guitar, portable sitar, or bagpipes and go busking when you shop. Earn some extra money to spend on items being bought so that, when you get back, it’s with more cash than you otherwise would have had.
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Of course, thievery is always an option, no matter what the law tries to tell you. However,
I cannot truly recommend this option as those who follow it occasionally end up in the back of a police car. For some bizarre reason, people in the backs of police cars tend not to like being there, and, frankly, we’d rather not get sued (Hey, we never said this list was “Top Ten LEGAL Ways to Save Money Downtown.”). .
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Take classes on learning how to ignore the charms of sevenyear-old scouts. I know they
look really, really cute, but they’re trying to sell you things. All they are is part of the system. Remember that.
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I don’t care that Kim Kardashian is on the front. Just don’t buy the freaking magazine. You’d probably never even get
around to reading it, and even if you did, the entertainment value is somewhat limited by it’s innate shortness.
5.
Just blow all your money on campus. That way, you won’t have any money to save downtown.
4.
Christmas? Hanukkah? Winter solstice? Forget buying gifts. Some handmade politically correct cards and lots and lots of hugs will do just fine. Unless all your friends are greedy, greedy little children, in which case we
have a completely different problem.
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3.
Save money one day and you’ll have to save it again the next. Teach it to defend itself, and you can stop playing Clark Kent all day long. While people with
sticky fingers do pose a threat to your possession of the money,
they tend to like the money too much to actually hurt it, so our priority should be making sure your money is educated on the arts of safely crossing the street, not getting trampled, and avoiding rabid dogs. Remember, safe money is happy money.
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Just avoid downtown like the plague. This option is extra fun because, when your friends ask if you want to go downtown, you can enjoy the looks on their faces when you say that you’d rather not get buboes.
Deal in kittens instead of money. They’re a heck of a lot cuter.
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Best Secret Recipes in Commons you need a break from the usual once in awhile. by Rhaime Kim 5. Peanut butter cereal. During conference or free periods, enjoy this energy packed snack! Use the healthy-looking cereal with raisin bits on the first floor of Commons, fill it up with low fat milk, and pick up a spoon. Move over to the right and dig into the peanut butter jar! A heavy spoonful on the rim of your bowl should make your cereal experience energizing and fun.
4. Chocolate/vanilla milkshake. Add a little twinkle to your dinner on a tiring night. Fill up a blue or clear plastic cup with the froyo flavor of your choice, but never go over halfway with the ice cream. Fill it up with about a quarter cup chocolate milk or the soymilk selections downstairs, and, if you want something lighter, make sure to add some low fat milk.
3. Bagel in a cup. Don’t ever skip breakfast! When it’s 7:58 and you’ve got your mind on some good ol’ breakfast, grab a toasted bagel to go and stuff it in a paper coffee cup. If you’re eco-minded, don’t forget to reuse the cup for some peanut butter cereal or tea during conference!
2. Energizing froyo mix. Diggin’ something sweet, but energy-packed and relatively guilt free? Grab a sugar cone, and fill in the cylinder part with Cheerios. Put some strawberry or chocolate froyo just up to the larger circle rim, and swoop the entire section of froyo with a layer of peanut butter!
1. Milk chai tea. Fall term is the perfect time to curl up with some nice hot tea. Get a steaming cup of water and dip in an organic chai teabag. Leave it in for about a minute, and then add vanilla soy milk to the tea until it becomes a rich, creamy color. Squeeze in a profound amount of honey. If you have time, ask the lady by the espresso machine for some steamed milk - it makes the chai tea extra creamy. hitlist
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notes & dispatches hitlist
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U
niversities and Colleges Admissions Service (UCAS) is the British admission service for students applying to universities and colleges. Every year, tens of thousands of students in the United Kingdom and around the world bleed their souls into a 4,000 character personal statement, considered the most important part of their application, in an attempt to convince the college of “how [their] current or previous studies relate to the course(s) that [they] have chosen / any activities that demonstrate [their] interest in the course(s) / why [they] want to go to university or college.” Essentially:
Dear Oxford, Please Love Me by Sirus Han
T
he first thing I learned at school was how to follow instructions. This is to be expected; after all, I went to school in the United States, where education hasn’t seen a major overhaul since Horace Mann designed the system to provide the country’s factories with obedient, docile workers who jumped when they were told to jump, pumped when they were told to pump, and were too concerned with making it to the next paycheck alive to even consider protesting. But I digress. 14 14
The first thing I learned at school was how to follow instructions. That said, the instructions for writing this essay were twofold. The main topics that I am to cover, according to the handy guide provided are as follows. First and foremost, I am to explain what it is about my selected Course that interests me, and to provide a summary of my experience within the field, enough to prove that I am capable of handling work in said course at the under-graduate level. Secondly, and this only pertains to students
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residing outside of the UK (a demographic that I regrettably belong to), I am to give a short explanation as to why it is that I wish to study within the United Kingdom. The second thing I learned at school was that honesty is always the best policy. Never mind the specific examples that I or any of my numerous classmates could posit, no matter if lying would save a hundred lives, or if it was Hitler that I was speaking to, honesty is, was, and always will be, the best policy. And so, in the interest of honesty, I will now provide any interested parties with full disclosure of my answers to both of the questions posed. The third thing that I learned at school was that, should I work hard, I could be anything I wanted when I grew up. Of course, this is probably also due to our antiquated education system; to paraphrase Marx, any ideas or doctrines that encourage people to accept the current system (in this case, the hope of social mobility) only serve to support and perpetuate said system. In this case, the idea that, with hard work, I can be anything I wish, is likely just a maxim encouraged by the wealthy elite designed to keep me in my place. However, in the absence of anything else, humans (another demographic to which I regrettably belong) will cling to hope, and so, hope I shall. The third thing that I learned at school was that, should I work hard, I could be anything I wanted when I grew up. I have recently stumbled upon what I strongly believe to be the apex of English, nay, human culture:
BBC’s ‘Sherlock’. With such a discovery has come the acceptance of a new role model, of a new image upon which to shape my future. I want, more than anything else I can imagine, to grow up and become BBC’s Sherlock Holmes. Their interpretation of Holmes is devilishly clever, highly educated, and, most importantly, able to put his education to good use. Furthermore, it is clearly evident from many of the character’s deductions that he has a strong background in Chemistry. For example, in the episode “The Reichenbach Fall,” the presence of glycerol in a sample taken from a suspect’s footprint is the clue needed to save the diplomat’s children. I believe that studying Chemistry would best prepare me to follow in this great man’s footsteps. The fourth thing that I learned at school was that in order to excel, you must always strive for the best. At first, this seems counter to much of what our education system stands for in that it seems a valid piece of advice for producing excellence. However, this discrepancy is banished once it’s realized that I learned this on my own, independent of any schooling that I received (which, in fact, tried to teach me quite the opposite, that mediocrity was something to be proud of.) With this desire for excellence through the best education I can receive and the fact that I want to become Sherlock Holmes firmly in mind, it becomes clear that the most evident solution is that I study Chemistry in the United Kingdom.
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a l a w a r o h c an
S a h o S
They are Back in the Village
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This piece by Soha Sanchorawala was written in reflection of an experience from the Niswarth program, an Andover-run service-learning trip to India.
A
s the teacher at the front of the class rambled in English, the sweaty children packed into the dark ten-by-twelve-foot room heard a jumble of sounds, and that was only when they were listening. The heavy moisture clung to my skin and swallowed even the last wisps of wind from the fan above before they could reach me. Unceasing beads of sweat rolled down faces with curious eyes. Following the wandering eyes, their necks craned to see the ten strangers sitting behind them in a semicircle. We felt enclosed, unable to breathe in the stifling heat of this small room, but we caught glimpses of a breezy, open space within their wide-eyed stares. I found myself tuning out the teacher’s foreign voice and gazing into the crowd of children.
ued playing back and forth until the teacher concluded and everyone had to separate into three groups. I squeezed into the loud allboys circle in which he sat. “Ap ka naam kya he?” I asked the boys with an accent as foreign to them as the teacher’s English. They giggled amongst themselves. The tallest, seemingly oldest, answered first. His light brown eyes shone with intuition, the only area of fullness in his emaciated body. The other four boys followed, as the letters and words of colorful English and Hindi posters on the wall against their backs flew through their bodies and out of their mouths in Hinglish. The blushing boy’s name was Jayesh. While gathering the names of the girls behind me, Supana, Rupali, and Mukhta, I noticed four sari-clad mothers watching us in the sea of children cautiously, yet curiously a few steps out of the open doorway. The woman in green cloth standing farther back cradled a baby in her arms, casting her gaze upwards only occasionally.
I saw them one at a time, but when he saw me, his smile was so big and bright that I could only look at part of it at a time. He hid behind his friend, blushing, but curiosity overcame his sense of embarrassment. It occurred to me to ask about the children’s His bushy black hair emerged first, and then siblings. “Koye bhai ke ben he?” I found out slowly his crooked buck teeth came out, and that the light-brown-eyed boy was, in fact, then his dancing brown eyes. I lit up and his the eldest of five brothers. Five brothers, smile grew wider before his cheeks flushed no sisters? I did not pause to consider then maroon. And then he hid again. We continthat he may have been expecting a sister at 17 notes & dispatches 17 notes & dispatches
some point in his life. The next boy responded, “Do ben, do bhai”, two sisters and two brothers. And then, making a sweeping motion with his hand, a boy said, “Nai. Nai, marigaya”.
him. Before I even had a chance to breathe in sharply, he said in Hindi, “They are back in the village”.
In that moment of utter confusion, I sighed “They died,” he says, in relief. Maybe he could Gauging the initial shock not understand my Hindi watching my semblance on my face, the eldest earlier. Maybe he could not explained with whatever of composure briefly understand Rachel’s Hindi. English he knew. But I Maybe his parents had told falter. already understood. I’d him that those people who heard that word before. I heard it when my left him had gone back to the gao, or village. dad’s best friend’s wife committed suicide. Maybe he was sheltering us as an older sibI heard it when my grandfather died. But ling would, having grown up for some time never had I heard it in a room full of school- at least raising the younger ones. I let the children. moment pass. I would never know. “They died,” he said, watching my semblance In a matter of time, we were thumping on of composure briefly falter. the floor and screaming lyrics whose accuracy was questionable to Bollywood songs, In repeating the line, “MY NAME IS SHEILA, SHEILA KI JAWANI”. The line after this one, originally in English, translated into a jumble of unintelligible sounds. They shouted “Aaptoohmshentifuhhmm” at the highest volume and pitch possible without even a strand of hesitation. It occurred to me later that what they were striving to say: “I’m too sexy for you!” But still, overwhelmthe chaos of bodies constantly bumping ingly genuine joy emanated from every word and roaring noise as the and laughter echoed Even if I just knew the chilpaper maché balls flew throughout the room. dren for an hour, I wonder As I joined in for the across the tiny room, I caught only snippets of about their futures and the next line, again “My the conversation minutes name is Sheila…”, world in which they have later. Sachi and Rachel, I knew that I had to friends from the Amer- grown up. And I miss them. allow the jarring facts ican School of Bombay about their childhoods and Andover, asked the same boy about his to slip away to the corners of my mind. I siblings, having missed my interaction with needed to never dwell, but never forget. 18
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As our hour came to an end, tiny pointer fingers met fuller ones, and pinkies came together. Then little thumbs to large thumbs, and finally a twisting of hands ending in a handshake. We shook up and down until their emaciated hands were about to fall off their bodies and their bodies about to be flung to the ceiling.
I often say and write the phrase without thought, forgetting that it means that they were once held.
“Didi, ap vapas aja for Diwali,� the quietest boy softly spoke, and his eyes widened as he peered upwards to meet mine. He addressed me as Didi, a respectful term for elder sister, as he asked me to come back for Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. And I earnestly believed for a second that our paths would meet again despite all the odds. This boy would make it happen. I turned around to walk past the red, blue, yellow, pink, and orange shanties, and I kept waving until the families were only a specs in the cloud of dirt in the trail of our bus. Even if I just knew the children for an hour, I wonder about their futures and the world in which they have grown up. And I miss them.
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Check
Joey Salvo reflects on Dr. Keller
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Black boldfaced text bursting from the screen is what first reached my eyes. “Spate of Attacks Kills 34 in Iraq.” “Border Patrol Agent Fatally Shoots Woman.” The advertised stories seemed almost too terrible to believe, as if some sick-minded writer had meticulously crafted them all for his own enjoyment. Doing my best to ignore the headlines, I dragged my cursor to a presaved tab. Click. Suddenly the poisonous words vanished to be replaced with a pale yellow. My email popped up. Opening a new window, I drafted a quick note. I had recently won a contest, and my prize was a pizza party for 20. Since I had asked to have the event outside of Paresky Commons, it was suggested that I find a trustworthy adult to act as my supervisor. Fortunately for me, I knew the perfect person. In fact I had already spoken with him, and knew that he was fully onboard with my project. He had even suggested a potential pizza place. Deeming my note adequate, I sent it to my supervisor, Dr. Richard Keller. I first met the doctor when I was a freshman, at a chess club meeting. Initially, I had put my name on the club list more to appease the shrieking club rally members
113 on that first night, I realized I had found a perfect sanctuary. Rows of students sat immersed in buzzing yellow fluorescence, quietly guiding plastic pieces with their fingertips while munching on bloated slices of pepperoni pizza. Without another thought, I joined them. Across the room, sat an older man looking thoughtfully at the chessboard before him. He seemed to be the person in charge, but was so engrossed in the match that I didn’t risk bothering him. Finding an open seat for myself, I began to set up a board. Within five minutes, I heard the man across the room declare “Checkmate.” The other members called him Dr. Keller, and soon I did too. He appeared every Friday night to watch and offer helpful advice to losing players (myself included). In fact, since I was so lacking in the ability to strategize we ended up talking quite frequently. I learned in those conversations that we shared a common obsession for the 90’s hit sitcom Seinfeld, and once or twice we even had “Seinfeld quizzes” that were surprisingly well matched. I might ask “What was the name of the clothing product that Elaine put on the front cover of the J. Peterman catalogue when Peterman left her “The other members called in charge of the company?” to which Keller would soon reply “The Urban Sombrero.” I him Dr. Keller, and soon I did later learned that not only did he have every too. He appeared every Fri- episode on tape, but also replicas of the day night to watch and offer ketchup and mustard dispensers used at the helpful advice to losing players diner in the show. Inevitably my parents learned of Dr. (myself included).” Keller. They seemed to be having a difficult time dealing with my departure, and were than out of devotion for the game. What can comforted to know I had found a “trustI say, freshmen are easily intimidated. But worthy adult.” when I stepped into the doorway of Morse One night at chess club, Dr. Keller 21 notes & dispatches
and I decided to have a match. He eventually destroyed my defense, but it was a wellfought battle. So well fought that by the time we had finished, all the other players had left. After coming off a long and exhausting week, only to be defeated after a grueling struggle, I was in no mood to walk back to my dorm alone. Dr. Keller offered to drive me there since he was going back to Isham
Keller,” said my mother. “I think he would really enjoy it.” On May 2nd I began to have my doubts about whether I had chosen wisely. Over the course of the past week, Dr. Keller and I had corresponded by email about the party. Every reply I received from the doctor was sent back promptly, but now, on the week of the party, he still hadn’t responded my most recent email. On Wednesday “Like a phantom, Keller to May 4th at 2:20 p.m., I nervously sent him had abruptly disappeared. another message. “Hi, it’s me again. are we set for this weekend? –Joey.” I never Every week I sat in Morse all heard from Dr. Keller again. 113, staring at the doorway, When Keller wouldn’t respond to my waiting for him to come email, I went down to Isham to find him in person. He wasn’t there. When I asked the through it.” nurse where he was, she said he was taking a vacation. I asked when he would be back, anyhow. I wasn’t sure whether it was a good and the nurse said she didn’t know. When idea or not. After all I was a freshman, and she said it, she smiled in the apologetic way the rules were still hazy in my mind. Was it people do when they know they’ve disapwrong to get into a car with this man, some- pointed you. And yet for some reason the one I trusted and someone Phillips Academy hairs on the back of my neck tensed. seemed to trust? Wasn’t I old enough to de The party came and went. Dr. Keller fend myself, and to make my own decisions? did not return. Finally, I talked to my cluster Keller had a Toyota. It was gray. I dean, who knew about my situation. I don’t buckled myself into the front seat, and we remember exactly what she told me, but I drove into the street. Dr. Keller didn’t say know it was vague and unsatisfying. What much, only a few pleasantries. How had my does stick in my mind is that she mentioned week been? Was I enjoying my classes? I the last thing Dr. Keller had said to her. In mumbled answers and watched for the cars essence, he had remembered my party, and of teachers I knew, just in case I actually was felt bad that he was unable to help. When breaking a school rule. But soon enough, the I asked what had happened, she too was gray Toyota pulled up in front of my dorm, unable to answer. and I climbed out. Dr. Keller wished me Like a phantom, Keller had abruptgood night, and drove away. ly disappeared. Every week I sat in Morse When I won the pizza contest, Keller 113, staring at the doorway, waiting for him was the first one I thought of to ask to to come through it. But as weeks became supervise. My parents were also enthusiastic. months, and the snow began to melt, I even“I can’t think of a better person than Dr. tually gave up looking for answers. When I 22 backtracks
finally did gain some closure it wasn’t in the way I had expected. A few weeks ago when my email popped up, thin black text reached out from the screen.
found and removed by the authorities. A full blown investigation is being conducted. And I don’t even have to look on the internet to see the black boldfaced text in my mind. “Andover Pediatrician Faces Child Porn “This morning, the United States AttorCharges.” I can hear a memory, floating into ney’s Office informed Phillips Academy that a former the path of the speeding train, not slowfaculty member, Richard J. Keller, has been arrested ing but strengthening the charging wheels. and charged, and will be later arraigned, for receipt “Checkmate.” of child pornography.” It ends there. I don’t know how to move on. There are things that you accept My blood turned cold. you cannot understand about people, but “The safety and well-being of our students is our top in this case it is just too much. It is just too priority. We are fully assisting the U.S. Attorney’s personal. Was this really the man who I’d Office to ensure that investigators have the informaknown and respected throughout my freshtion they need in order to perform their duties as it man year? No, this was not the man I knew. relates to this case.” This was not the man who treated patients every day, the man who sent out playful “No, this was not the man I school-wide emails urging all to wash their knew. This was not the man hands regularly. And then I wonder, maybe it wasn’t entirely a lie. Perhaps there was a who treated patients every day, the man sent out playful truth buried under the waves of perversion, somewhere deep and undisturbed. We like to school-wide e-mails” envision ourselves as individuals, strong and singularly unique. But perhaps we are more There it was. Plain as day in black in than we would care to realize, a combination white for my unbelieving eyes to see. An an- of characters like guests at a dinner party, swer. But then I realized, it wasn’t an answer unable to ever completely agree. after all. The charges were not stated to have There’s more to a man than his darkbeen the cause for Keller’s dismissal. His est secrets, just as there’s more to a lighted dismissal. Had it all been a lie? Had his entire candle than just a burning wick. But how can life at Andover been nothing but an alias, a we ever know where the twisted, blackened persona, a fake? Chess club, Seinfeld, Toyota, strip of fiber meets the fleeting fiery light of pizza. Here was the proof in front of me, the flame? permanent and unchanging. But what carved The answer that stings the most of the deepest well into my self-assured sanity truth is that we cannot. There is no test to was my inability to believe a single word of perform, no secret to be unearthed that can it. show us the boundaries we want to find. All The evidence is damning. 100 DVDs we can do is to acknowledge the unwavering and 500 photographs of child pornography glow, and the shadow it happily gives us. notes & dispatches
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Pop culture. Too damn referential, says Annika
Neklason
YOU TALKIN’ TO ME? Here are some movies I haven’t seen: all six Star Wars installments, the Matrix trilogy, Wayne’s World, Say Anything, The Big Lebowski, E.T., The Hangover, Forrest Gump, Sixteen Candles, Rent, Sleepless in Seattle, and The Breakfast Club. Shocking, I know. But here’s the thing: I could still hold an in24 24
formed conversation about or give a detailed plot summary of any of these movies. Why? Because they’ve become so ubiquitous in our culture; because you can hardly get through a single conversation without referencing one of them; because I’ve watched enough parodical tv shows--The Simpsons, South Park, Community, Saturday Night Live-and pop-culturally immersed movies--Mean Girls, Easy A--that I’ve easily gleaned
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enough information to participate in this universal referential discourse. I could, for instance, discuss my issues with the acting in the Star Wars movies and debate the relative merits of the original trilogy versus the entire canon. Or I could laughingly recount my favorite Zach Galifinakis lines from The Hangover. Or I could wistfully reflect on the death of the Grand Romantic Gesture so popular in eighties films. Listening to me talk, you’d never know how out of touch I am with my classics. And the same is true of books, TV shows, music, or even just celebrities. I could discuss the symbolism of the eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg in The Great Gatsby, even though I couldn’t tell you anything about his character or his significance to the story. I could discuss the important differences between Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez’s respective musical selections having only ever listened to their songs once or twice on the radio. I could complain about Kim Kardashian’s seventy-two day marriage to Chris Humphreys without ever lifting a finger to find any information about either of them.
Matrix, you may find yourself on the outside of social interactions more than you like. Those who supported keeping textual requirements in the English curriculums argued that some knowledge of classic authors, particularly Shakespeare, was a requirement if we planned on entering the intellectual world. I’d argue that knowledge of certain filmography and entertainment tropes is equally important, at least for now. Maybe Harry Potter won’t get you hired, but Shakespeare will make you fewer friends. If you don’t know who Luke’s father is or why you should vote for Pedro or who’ll be back, you should probably put aside your Hamlet and get some studying in. And remember: on Wednesdays we wear pink.
This is in no way a complaint. I’m glad I can keep up this strange facade; it seems that incisive pop culture references have become a sort of currency in conversation. If you can’t engage in an exchange borrowed entirely from Mean Girls or recognize a pantomime of the famous bullet time moment in The notes & dispatches
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J
azz is the kind of music that rekindles the sat down beside me. She was very thin and fire in your soul. When I listen to jazz, wore a beautiful blue dress. Her amber hair real home-made jazz, my mind seems to waved like the ocean down to her shoulders, drift out of my body. I lose all sense of time her eyes the same perplexing color. She was and space, floating on the wavelengths of a holding a glass of wine through a large gray dark, dusty swing. cast on her left arm. She smiled. I remember that life is good. As the song progressed, she closed her eyes So I sat, listening to the euphoric sways of and swayed with the flow of the music. Her the falling autumn leaves as the saxophonfoot was tapping as the pianist right in front ist reared of her back and jammed bellowed across the a note.w It echoed length of the keys, throughout the and audience memhouse, a gathering bers hooted their of jazz appreciators agreement as the By Alex Anderlik music flared out and dressed in their nextto-nicest garb. resolved itself, as if it The $20 donation at the door kept the had consciousness. musicians coming from all over the world, As it burst into a crescendo, the woman was to play in a small house to an audience of so possessed that she lifted out of her seat, thirty. It was better that way. Jazz, improvi- wine glass long empty on the table beside sation, music, are all about expression, and her, and glided towards the pianist. She in that cozy room with the faux-modern art, took a deep breath, leaned down, and began the piano and saxophone and bass were in to play beside him, crafting dissonant but direct conversation with us. You could see soulful notes. the musicians’ faces, hear their emotion, feel The onlookers were at once confused, terriit. Magic was in the air. fied, and unsure; she was breaking the rules, I was sitting on a couch in a parlor off to but it would be rude to call her out. The the side so I could see the fingers of the pianist struggled to keep with the rest of the saxophonist and pianist fly across the keys. band, but he too was too reserved to stop They moved the way ripples dance across a the woman. puddle in the rain, so quick and elaborate yet A man in the crowd coughed pointedly, his completely free-form. The motions of their wife opening her mouth as if to say somefingers formed patterns so intricate I could thing but deciding against it. The drummer only see a glimpse of their action but not stared and almost missed a beat. Like the comprehend their intention. others I was frozen in place, unable to act. About halfway through the evening a woman Finally, after a period of seconds which
Means Essay Finalist
JAZZ
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stretched like eons, a graying and serious-looking man, who was later revealed to be her husband, angrily stepped through the parlor doors and snatched her good arm, dragging her off stage. The woman struggled, but knew she could not resist him and instead tried to waltz to the parlor with a false air of dignity. They sat down on the couch beside me, and the man began to reprimand his wife. His tongue was sharp, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the other guests. He told her that she made a fool out of them both, and how dare she interrupt the performance, and that she should be ashamed of herself. The woman began to cry, shaking her head and sobbing unintelligible syllables. I pretended as if I was listening only to the music. The man continued to criticize her and insisted that they leave at once, but she cried out and wanted to stay. In the end the husband grabbed her so tight around her good arm that her skin turned a ghostly white, and they left through the backdoor. The music went on, and the audience listened, and everyone seemed to forget. But the spell was broken; the music was blocked by the barrier of thought as I reflected on what had happened in front of me. The woman in the beautiful blue dress had been elevated, for she was no longer human. The powers of Apollo flowed through her, a woman possessed as she dared to respond to the music. Is that not what we all seek to experience? Do we not hope to be touched by the gods, to have the energy of the muses
flow through us? This woman only wanted to share a memory, an expression, but was snatched back by a greasy man in a stiff black suit, was chastised and berated for her impropriety. I’m not even sure she knew how to play piano. But in the end, that doesn’t matter. After all, what is so rude about inspiration, no matter its form? We have worked so hard, and so long, to perfect the unspoken code which governs our lives. But in such a fleeting and simple action, the societal rules of the room had been broken. We did not know how to react, how to live knowing the code had been breached. And so we simply ignored it. The room was unsteady, but eventually it smoothed over in our minds as the music lulled us back into contentment. We were afraid of the change caused by the single act of a single woman; we chose to ignore the small taste of chaos rather than drink in its novelty. The song ended, the show finished. We all went home and thought nothing more about it.
notes & dispatches
27
addiction
The Backtracks editorial staff would like to acknowledge its utmost respect for the campus newspaper and its machine-like efficiency. It might even be true that The Phillipian serves some sort of quasi noble purpose on campus. However, when our hopelessly overachieving editor in chief and now News Associate tries repeatedly and apparently completely un-ironically to convince us that The Phillipian is “amazing,” we get a little worried. Especially in light of this article, originally written as a 200 essay.
Note: This piece is neither affiliated with nor approved by “The Phillipian” or the greater scientific community. Janine Ko Although similar addictions are prevalent in clubs that are comparably demanding, including Orchestra, Debate Team, Science Club or Model United Nations, the “Phillipian” addiction is one to be noted because of its potency and wide distribution. Simply, “The Phillipian” is a drug. The editor-in-chief, upper management, senior board, associates and writers for this newspaper are addicts. Students all over campus are sucked into “The Phillipian”, wooed by the prospect of writing for the oldest preparatory school paper in the country and a shinier college application. But the poor souls who get tangled in this paper web 28
Look! A generic campus photo.
A. Photographer/The Naillihp are helpless, crushed by the every week. But this comes as deadlines, expectations and no surprise, as an addiction sheer intimidation from is clinically defined by the upper management. Indeed, Merriam-Webster Online dic“The Phillipian” is a highly tionary as, “the compulsive addictive drug, more potent physiological need for and than heroin or cocaine simply use of a substance.” because not only is it con As with any other doned, it is also encouraged drug, addiction to “The Philby the adults of the school. lipian” is a gradual process, It has the potential to wreak generally sectioned by the havoc on their lives and yet, medical community into writers come flocking back five distinct phases, each of backtracks
which takes a different toll on the user’s life. Let’s call this user Joe. Statistically speaking, Joe is most likely to initiate his addiction through mere contact with “The Phillipian”. Joe, fifteen and dewy-eyed, sits at “Phillipian” Boot Camp and listens in awe as the board sings praises about how the newspaper is uncensored, unbiased and unfiltered by the Academy. The editors are not just scruffy seniors, but intelligent and confident defenders of “Veritas Super Omnia.” And Joe, still a shy and purposeless freshman, so desperately wants to be one of them. There, right there, Joe is already hooked. Admiration for this supposedly prestigious publication is already ingrained deep into his mind. The next phase of addiction is known by physicians as “experimental” or “recreational” usage. Tantalized by his first glimpse of the elusive, beautiful “Phillipian”, Joe wants to “try” it. He begins by writing the occasional piece for a liberal section: Features or Arts. At this stage, “The Phillipian” has minimal repercussions in other aspects of his life, but just seeing his name in print has a profound effect on Joe’s emotions. Abnormal amounts of dopamine are released in his brain, resulting in a temporary high.
There, in bold 14 point Book Antiqua, is his name, proof that he is—finally—part of something on campus, proof that he exists. This first high is the longest. It continues through Friday afternoon and over the weekend, until Monday morning. But when Joe receives a failing grade on his math test that he neglected to study for, his dopamine levels come crashing down, and he returns to a dull, joyless day. This first failure is so catastrophic that many first-time writers will, wisely, never return to “The Phillipian”. But for some, like Joe, the misery that accompanies the failed test becomes all the more reason to pursue that giddy joy that came with seeing his article in print. Thus he progresses into the next stage of addiction, “regular use.” Joe becomes a regular writer for more demanding sections, covering an article a week. They become a staple in Joe’s life as he is willing to sacrifice sleep, grades and time to interviews in return for the catharsis that comes with seeing his name in the paper. Joe becomes familiar with the News associates and, mistaking their addictions for drive and intelligence, he begins to crave for their positions as well. Joe’s name in the paper is no longer just a pleasure, but proof of his own validity. He compares notes & dispatches
his articles to those of other writers, unsatisfied until his make the front page. A shorter article with fewer sources is detrimental to his self-esteem. A cut article, one that never makes it into the paper, is nothing less than a scarring judgment upon his character. But the addiction takes a toll on his academic and social life. Joe’s grades plummet because he stays up so late trying to meet deadlines. He stops playing sports in favor of pursuing sources. He may drop science club or debate team so that he has time to edit his article again. He forms tight bonds with his fellow News writers, but spends less time with his old friends, shunning them for their non-“Phillipian”-ness. Slowly, he devotes more and more of himself to “The Phillipian” and progresses into the next phase of addiction: “early dependency.” Joe’s hard work pays off, and he is rewarded with the position of associate. But the gratification that comes from acquiring this title wears off, as “The Phillipian” becomes a continuous preoccupation. He covers four or five events a week, in addition to spending dozens of hours editing articles from junior writers. Spending long hours in the newsroom, he has little time to sleep, study or socialize. But none 29
of this matters because he has his eyes set on a higher prize—college. As he watches another senior board graduate, he can’t help but notice that every single one gets into an Ivy. The editor-in-chief gets his pick out of the top ten schools in the nation. Just as drug use would no longer be “social use,” at this stage, “The Phillipian” is no longer just a hobby for Joe. It is a road to success and therefore a way of life. The other associates aren’t friends anymore—they’re competition. Editor-in-chief is a solitary title, so Joe isolates himself further and focuses solely on his target. He sucks up to his editors while trying to undermine the other associates. He pressures the freshman writers underneath him, becoming downright ferocious when they miss deadlines or use Oxford commas that could cost him his position. Finally, finally Joe’s year as an associate is over and he moves up. The final stage of any addiction is full dependency. If he is not editor in chief, Joe is part of the notoriously exclusive upper management. School life and “Phillipian” life are inseparable. It becomes difficult the face the day without the latter. Joe cannot figure out his purpose if he does not have another article to edit, layout to make 30
or deadline to meet. The night before the paper comes out, he stays up until 2 or 3 am to finish editing. But Joe is falling apart. His physical health is poor as he has little time to eat or sleep or relax. He subsists solely on caffeine and adrenalin. He can no longer distinguish what “normal” is without “The Phillipian” as his guide. He has built up what doctors call “tolerance” for the “Phillipian” drug. The neurons in his brain are overspent, insensitive to all but the highest levels of serotonin and dopamine. He is trapped in a world of gray, blindly hoping that each weekly issue will grant him the unattainable happiness. The worse part of this terrible, consuming addiction is its self-perpetuation. Unlike most drug use, which would quickly be crushed by the school and caring adults, the school actually encourages Joe in his “Phillipian” endeavors. The dean of students grants Joe a “covenant,” or an excuse from regular sign in. A parade of school administrators congratulates him every time the paper comes out. And finally, top colleges will offer acceptance to him and every single member of the senior board. Feeling infinitely indebted to this overwhelming backtracks
addiction, Joe and his board recruit zealously, ensnaring many young, talented writers in the “Phillipian” drug’s trap. Due to the old board’s extreme addiction, “The Phillipian” progresses, becoming a better publication that attracts stronger writers. The paper improves with every board turnover—strengthening and fueling its distribution in a manner that could be equated to “trafficking.” The success of the paper only increases its influence. And so, even though Joe graduates, “The Phillipian” addiction continues.
The Flower Disease trying to say that it’s all for college, or that they are not genuinely passionate about Here’s the thing about being what they are doing with a writer: I find myself nattheir time not spent locked urally inclined to figurative up in a dorm room studying. language involving the words But here is what I know to “eyelashes” and “sunlight.” be true. This school is speMany educators I have had in cial in the sense that we are my sixteen years of life have all determined to make our referred to it as the “flowmark on the world, somehow, er disease.” Its symptoms some way. Some of us may include thorough analysis on be lucky enough to find that human nature, metaphors way in high school. Others that are simultaneously may take years, decades even, disturbing and inspiring, and it will crawl up on them and poignant anecdotes that when they least expect it. somehow all lead up to the But the truth of the matter conclusion that life is short, is, we aren’t really meant to so we better do a good job be looking for it at Harvard, of living it. So I’ve decided Yale, or Princeton. Don’t to challenge myself for once get me wrong, they’re the and introduce my voice to most amazing, most coveted this column as something a schools in the country, and little more prickly. Kind of I would be lying if I said I like ivy, I guess. didn’t let the mere thought We Phillipians are members of them drive many of my of a highly motivated and academic pursuits here at deeply competitive age of Andover. But what I’ve young people. The boy on learned from those 3 am my squash team interned nights studying, or getting a 4 for a scientist this summer. on a paper that I worked on I better hurry up quick and for two weeks, is that it really find the cure for cancer. That doesn’t matter that much girl in my English class went what bed I sleep in for the to Africa and worked in an four years after these. And I orphanage. It must be time know I’m just a voice behind for me to solve the humani- some words, and reading this tarian crisis in Darfur. Look, probably won’t change the I’m not trying to demean deeply ingrained philosophy the work that people at this that many of us hold inside school have done. I’m not of ourselves that Ivy is more Madeleine Lippey Columnist
notes & dispatches
important than high school or happiness. But if there’s one thing you do change, I hope it’s this: that the people you meet in high school don’t matter. They do. They’re those you turn to when everything seems to be crashing around you and sometimes there is no one else to turn to. But quite often, they end up becoming your first choice someday. Ivy is prickly. And sometimes we just need those little flowers in life. Those hugs, and kind words, and baked goods that our house counselors make. Sometimes that’s the only reason we wake up in the morning. And I know I said I wouldn’t be flowery in this first column, I guess it’s a hard habit to break. But this school needs a little bit of floweriness. We all do.
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reports hitlist
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THEATER OF
WAR
by Catherine Tousignant ‘88, Instructor in English
I
keep thinking about a line that I love from Hamlet, a poignant moment, where Laertes offers advice to his young sister Ophelia: “And keep you in the rear of your affection, / Out of the shot and danger of desire.” This line surprises us, by figuring affection as a defensive army, braced to fight against encroaching desire, a dangerous foe. Laertes’ imagery subverts his other, more traditional narrative, the one that casts the young girl as a delicate flower intoxicated by the sweet perfume of violet crush. The imagery of war shakes us here, and we regret that the anxiety of Elsinore’s guards has wormed its way into the language of love. At the end of the play, Laertes learns a horrifying lesson about the difference between metaphor and blood, between musings of murder and the swipe of the sword. The power of language to entertain, delight, terrify, reveal, mislead, construct, and destroy keeps us returning to Shakespeare again and again. We are moved by strong language, and the metaphors we hear most frequently shape our expectations and vision. When
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we talk about learning poetry and biology in terms of being efficient and productive, in terms of spending and wasting time, we reduce the whole of life itself to economics. Language serves as both soldier and marshal in the field where presidential campaigns are waged: advertising and journalism. The very word “campaign” arrives from the military lexicon. FDR introduced this metaphor decades ago, asking for permission to wage war on the emergency. But the metaphor has now grown larger than life. In recent months, military tropes have come to positively dominate the language of candidates and the narratives that journalists construct around those candidates. Mainstream newspapers and online news outlets like Politico routinely invoke the language of war to describe political engagement and discussion: Senator Scott Brown of Massachusetts is shifting strategy and going into attack mode, Brown took direct aim at Elizabeth Warren, Brown’s more-combative style was also on display during the
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debate, Romney ads target Ohio, Romney is sion, and the newspapers reprise the spectastepping up a favorite Republican attack line cle in their reviews, an endless feedback loop. in battleground states, Obama’s overzealous Environmental Protection Agency is killing Seldom do we see politics framed in the jobs, a rally draws 12,000 people to attack discourse of work, construction, probthe president in blistering terms and warn of lem-solving, negotiation, or representation. an encroaching welfare nanny state, Romney Candidates attack each other, they attack releases a commercial titled “War on Coal,” constituent groups, they attack abstract foes Paul Ryan wages war on seniors, Obama’s like freedom and coal. Journalists portray real war is against the elderly, Romney and politicians as warrior-heroes (an identity Obama launch dueling “War on Women” reserved exclusively for men) and pundits ads, the hostilities broke out just weeks after color the map in red and blue, to celebrate the New Hampshire debate, Republicans the advent of a new civil war. Meanwhile, attacked women on all fronts in 2012, the thorough coverage of actual war, in AfGOP has launched the worst assault on ghanistan and elsewhere, treads lightly in women’s rights in a generation, Presidential the shadows, receiving little or no attention race now a dog fight, the gloves are coming in stump speeches and policy analysis. We off tonight, Obama’s strategy blew up in rarely see photos of drone-destroyed homes, their faces, negative ads engage in character or mutilated corpses. We consume the metaassassination, Romney won the debate by phoric election wars with insatiable appetite; attacking Obama’s policies and putting him but we have no stomach for the real thing. on the defensive, Romney will fight mediPeacetime populations romanticize the glory cal marijuana, Romney promises to combat of war. Wartime populations long for peace. Lyme Disease. Who won the body-language war? Candidates perform this play on televi- What is it like to come of age in this rhe36 backtracks
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torical era, to learn to think about government primarily in martial metaphors? These metaphors teach us to think of leadership as an expression of toughness and aggression. Good leaders wage war. Good leaders attack. Good leaders take aim. How might our domestic and foreign policy emerge differently from a system that thinks about leaders as flexible problem-solvers? As sensitive representatives of diverse populations? On July 4, the Los Angeles Times ran a story with this lede: “There’s good news from the front in one of our internecine economic and political battles: the war between the generations.” The article claims that young voters don’t buy into campaign propaganda that casts their grandparents as their enemies. But they seem strongly influenced by narratives of martial glory. When Osama Bin Laden was assassinated by U.S. Marines, many students at Andover erupted in cheers of celebration: “We won!” they crowed. Their joy seemed sincere. I wondered how many of them had ever held a dead body,
or lived in a war zone, or grown up without a parent. Must murder and warfare be read as sources of joy? Has over-exposure to political theater left us numb? When politicians and journalists recite and perform the script of false war day after day after day, we ironically become more distanced from the horrors of violence and blood. I was startled last month to witness a kind of war-rally in Cochran Chapel at opening All-School Meeting. The addition of the drum line in recent years transforms the international flags from United Nations into Color Guard. The drums of war invite tribal rivalry between classes, and class chants have become more hostile and competitive. Such a sight as this becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. These are not old traditions at Andover. But our student leaders will take their cues from tropes of leadership they hear and see in contemporary culture. Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why.
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Bread & Circuses Section Editor Eric
Meyers responds to political essayist & military historian Victor Davis Hanson.
Victor Davis Hanson is both a renowned
recognized that Medicare is a primary driver
classicist and an insightful social observer.
of America’s rapidly expanding national
So, when he draws analogies between the
debt. And it is equally clear from the 2012
decay of ancient Rome and the decline of
Medicare Trustees’ Report that Medicare
modern America, I listen attentively to what
may become insolvent by 2024. Hence, the
he has to say.
bi-partisan necessity to meaningfully reform Medicare should be plainly evident to Dem-
In a National Review article titled “Are We
ocrats and Republicans alike.
Doomed,” Hanson describes how the “Roman satirist Juvenal lamented the ill effects of free food and free en-
Their refusal to engage in meaningful bipartisan reform ensures the bankruptcy of the program they hypocritically defend just as it all but guarantees the
tertainment for the
continued explosion of the national
masses (‘bread and
debt they pretend to curtail.
circuses’) in part be-
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Yet, Medicare remains a third rail of American politics, a suitably grim metaphor that compares Medicare reform to the electrical rail on a railroad track
cause he knew there was no remedy for the
that electrocutes any person foolish enough
pathology” they represented. Providing free
to step on it. Hence, most politicians steer
food and gladiatorial games for the common
clear of Medicare reform with the steely
citizens was bankrupting the Roman Empire.
determination of a habitual truant skipping
Yet few Roman emperors changed this poli-
school. But they are only too happy to
cy for fear the mob would rise up and allow
shove their opponents onto the tracks and
a “usurper” from the provinces to depose
watch them politically self-immolate on this
them.
third rail if they urge Medicare reform.
Hanson argues that some American poli-
Paul Ryan is a case in point. When he pro-
ticians are now caught between the same
posed reforms to Medicare in 2011, many
political rock and economic hard place.
caricatured the policy wonk Ryan as a wild-
Take Medicare, for example. It is widely
eyed radical. There was even an ad from a backtracks
liberal advocacy group depicting a Ryan look
havior by noting that democratic “societies
alike pushing a grandmother in a wheelchair
never voluntarily reduce entitlements” be-
over a cliff to the accompaniment of “Amer-
cause “appetites” are “judged by an absolute
ica the Beautiful.” Now some Democrats
standard, not “a relative one.” He describes
claim that Mitt Romney plans to end Medi-
a kind of political homeostasis where each
care as we know it for seniors even though
rise in entitlement spending creates a cor-
his reforms exempt those who are in or near
respondingly higher sense of entitlement
retirement.
among those who receive these benefits. Thus, Hanson observes how prescription
In short, the same political dynamic Juvenal
drug benefits that were once considered
satirized in ancient Rome is now playing
“generous” are now regarded as inade-
on the center stage of American politics.
quate after Bush’s 2006 Medicare Prescrip-
Medicare and the exploding national debt it
tion-Drug Law raised these benefits.
represents remain no less a “pathology” than the bread and circuses of the Roman emper-
The result is what Hanson calls “a self-per-
ors. Yet as Hanson observes, many politi-
petuating cycle” of ever increasing deficit
cians continue to regard “the perceived med-
spending “that cannot be stopped and yet
icine” needed to reform Medicare as “worse
cannot go on.” Hanson discerns that, “Our
than the known disease” it represents. The
salvation lies in a group of politicians who
result is a continuing drama that is part farce
will balance budgets, put entitlements on a
and part national tragedy.
fiscally sustainable basis, and remind Americans that in comparison with our predeces-
Many of these same politicians mouth plati-
sors — who gave us much of what we enjoy
tudes about saving Medicare and supporting
— we live in amazingly prosperous lives.”
debt reform. Yet their refusal to engage in meaningful bipartisan reform ensures the
However, as Hanson’s reference to Juve-
bankruptcy of the program they hypocriti-
nal and the decline of the Roman Empire
cally defend just as it all but guarantees the
suggests, he fears for our future as he looks
continued explosion of the national debt
to the past to draw the sobering conclusion
they pretend to curtail. Their solution is to
that, “Financial implosion, not prudent
kick the proverbial can of Medicare reform
correction, is the usual remedy for reckless
down a road that dead ends at a cliff.
expenditure.”
Hanson explains this self-destructive bereports
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Fact or Fiction: America is worse
now than it was four years ago.
by Lily Grossbard
I’ve heard many Democrats, myself included, mindlessly parrot conservative protests that President Barack Obama has not done anything for America. Obama promised “Change.” Instead, he has brought us out of recession and then failed to provide sustainable solutions for our unstable future. Just as his grammatically challenged new slogan “Forward.” abruptly halts the progress it promises with an ill-placed period, our country’s frail forward motion may soon arrive at a debilitating stop. To say Obama has done nothing is simply not true but Democrats, nonetheless, face a hard choice in this election: should they really vote for an incumbent who has let them down? Let’s start with Obama’s foreign policy successes. At the time he took office, the United States was fighting two futile wars in the Middle East and pursuing a vendetta against Al Qaeda. Obama has more or less successfully ended the Iraq War and is preparing to withdraw all American troops from Afghanistan by the end of 2014 (at least according to his current foreign policy platform). Thanks to his efforts, Al Qaeda is at its weakest yet, with Osama bin Laden dead (a feat even the belligerent Bush Administration could not accomplish) and many of its leaders killed. Obama and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton have also handled the turmoil of the Arab Spring that began in early 40
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2011 with intelligent policies supportive of a changing Middle Eastern political landscape (except for a lack of engagement with the Assad regime in Syria). There is the recent problem of attacks on the Libyan consulate where the facts still remain murky. Here I cannot defend Obama; considering the current situation in Libya, it does seem foolish of the State Department to have been so unprepared for an attack. But overall, Obama’s foreign policy accomplishments far outweigh his few and far between failures, and America is no longer the Western nation hated around the world as it seemed to be under the Bush Administration. But foreign policy is not where most Americans sought change. The real issue, of course, is the “Economy,” which has become a euphemism for our concern that America is no longer Number One, because we are afraid to admit that years of failed policies and the emergence of newer economies (such as China) point towards our decline. But before we judge Obama’s performance with respect to the economy, let’s look at the facts. According to the U.S. Department of the Treasury, Obama inherited exactly $10,626,877,048,913.08 when he took office on January 9, 2009. Today, that number is above $16 trillion. While there are a number of policies Obama enacted to control the budget, they fail to cure the debt and its associated problems and were passed only because they were not strong enough to rouse the anger of congressional Republicans. Take, for example, the Budget Control Act. According to the Office of Management and Budget, it will generate one trillion in reductions (barely 6% of the debt) over ten years by decreasing discretionary spending. This year $23 billion was cut from the federal budget. At the same time, federal spending for 2013 is estimated to be $3.8 trillion. We need a leader who isn’t afraid make tough cuts and enact policy reforms even if that means “ceding territory” to Republicans (dare I infer the need for a compromise?). reports
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The taboo here, however, is really entitlement spending. In 2008, entitlement programs cost the government $1.7 trillion. Today, that number is $2.1 trillion, with a projected rise to $2.7 trillion within the next five years. And to top it off, we now have ObamaCare. I don’t want to sound like Sarah Palin; I do believe in universal health care. But no matter how you look at it, the Affordable Care Act alone is costing us $2.6 trillion in the next decade. Creating jobs is one area where Obama has succeeded. I would argue that job creation is the direct result of Obama’s efforts. The U.S. saw serious job loss throughout 2008, a trend that was slowed and reversed within the first year of his presidency by thirty months of consecutive job growth, and jobs are expected to continue to see growth well beyond their four-year high (according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics). Jobs increased along with the milestones of the Obama presidency: bailouts for the auto industry, the extension of unemployment compensation, and, perhaps most important, the Recovery Act, which provided tax cuts for middle-income families and small businesses. However, taxes are projected to rise, unless current legislation is extended. The presidential job approval for the week just after President Obama’s inauguration approached 70 percent. Today it hovers just below 50 percent. No one said it’s easy being president, and Obama faced impossible challenges from day one. What I like about Obama is that he tries. Even if he doesn’t always know how to get from point A to point B, what he wants for our coun42
try is truly what’s best for the people, and he will continue to work until the United States reaches its ultimate goals of prosperity and freedom for all. His efforts have not gone completely unrewarded; even if a new recession were to occur, the jobless rate is now down to 7.8% as of October 5, and the Dow Jones Industrial Average has risen nearly 7,000 points since its stunning low in March 2009, among other signs of a healthy economy.
In 2008, entitlement programs cost the government $1.7 trillion. Today, that number is $2.1 trillion, with a projected rise to $2.7 trillion within the next five years. And to top it off, we now have ObamaCare. Despite all his problems, if I could vote, I would do so for Barack Obama. This election will decide the future of our country, and I do not mean that lightly. First of all, I strongly dislike Romney’s policies. Obama is, in this sense, the lesser of two evils. Even though he has not done much for our country, he did do something. But Obama has failed because he promised he would bring America into a new era. America is better off than it was four years ago, but we are nowhere near where we could or should be. Obama is not the leader many of us so desperately sought. Perhaps it was foolish of me, and most Democrats for that matter, to assume that a charismatic guy with a forceful message of hope and change could just change the world with a wave of his magic wand.
backtracks
GOLDEN ARCHES Kana Rolett compares American and Japanese obesity rates and causes.
88 percent of the people in the developed world recognize the big, bright, and golden arches of the McDonald’s restaurants in their countries. Yet, if all of these people have easy
access to fast food, why do some countries have higher rates of obesity than others? I decided to investigate this question by comparing the developed countries with the lowest and highest rates of obesity: Japan (3 percent) and the United States (31 percent). Coincidentally, the U.S. and Japan rank number one and two for the number of McDonald’s. I hypothesize that obesity is a result of five factors: food preference, genetics, lack of exercise, government policies, and culture. My cross-cultural study took place at Ala Moana Center on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. In addition to being the largest shopping mall in Hawaii, it is the largest open-air shopping mall in the world. Millions of people visit Ala Moana reportsevery year, and much of its business comes 43
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from tourists. Over four million tourists visit
fast food chain, was closed, the proportion
Oahu annually. More than half are from
of Americans choosing American fast food
the continental United States, and about one
chains over “no name” Asian restaurants
fourth are from Japan. Twenty-four venders
jumped from 55 percent to 71 percent. Only
serve international food at the Ala Moana
ten tourists ate from a “no name” vendor.
food court. In 2010 and 2011, I visited
However, when Panda Express reopened,
this food court on twenty-four Sundays at
53 percent of the Mainland tourists chose
lunchtime, and recorded the food preferenc-
American food, and 19 percent returned to
es of 2,833 tourists from the U.S. mainland
Panda Express. As the fastest growing Chi-
and Japan. My goal was to identify clues that
nese restaurant chain in America, with 1422
help explain the drastically different rates of
restaurants, Panda Express is a household
obesity in Japan and America.
name for many Americans. It seems that
My study shows that even after traveling
name recognition is a driving factor among
3,850 miles from Japan, 46 percent of Jap-
Americans when deciding where to eat.
anese tourists still preferred Japanese food.
My results suggest that both Japanese and
Only 23 percent of Japanese chose American
Americans prefer foods they are accustomed
food. Fifty-five percent of mainland tourists
to, and that fast food chains are successful
preferred American food, and 18 percent
because of their ubiquity, not necessarily the
preferred Chinese food. Significantly, during
tastiness of their food.
one month when Panda Express, a Chinese
Although I did not realize it at the time, my
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research began when I was in kindergarten
employees and are penalized if overweight
as a summer student in my mother’s home-
employees do not lose weight. Outside work,
town in Japan. During my eleven summers
Japan’s homogeneous society frowns upon
in Japan, I have noticed many differences
overweight citizens and at department stores,
between American and Japanese eating hab-
clothes sizes are limited and small (by Ameri-
its. For example, young Japanese students
can standards).
are required to eat healthy, balanced school
What can Americans gain from Japan’s suc-
lunches called kyushoku. They become
cess in public health? Studies, including this
accustomed to healthy eating habits and
one, suggest that eating habits are developed
traditional Japanese food from daily shokui-
at a young age and that people tend to prefer
ku, or food education lessons, at school. A
food that is familiar to them. Should the
teacher licensed to teach nutrition discusses
American government regulate the current
every lunch’s nutritional value. The dai-
lunch system more strictly to teach students
ly exercise habits of the Japanese people
to eat healthier foods? Should the govern-
further contribute to Japan’s low obesity rate
ment enforce stricter laws on obesity outside
because the Japanese rely heavily on walk-
of school as well? America has led the world
ing and public transportation. Additionally,
in the fight against smoking. It’s time for it
Japanese government policies vigorously
to spearhead the fight against obesity!
discourage obesity. Major companies are required to measure the waist size of their reports
45
Sí, Se Puede Foundation is a non-profit advocacy and Si, Se Puede The youth violence prevention program in cities across the nation.
The organization seeks to promote peaceful conflict resolution and engage urban youth with positive community interaction. Loida
Pan reflects.
“Who is Juanes?” The boy who asked me this question was called Yakiel. He sat next to me, head tilted, narrow-eyed, eyebrows raised, dark curls bouncing on his head. Peggy, whom all the kids affectionately called Pam, the co-founder of Sí, Se Puede, had introduced me to him. As soon as Yakiel had come, he had quickly taken a seat at the farthest end of the table. He was small with a light brown complexion. A messy collection of dark curls topped his head. I had tried to make him talk, but after fifteen minutes of my rambling, all I had gotten from him was that his preferred method of communication was head nodding. It was obvious that I would probably never get more than a sentence from him. I gave up persuading him to talk to me and turned my attention to the math worksheet on the table. Every Wednesday at two, a bright yellow bus would take me away from the polished lawns of Phillips Academy to the very urban atmosphere of Lawrence. I would help the kids from Sí, Se Puede with their homework or tutor them in whatever subject they needed help. Yakiel was one of the kids I got to work with. 46
I enjoyed tutoring my students, but the silence in the small room that day with Yakiel started to suffocate me. I began to hum, desperately trying to get rid of it. “What are you humming?” I jumped. I hadn’t expected Yakiel to speak to me. I thought about it for a while, straining to remember the name of the singer. “It was a song by Juanes,” I replied. He seemed to think about it for a second. “Who is Juanes?” he asked. With that question I had finally broken the ice. After that, I felt that I was with a different boy. I discovered that Yakiel loved to talk. He spoke of his Dominican family and his school and how he utterly detested math. He related his dreams of becoming a basketball player, and if that didn’t work, a baseball player, to me. I also realized that Yakiel would do almost anything to avoid homework. After slowly completing the first addition problems on the worksheet, we moved to the division problems. They proved to be a challenge for him. Yakiel simply couldn’t grasp the idea of dividing. I was very frustrated, and he was utterly confused. I glared at the worksheet silently wishing it would disappear. Perhaps sensing the frustration in the room, Peggy came
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in with a box of raisins. I thought about something for a minute. I stared at the problem and then I directed my attention to the bright red box filled with raisins. I grabbed the box, dumped the raisins on the table and started to count. Yakiel looked on silently. “Okay. I have eight raisins, right? I want to share them with you. I have
Lawrence wasn’t so different from Jamaica Queens, the neighborhood where I was raised. Jamaica was the epicenter of violence in Queens. Even schools were not spared. During my middle school years one of my teachers had nearly been killed in our school’s parking lot. Mothers held their strollers a little bit tighter than necessary, and the news
to separate them into two groups that would almost always have the same amount contain some sort of of raisins. How many unfortunate occurraisins should I give rence from Jamaica. you?” I held my breath My Sí, Se Puede had been while he thought about my home. My mother it. His head was would sit with me, quizcocked to one zing me on the multiplicaside, staring at the tion tables or helping me raisins, studying sound-out a particularly every single one of hard word. I remember my them. frustration at being unable After a long pause to remember the 8 times he answered, tables. My mother and I had practiced for “Four.” a whole afternoon, and I had finally gotten I smiled as he looked up to me for confirthem down. mation, and he smiled back at me. We ate Books, textbooks, and worksheets are the rest of the raisins together. Division undoubtedly a very precious resource in didn’t seem so hard anymore. schools, yet somehow I feel that if children Later on in the week, I asked Peggy why Sí, were only handed these things, they would Se Puede was started. I learned that Lawnot learn anything of value. Sí, Se Puede rence had been plagued with racial tension. offered the other component that is needIt had reached its peak in 1985. Violence ed for children to embrace education. It had escalated to a point where riots were provided support, something that no one breaking out. Parents wanted a safe haven should be denied. for their children. Sí, Se Puede offered it to them. 47 reports
Because There is Only One
A campaign advertisement leads our columnist Rosaslyn Chen to a surprising reflection on the value of following dreams in a society (school) increasingly focused on power
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few weeks ago, I touched the TV remote control for the first time in months. To my surprise and dismay (doubtless exacerbated by my profound depths of television ignorance from months of only watching reruns of Saturday Night Live), I was greeted neither by the renowned wonders of ABC reality shows nor by the awe-inspiring vision of talking dogs on a national talent competition. Instead I was heralded by the face of one ex-governor, whose current appearance I now solely recognize from Google News headlines proclaiming his gaffes in European relations. While a dreary soundtrack accompanied the Romney commercial, denouncing the Obama Administration via a very articulate list, I felt that the overall advertisement was like my personal audience invitation to “Mudslinging Fest 2012”. (oh, wait. I’ve been informed that the correct term is “the Presidential Election”. Sorry about that.) Perhaps it’s better to cleave some distance between truth and politics first. I do not believe that the extreme classifications—Obama is a socialist! Romney is an exemplification of the archetypal capitalist pig!—made by both sides are valid; but I do believe that these exaggerations tend to shed an occasional but substantial light on highly relevant topics. As loath as some Democrats are to admit it, Romney is quite accurate on some counts: there are many problems, including employment, that currently compel us to seriously consider our futures—blindly hoping for government to serve as panacea to our problems seems a foolish choice. In terms of relevant issues for our generation, one of the foremost is employment. As many speakers have recently preached to masses, we do face an emerging international job market in
which competitiveness is as steep as overdone tea and prerequisites far exceed the high school diploma once needed for our precious 9-to-5 jobs. The 20th century sitcom-lifestyle is becoming an obsolete one, and we have become increasingly aware of the escalating nail-biting intensity of the 21st century. The standards of society, meanwhile, aggravate these circumstances further. As our culture undoubtedly continues to become myopic in its expanse of “acceptable” careers, it engenders a sinister sort of mantra: the pursuit of power, prestige, and financial profit invariably supersedes any personal aspirations. We are taught, in our formative years, that only specific careers allow a respectable standing in the community— politicians and lawyers, regardless of their moral integrity or lack thereof, are frequently placed on pedestals because of their influence; doctors and engineers are admired for their seemingly esoteric specialized education; celebrities like the Kardashians suggest to us that wealth is a lifestyle unto itself. Most of us have had prolonged exposure to this kind of thinking even outside the confines of media. Up to this point, some lives seem to be an executed blueprint around this fascination with wealth and prestige. Why else would parents intercede in their children’s education, even going as far as sending them to a private New England preparatory boarding school? They most likely harbor some affection or at least expectation for their children, and they almost certainly believe that parents cannot do their children a greater favor than transforming them into the educated elite. And we ultimately go along with it; statistics in a recent survey, documenting the most desired jobs for young professionals, report that the Top
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25 employment situations mainly consist of major corporations, renowned clinics, government departments, and technology companies. This trend seems to be the mark of a well-qualified and rationally-thinking age, but it is also slightly unsettling. What are the odds of the millions of us sharing precisely the same passions? It seems rather improbable. Could we then rightfully infer that these results may be heavily impacted by the pressure of conforming to our aforementioned circumstances? And perhaps more significantly, at what cost is this social compliance attained? A society filled with only the highly paid, trained, and respected employees we value would be a drab and ill-functioning one indeed; homogeneity usually yields, as many science fiction novels warn, dystopian futures. Moreover, history reminds us that the hallmarks of an advanced civilization are art and culture; technology progresses both with the steady incline of diligence and startling leaps of creativity. John Lennon once professed, “My role in society, or any artist’s or poet’s role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.” And we are all artists of our own identities. Our projections of ourselves encompass our emotions, and our social personalities, chosen freely, are reflections of our true selves. We can thus conclude that maybe—dare I say it?—the pursuit of the transient surges of the job market may be actually less desirable than chasing your actual aspirations. There are undoubtedly always those who are wanderers, searching different scopes to find what they can accept as their ultimate objective. Their lives will most likely lead them on winding, hopefully fruitful (with happiness!) trails. However, if you are among the fortunate who have defined their goals, it is best to pursue your dreams with your own capabilities. That, of course, may
require dismissing society’s definition of success. Most likely, you will meet adversity, obstacles, hard times, and the like—but in what aspect of life is there not struggle? If your passion in a field is truly consuming, personal fulfillment should be of utmost importance, even if that means making certain concessions. Maybe you’ll become the next Dali with your surrealist paintings of break dancing bluebirds, appreciated by critics and the general populace alike. Maybe you’ll end up living in your parent’s basement/attic eating 33 cent ramen meals a day to fund your aspirations of becoming a renowned beatnik poet. Maybe someday your poems about the distinct relationship of the proletariat and your left pinky toenail will finally be appreciated. Maybe you’ll be commuting home from work on a blustery Tuesday evening and suddenly realize that your existence is the very epitome of the eloquent BS you’ve structured your life around, clogged with the various influences that everyone has foisted upon you. And yet, you might, during your later years, be retroactively evaluating your life and be glad that you spent your existence— because there is only one!—seizing opportunities that you actually felt that subtly-tinged moment of being alive in. And although you might not be favorably compared to some high ranking CEO of some Fortune 500 company, and you may not be well-endowed with material wealth, you will always know that you have accomplished what not many have (those poor souls with their full-yet-ultimately-empty existence)—you will have lived your life in a way that is meaningful to you. What is there further to say? Carpe diem? Follow your heart? Know thyself ? The truth seems to be within all of us, occasionally nebulous but ultimately omnipresent. It is our potential comfort; it is knowing what helps us sleep at night.
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humane letters hitlist
51
katherine vega My dear, sweet child(ren), Perhaps this is a letter to no one. Perhaps I became a nun or a travelling circus woman or a young widow and you are nonexistent. In that case, the only records of this letter will reside in my computer and a school magazine, which suits me just fine, because these are two more places than it could have been and I feel that what I think should be written down at some point, if only to look back on and laugh at. For the purposes of this letter, I will assume that you exist. Hello! I’m the person who will one day be your mother. Right now, I’m up late trying to finish three subjects at once and write this letter and not really getting anything done. This is not an unusual occurrence for a Sunday night. But I digress. I want to tell you about myself, because I’m sure that by the time you read this I will probably be very lame and embarrassing and you will most likely wonder if I was always this clueless. I assure you, at age 16, I am only a little bit lame and not very clueless at all. Perhaps I will change, though. I’m sixteen. I hang out with my friends, I do homework, and sometimes I get pimples. I also live in a dorm with 36 other girls. There is no shortage of loud shrieks or ugly furniture or hair in the shower drain. But still, there’s no place I’d rather lose sleep. I’ve grown close with the girls I live with and have decorated my room with pictures of the people who matter most to me. I also have a Barack Obama poster on my wall because I consider myself a pretty big fan. If I’m a Republican when you read this, something has gone
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horribly, horribly wrong. I also want to give you some advice. This is the most important part. I want to tell you that your latest crisis is very, very unlikely to be a crisis at all, and this too shall pass. I know this because I am surrounded by peers who always have new crises, and while I appear empathetic, I secretly never think their problems are that bad. On the other hand, I am always in a state of actual crisis and everyone assures me that whatever I’m going through can be easily managed. Therefore, I can safely assume that nothing is ever as bad as it seems and nearly everything always gets better. When you start freaking out because something didn’t go according to plan, remember that things rarely do anyway. I want you to remember this, because one day I won’t be there to tell you. This is what your grandma and grandpa and great-grandma always told me when I was younger and made mistakes and got frustrated. I’m just starting to realize it about a dozen years too late. There is one more thing I have to tell you. Family comes first, okay? Always, no matter what. Without me there is no you, and by the time you’re born I’m sure the converse will be true as well, because moms are weird like that and love unconditionally. I will always want the best for you, even if what you want to do and what I think you should do directly conflict with each other. Please don’t ever feel the need to rebel against me, because as a teenager I think rebellion is overrated. Know that I will understand, that I’m not as clueless as I appear, and that you can always trust me, even though I’ll be old and embarrassing in public. Love, Mom
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ida dhanuka “The only books that influence us are those for which we are ready, and which have gone a little farther down our particular path than we have yet got ourselves.” — E.M. Forster, English Novelist, Writer. To T.H. White, I’d like to thank you for my childhood, and my adolescence too. The first time I read “The Once and Future King” I was ten years old and a little precocious, thumbing through books by Verne and Asimov with sticky fingers during those long winter evenings when my parents were at work. The story of King Arthur means many different things to many different people. I’m sure the story you wrote meant something entirely different to you. Did you have a deeper meaning, as English teachers will insist? I’ve always suspected that the best stories were written not to make a point, but simply because they are good stories. People can draw their own conclusions from the heroic bouts of knights and the sly smiles of fairies. For me, the story of King Arthur was a story about childhood and, inevitably, about growing up. The white walls of Camelot, each brick polished with nostalgia, will always be gleaming in my memories; the skies will always be as blue as they seemed when I was little. In my mind, I was the young Prince Arthur, who never knew he was going to be a king, who drew a sword from a stone purely by accident. My vision of King Arthur was of a bewildered boy whose crown never fit quite right. King Arthur grew with me. He started out as ‘Art’, as a wandering child who spent his time in daydreams and trekked through the thick netted undergrowth of damp
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and deep forests, searching for an adventure, a quest, in the shadows of tree trunks and the musty smell of leaves. I trampled through the tangled branches of my imagination, hoping to find Robin Hood. I never came back empty-handed. But everyone has to grow, as Arthur and I both did. Still naïve and idealistic and hopelessly romantic, waving sticks as if they were swords, we stumbled awkwardly towards more responsibility than either of us could bear. I learned solemn lessons at the feet of Gaelic saints and ancient sorcerers, and carried them with me long before they were needed, because I knew King Arthur learned them and so I would too. And we both were let down a little, by aching Lancelots and quiet Guineveres. I understood disappointment then, the lonely hurt deep in my chest, because I felt it in the silent sadness of a cuckolded, honest king, and I learned to recognize exhaustion, bone deep and final, when that king faded into the mists of Avalon. I always came back to this book to lick my wounds, to view life from a distance when it got too much up close. On muggy, rainy nights I curled into the softness of the wellworn pages. I came to it on summer days, the grass soft and green between my toes, when I wanted to unwind the knots in my spine and melt into the sunshine. I came to you, Mr. White, for perspective, for understanding. I guess what I’m trying to say, in a long-winded and sentimental way, is thank you for writing a story that resonated so strongly with me. You created a story that made life more comprehensible, when I was little girl with her head in the clouds. You’ve made more of an impression on me than either of us know.
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katherine tobeason Dear Part-Time CVS Worker, We met today, but you probably don’t remember me. My name is Katherine. I used cash, so you wouldn’t know it. Your name’s Sandy, right? That’s what the name tag said anyway. Earlier we exchanged commercial smiles, change, and perfunctory “thank you”s. Out of context, this transaction might have resembled the most cliché and banal example of societal manners. However, the meaning behind my words was no common thing. While lugging my purchased items from the counter, I briefly considered explaining myself but, in the light of propriety, decided against it. One reason for my restraint is the impressive record I hold for brilliantly redefining the word “awkward” every time I open my mouth. It’s easier to write my thoughts on paper, where they can be categorized as “emotional” or “complete nonsense” then deleted and replaced. Unfortunately, it would be a bit odd to carry paper everywhere. For this reason, I respect and emulate the genius who invented the concept of the unsent message. In this letter that you will never read, I would like to thank you, not for packing up my items carefully, but for showing me an unreserved and startling kindness. Your tone speaking to me, an absolute stranger, was one of open-minded empathy, while your words showed honest interest in my interests, bereft of ulterior motives or the sour taint of pity. You are not anyone to me, and likewise I am no one to you. Somehow this makes
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your actions all the more peculiar and laudable. I can only glimpse a tiny corner of your story. The tiny corner which reveals your name, job, petite stature, and nutty-brown hair. Stretching far out of my line of sight is the complete mural of your life, crammed with intertwining dreams, secrets, and nightmares. Although the entirety of the vibrant, gleaming fabric is quite a dizzying blur to me, I cannot help but notice and admire the shimmering, soft threads of kindness woven throughout. You are just a person I met on a rainy Saturday. Still, that meeting makes me smile because you reminded me that if you look for the best in people, every once in a while, you’ll be rewarded with something beautiful. Thanks again, The Girl who Bought Three Bags of Candy, Ginger Ale, and Mouthwash
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Columnist Katia Lezine goes to Turkey
Unique “Девушка, пить?”
all things which occurred in a tropical haze
A cheesily grinning waiter prompted me
of hibiscus and the turquoise glint of the
with broken Russian, a cocktail menu bal-
Mediterranean.
anced between his hands as he attempted
Throughout my time in Turkey, I frequently
to sell me an alcoholic drink. I leaned back
encountered one specific reaction to my
against the rough wooden lattice of my
appearance. “Russian girl!” a kindly house-
chair and rolled my eyes; first of all, I don’t
wife declared as she pinched my cheeks in a
speak Russian. And second, since when is
dimly-lit store lined with handmade carpets, or I was greeted with “Добрый день!”
In the United Sates we often fail to see the diversity within our own communities, labeling European’s as “White,” all those of Asian ancestry as “Asian,” and African or dark-skinned individuals as simply “Black.”
by resort-workers as I walked along the sandy path towards the beach. Turkey, especially its southern cities along the Mediterranean, is apparently an extremely popular destination for Ukrainians and Russians to vacation, leading to many of the resort staff
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it perfectly normal, even encouraged, for
being nearly fluent in Russian. My heritage
a sixteen year-old to order mojitos? But as
is from both of these nations, as my father
I nodded the waiter away and sipped my
is Russian and my mother Ukrainian, but
lemonade, I had to remind myself: I’m in
I am rarely told that I look foreign. In the
Turkey.
states, most would conclude that I look
This wasn’t the United States, where under-
like your average American, despite having
age drinking is a criminal act and my light
foreign parents. It was a wholly new expe-
complexion wouldn’t get me noticed in a
rience to be considered foreign-looking or
heartbeat. No, instead I was in a country
Russian.
of great food, golden tanned skin, and a
There were a few odd times, however, when
slightly more relaxed policy on drinking,
I was met with a quite different reaction
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to my appearance. Several people actually
cestry: white. Within this group of diverse
mistook me for a native Turkish girl, and
individuals, there is an enormous number
one waiter even declared excitedly that I
of different cultures and races, from Italian
“looked exactly like his Turkish ex-girl-
and French to even Russian and Scandi-
friend.” That was a little weird. After the
navian. However, in the United Sates we
waiter declared this about my appearance,
often fail to see the diversity within our
my dad placed his lahmacun, a thin Turkish
own communities, labeling Europeans’
bread similar to pizza, down and looked
as “White,” all those of Asian ancestry as
disapprovingly at the waiter, asking for the
“Asian,” and African or dark-skinned indi-
cheque. That was the end of that compari-
viduals as simply “Black.”
son, but it left me wondering, could I really
In Turkey, each country represents a differ-
pass off as a Turk? If I can be Russian, I
ent culture and lifestyle; someone who is
suppose Turkish is fair game, too. There
born and bred Italian is no more similar to
was one bizarre occasion, however, when
an individual born in the Ukraine than an
the comparison was just too ridiculous to
apple to an orange. There is no overarch-
even ponder – Japanese. A jovial waiter
ing concept of “White,” “Black” or “Asian,”
asked my dad in a string of incorrectly used
and each culture is accounted for with the
English words, “You sir, Japan, no?” I’ll be
diverse and unique properties it values. My
the first to tell you that my father and I are
experiences of misidentification in Turkey
about the furthest thing from Japanese.
proved to be more than just entertaining;
These misconceptions about my race and
it led me to the realization that we are
country of origin led me to reflect on how
all uniquely different, even in the United
I am perceived as a Caucasian girl in the
States. After being thought of as simply a
United States, a nation in which the initial
“White” person my entire life, I find myself
reaction to my appearance is so different
questioning this practice, and wondering if
from elsewhere in the world. In this coun-
just maybe, the Turkish way of valuing the
try, I am perceived to be in the same group
unique attributes of different cultures is the
of people as all those with European an-
right way, after all.
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reviews
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Nothing Special By Annika Neklason
Joshua Ferris Then We Came to the End
W
e live in a sensationalist world. Newspaper headlines and world record books make hyperbolic claims, touting the highest, the longest, the most. Reality show competitions and pageants search out the best new talent in America, the world, the universe. Many literary works do the same, delving into the extraordinary lives of boy wizards marked by wielders of dark magic, girls courted by hundred-year-old vampires, teenagers fighting to the death in dystopian societies. Although I enjoy Harry Potter immensely and have read through my fair share of fantastical novels, I’ve always been a fan of literature which instead focuses on the mundane realities of everyday existence. So when, by chance, I picked up a copy of Joshua Ferris’s Then We Came to the End in a used bookstore last year and gathered from the blurb on the back that it contained the story of employees at a Chicago advertising agency, I was immediately intrigued. The novel did not disappoint. The very antithesis of the adventure books I read as a child, it recounts no magical quests or epic battles. Instead it shadows a group of imperfect and remarkably unremarkable businesspeople as they gossip around a water cooler, attend business meetings, and deal with the economic crisis which threatens the company and their jobs. Whole chapters dedicated to the guilty thrill of taking fired coworker’s chairs and the deeply important search for the best restaurant at which to eat lunch had me alternately laughing and crying. Ferris’s first person plural narration adopts the reader into the tight-knit office circle, further emphasizing the normalcy of the situation and characters. Though at times linguistically impractical, the ‘we’ -- with no identified ‘I’ -- perspective suits the emphatically ordinary story well. The book comes off more like a conversation with an old friend over dinner than it does like a novel, making the comedy and tragedy feel more intimate and authentic. The triumph of Ferris’s novel is exactly what may turn adventure-seekers and fantastical daydreamers like my father away: its enduring mundanity. The characters remain authentically average and human throughout, even as their traits are further developed and their backstories explored. Layoffs expose both comic and tragic elements in the workplace and its inhabitants, but never escalate into newsworthy cir-
cumstances. The novel begins with a promise of stagnancy: “We are fractious and overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen.” It never strays from that opening tone, but succeeds in making the mood immensely moving, funny, and entertaining. As the novel itself came to the end, I momentarily felt a quiet sense of remorse for the characters who never achieved anything exceptional, or even notable. But there’s something satisfying about such an ending as well; when I put down the book I wasn’t hungry, desperate, for more but rather satiated and comfortable with what I’d read and how it had drawn to a close. There was no cliffhanger, no promise of more remarkable things to come, only an unspoken assurance of continuing normality. In the end, what I love most about Then We Came to the End and works of its kind are the straightforwardness and honesty of a story about normal people living normal lives. We concern ourselves so often with the tales of the special few, the one percent as it were, that a book about the less special many feels fresh and intriguing. There’s something to be said for a story with no pretensions, a novel which finds the art in mundane-ness and the heart in routine. A novel which brings to life no fantastical new realities in the reader’s imagination, but rather inspires the realization of quiet truths about this reality. A novel which asks no big questions, but maybe answers some anyway.
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Monster
RedBull
Or, as I like to call it, liquid dub-step in a can. This created a burning sensation in my throat as I chugged it. Even after washing my mouth out with water, it still seemed as though I had ingested an amalgam of battery acid and Sweet n’ Low. While I was kept awake, I didn’t find it to be overwhelmingly energizing. The resulting epically bad breath was slightly scary.
If Monster is dub-step in a can, Red Bull is house. Slightly more muted than its intense cousin, this drink manages to be simutaneously bitter and sickeningly sweet. Again, I wasn’t overwhelmingly energized and began to fall asleep while doing homework
How to become even more sleep deprived by Caroline Lu
liquid dub-step
“lo-carb” in the black and blue can caffeine: 80 mg/8 oz. $2 for 16 ounces at CVS 62
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house
caffeine: 76-80 mg/8.4 oz. $2.29 for 8.4 ounces
5-Hour Energy
Moutain Dew sugary lovechild
toilet water
This is not available at CVS to minors—perhaps out of fear that every catboner will become addicted
This tastes like the sugary lovechild of Sprite and 7 Up. Minimal aftertaste and kept me wired enough to stay up late studying. While less harsh and acidic-tasting than Monster, the exorbitant amount of sugar in it is enough to keep me away.
The first 3,000 times I tried it, it tasted like toilet water. Eventually it tasted like addictive toilet water. This is particularly useful in the prevention of napping during first period—usually manages to jolt me back to life after a late night of cramming. Side effects include awkward jitteriness and bitter breath after slurping three cups for breakfast.
illegal
caffeine: 207 mg/2 oz. $2.99 for 2 ounces at CVS
caffeine: 46-55 mg/12 oz. $1.77 for 20 ounces at CVS
Coffee
caffeine: 95-200 mg/8 oz. free from Commons reviews
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Shame & Growth
Farris Peale on development in India, as published in the Niswarth Blog
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June 2012
esterday, after playing games of tag and ninja, I watched the nine kids of Akanksha walk away from us. After spending almost three weeks with them, I felt like we really knew each other. They had left their impact on me in colored paints, affectionate smiles, and cheek kisses. Last week, after three days of art class, we visited their houses, which are located in a slum near the Worli Sea Face. Visiting their one-room houses was astonishing. It was hard to imagine that these kids could possibly be the kind of future disaster that statistics and media tell us they are. After years with Akanksha, they were confident and proud. When we asked each of to create a collage of himself or herself, some drew paths towards their future goals, each step of the way laid out in magazine cut-outs. They knew about themselves, and shared their maturity and wisdom. They called out Shakespeare’s name after hearing just “What is in a name?” Their intelligence was astonishing, considering that they attended government schools and lived in trash-filled slums. According to everything we had been told, they should not have been so bright and shining and amazing. Yet because they had been appreciated, cherished, and encouraged to be a whole person, an artistic person, someone whose individuality was worthwhile, they were. Or maybe poverty is not really a tragedy of character after all. Maybe the poorest kids, despite possible 66
abuse or suffering, can turn out the brightest without the help of non-governmental organizations. I am not experienced enough to make such a distinction, but no matter what, these kids were incredible whatever their circumstances.
Yet, when asked to draw herself, she made her hair blonde and colored her skin “flesh color.” However, while they were growing and being educated in invaluable ways, I caught them falling prey to a cultural barrier that perhaps cannot be lifted by an NGO: shame. We had explored their identities in art, and I wanted to believe that they had grown stronger from it. Then, I thought of Ashwini. Beautiful, sassy, and bossy, she dreams of becoming a police officer one day. Yet, when asked to draw herself, she made her hair blonde and colored her skin “flesh color.” When I inquired about it, she told me she wanted to have blond hair like mine. This brought me back to the many ads I had seen on massive billboard of Mumbai for skin whitening creams. It brought me back to the Bollywood movies we had seen, with their light-skinned actors. It brought me back to how Pooja, my naughty best friend, would pinch my cheeks, fascinated by the way they changed color. It made me think of Kajal, the sweetest girl in the group, who would always kiss my cheek. In front of our whole
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art class she had announced that she wished she did not have her curly hair, that she wanted straight hair like the didis, the teachers. It made me think of my stay in the village, when the Gujarati-speaking women had clustered around me, saying one of the only English words they knew. “White! White!” they chanted. There seemed to be some kind of deep respect in their words, something that went beyond the mere foreignness of my skin. I wondered if that was the case, or if my assumptions, based on a thin knowledge of Indian culture and my own experiences with race in the United States, were skewing my perception. Either way, I felt that while colonialism might be gone, while a poor girl like Akanksha might be able to turn to an organization, if a strong girl like Ashwini still falls victim to the shame of her color and ethnicity, what chance does she have in a globalizing world? If everyone wants to be white, the clamor to be Western will continue, culture will fall away, and no amount of ethical education will be able to bring back a culture and a self that was lost in the churning of massive corporation advertising and constant media messaging.
How do we strike a balance and find a way to improve lives without destroying culture? There was another kind of shame, too. The children had shame in their poverty, and shame in their parents’ lack of education. Before we came to visit, Needa made all her neighbors scrub the path outside because she was ashamed of the dirt they might
see. Some kids told their didi that they were afraid of what we would think when we saw their houses. Their teacher also shared stories of how they would correct their parents when they faltered in English, how they would only respond to Hidi in English. They used it as a power tool, as if they were better than the rest of their culture. In fostering progress, sometimes there is a price. If globalization provides money to create progress, it also fosters images of western culture as a priority over India’s own. If English is a path to more job opportunities for these kids, it is also a mechanism that distances them from their own parents and home. If ambition for wealth can drive kids to achieve, it can also make them resent the circumstances they are told they must escape. How do we strike a balance and find a way to improve lives without destroying culture? I am not sure. Gandhi would speak for a self-sufficient India, but that seems too unrealistic in a connected era of nuclear weapons and complicated trade. Isolation is not an option. Instead, I would argue for assertion by the people at the top, in Reliance, in Tata, in the Indian government and power structure. Advertising does not have to capitalize self-conscious dreams of westernization, and the ideal of wealth does not need to create shame in the poor. Or maybe this reinvention must come from the people, who can find roots and culture. Then again, a rejection of culturmight be necessary for any given individual to discover themselves. Which is why it must fall to the collective. In America, where values are degrading and culture candy-coated, or in India, where colo-
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BEST OF REVIEWS 5.0 out of 5 stars FINALLY!, August 24, 2012 By Tracy Hamilton (Milwaukee, WI)
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Someone has answered my gentle prayers and FINALLY designed a pen that I can use all month long! use it when I’m swimming, riding a horse, walking on the beach and doing yoga. It’s comfortable, leakproof, non-slip and it makes me feel so feminine and pretty! Since I’ve begun using these pens, men have found me more attractive and approachable. It has given me soft skin and manageable hair and it has really given me the self-esteem I needed to start a book club and flirt with the bag-boy at my local market. My drawings of kittens and ponies have improved, and now that I’m writing my last name hyphenated with the Robert Pattinson’s last name, I really believe he may some day marry me! I’m positively giddy. Those smart men in marketing have come up with a pen that my lady parts can really identify with.
Where has this pen been all my life??? 5.0 out of 5 stars Ideal for A Variety of Feminine Writing Tasks, August 27, 2012 By E. Bradley “LuckyLady1978” (New York City) I love BIC Cristal for Her! The delicate shape and pretty pastel colors make it perfect for writing recipe cards, checks to my psychologist (I’m seeing him for a case of the hysterics), and tracking my monthly cycle. Obviously, I don’t use it for vulgar endeavors like math or filling out a voter application, but BIC Cristal for Her is a lovely little writing utensil all the same. Ask your husband for some extra pocket money so you can buy one today! 5.0 out of 5 stars I am writing this in the kitchen., August 15, 2012 By breemeup 68
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Finally! For years I’ve had to rely on pencils, or at worst, a twig and some drops of my feminine blood to write down recipes (the only thing a lady should be writing ever). I had despaired of ever being able to write down said recipes in a permanent manner, though my men-folk assured me that I “shouldn’t worry yer pretty little head”. But, AT LAST! Bic, the great liberator, has released a womanly pen that my gentle baby hands can use without fear of unlady-like callouses and bruises. Thank you, Bic! 4.0 out of 5 stars Great fit, but I have a question...., August 28, 2012 By InTheRoses I see this comes in a sleek design. But as a “full-figured” woman, do these pens come in “curvy and carefree”? 1.0 out of 5 stars CAREFUL BOYS, August 21, 2012 By Rachel If you identify as male do NOT use this product. The “for her” label is not just a gimmick exploiting archaic gender constructs, it’s a WARNING. Even if you’re a boy who likes pastels and glitter (which really I don’t see why you shouldn’t, what kind of moron thinks that only girls would like that kind of thing? seems kind of backwards to me) this pen is NOT for you. I don’t know why they didn’t put a clearer warning on the label, they really should have because if you are a boy and use this pen you put yourself at great risk. My little brother turned into a unicorn after I lent him one, and my friend told me that a boy in her class grew fairy wings in the middle of a test. I’m serious, guys, be careful, these really are just “for her”! BIC, please, recall this product until you’ve made the warning more explicit to avoid more tragedy!!! 2.0 out of 5 stars Annoying, August 27, 2012 By Madeleine B. (Boulder, CO) I love the pretty colors and skinniness, but I’m only giving two stars because they’re annoying. For one thing, they dot every “i” with a little heart. They also won’t make periods at the ends of sentences; it’s a question mark or exclamation point every time, also dotted with hearts--SUPER annoying. I went to okay a memo from my boss with the word “Fine” and it looked like I was coming on to him or something, which I wasn’t. At ALL. readings
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Secondly, they insert “like” and “um” randomly throughout whatever it is you’re writing. I guess people still know what you mean but it takes up a lot of extra time and makes whatever you’re saying sound dumb. 5.0 out of 5 stars A GODSEND, August 28, 2012 By K. Gray (Kentucky) This product is fantastic for those days when my prose is suffering from that not-so-fresh feeling. It even fits conveniently in my purse, and I don’t have to feel embarrassed if it accidentally falls out when I’m searching for the tight white pants I’m going to wear while horseback riding on the beach. If I could count that high, I’d give this product SIX stars. (product at: http://www.amazon.com/BIC-Cristal-1-0mm-Black-MSLP16-Blk/dp/ B004F9QBE6/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top)
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interviews & special features
Feature: Tom McGraw’s Inspirational Hoops Story By Larry Flynn
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hen students think of English teacher Tom McGraw, they may think of his small classroom in the basement of Bulfinch Hall. They might remember listening to McGraw’s booming, yet gentle and poetic, voice tell the daring tale of Odysseus while blindfolded, or coming into class with The Clash calling out to London from his iPod speakers. Some might recall reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or 1984, or maybe watching Macbeth just as the snow began to melt off the ground in the spring. Others, like me, felt like wanting to “Stop Time” (another classic book read by all of McGraw’s freshmen students) as the last hours of class time in B2 waned away into finals' week and summertime. However, what I will remember most from my time with McGraw are his stories and personal communication with his students. More specifically, I will never forget the stories McGraw told me outside of class about his deep and passionate connection to sports. His love for sports, specifically basketball, began when he was just a boy, seven years old, living in the small town of Weedsport in upstate New York. His mother took him to the Syracuse War Memorial Stadium to see an NBA Doubleheader, two professional basketball games on the same night, starring the hometown Syracuse Nationals and the 72
Boston Celtics. McGraw vividly describes how he “fell in love” with basketball, “When the C's (Celtics) came out of the tunnel through the smoky darkness of the arena, their green uniforms shimmering.” He used his old transistor radio to find the radio station of the Boston Celtics, and would listen to the games broadcasted by Johnny Most, one of the greatest radio announcers in sports history. McGraw insisted that all his middle school sports teams be named the Celtics, inked green shamrocks into the back of his Chuck Taylor high-top Converse All-Stars, and even wore the number (14) of the most famous Celtics point guard, Bob Cousy. There was substance to McGraw’s style. From an early age, McGraw showed tremendous skill and athleticism. He recalls leading his sixth grade team in scoring… as a third grader! Through watching more games, the young star began to develop a true jump shot, and was ready to lead the Weedsport High School basketball team. However, itwas not just basketball that McGraw enjoyed. He also played baseball from an early age. He pitched, hit, and did it all. At 12 years old, he was the MVP of the state baseball tournament, and pitched for the High School baseball team his freshman year. After that first season of baseball, he decided to try out for the track team, where
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he set the record for the triple jump, while also participating in the broad jump and the 400 yard race. He even played golf one year! In high school, McGraw also competed in football because “you had to play if you were an able bodied male.” As a quick, nimble quarterback who liked to move around in the pocket, he was selected to the All-County football team. However, football wasn’t the sport for him, and he realized that it was basketball he truly loved. He says that basketball “suited my hair-trigger quickness, and the nose-to-nose quality of the sport, which cohered to my competitive and often adversarial personality.” Competing for Weedsport High School, McGraw controlled every basketball game he played. “It wasn't enough for me to win,” says McGraw. “I had to dominate. There had to be NO question in my opponents' minds that I had completely dominated them.” His game was aggressive and passionate; he was lightning quick and could zoom past defenders and use power to drive to the rim. McGraw attributes the nature of his game to the loss of his father, whom he never knew, and still, to this day, knows very little about. Upon reflection, McGraw realizes that “the loss of my father fired me with a competitive rage which, legitimately channeled, propelled me far, far above anybody I ever came across in my high school career.” He would use this inner spirit to lead his team to heights previously unimaginable for a team from Weedsport, a town of only about five hundred residents. Once scor-
ing seventeen consecutive points in a game, McGraw absolutely dominated the county in basketball. He recalls,“I could always tell when I was gonna “get hot” and take over the game. My mouth would get dry, and my hands and fingertips would tingle.” He
He would use this inner spirit to lead his team to heights previously unimaginable for a team from Weedsport, a town of only about five hundred residents. Once scoring seventeen consecutive points in a game, McGraw absolutely dominated the county in basketball. scored over forty points in a game numerous times, yet people never described him as a player who just kept shooting. McGraw was a brilliant passer and says he could “see the game unfolding in its fluid patterns.” With this sensational game and some strong teammates, McGraw settled for nothing, not even a county championship. Indeed, in his junior year, the little village of Weedsport would soon be the proud home of the New York state champion basketball team. McGraw was the team’s leading scorer, pouring in around thirty points per game and also leading the team in assists. In the championship game, McGraw had gotten hot, and in the final seconds his team was up by two points. But then, the referees called a pivotal foul against Weedsport that sent the other team’s best player to the free throw line with time expired. The first sailed through the net.
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The second, with the crowd silent, the preswearing a shirt and tie, and about half-way sure oppressing the players and fans, clanked through my speech I said, ‘Is it just me, or off the front of the rim to give Weedsport is it getting hot in here?’ and I started to the victory. untie my tie and unbutton my shirt. I said After his glorious high school days, McGraw ‘You know, basketball has taken me around went on to play for Notre Dame, where he the world,’ Underneath, I had on my Notre was a teammate of Austin Carr, the second Dame warm up jersey and the crowd apleading scorer in college basketball history. plauded. But then I took that off, and I had He remembers peeling off picks trying to my Weedsport jersey on. I looked back at guard Carr, and running the second unit for the crowd and said, ‘But no matter where the tournament worthy team. After his time I’ve been in the world, Weedsport will always at Notre Dame, he went on to play for Army be closest to my heart.’” After all these years when he was drafted into the military. Final- Tom McGraw’s legacy was not forgotten, ly, at age 37, he played a year on the “Swinand as his students continue to listen to and don Rakers,” a British league team. While appreciate his stories, his dual legacy as an these are huge accomplishments, McGraw English teacher and an athlete will be honalways feels as though his heart was closest ored. McGraw is not just one of the most to Weedsport. influential English teachers his students will In 2008, Weedsport returned the favor to ever have; he’s also a legend in the game of McGraw by retiring his jersey in an emotion- basketball. al ceremony. McGraw tells the story about the speech he gave at that ceremony. “I was 74 backtracks
Pastors for One Church
Brooke Bonds interviews Ingrid Sanchez In a community such as ours, so focused on getting homework done and not failing that test and making sure you have time to sleep at some point, the people who work behind the scenes often get overlooked. Which really is a shame, since some of them have the greatest stories to offer. So, for my interview, I sat down with Ingrid Sanchez, who cleans several of the houses in Abbott Cluster, including all three of the dorms that I’ve had the pleasure of living in. We talked for a bit before starting the interview, and Ingrid decided that she just wanted to tell her story of how she came to be where she is today. I’m not gonna tell you about it- it’ll speak perfectly well for itself. So, I guess, enjoy! -Brooke
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hen I was eighteen years old, I didn’t want to... um, my- my life- I grew up in a good, wealthy family. So, I didn‘t need to go to work- let’s put it that way- my father used to have a, uh, like a small Home Depot? So I didn’t need to work, you know? So, I wanted to be a nurse. And the town where we lived, was not good for the nurse. And my father was a person who made us to do whatever he says, we didn’t- so he wants me to be a teacher, and I say “no, I won’t be a teacher.” So, he let me go to my uncle’s town which was, like, seven hours from where I come from. And, I go over there to study, and to the school. You know? But, actually, I didn’t want to because he was forcing me to go to be a teacher, so I decided to come to the United States. When I was eighteen years old, a lady who my family knows she told me “yeah, I’m going to the United States. You wanna come with me?” So she and I, she did the whole thing to find out how much they charge us for us to come to the United States. So she, um, made all the arrangements, so I didn’t pay for it, my father didn’t know nothing about my life going on at the time. He think that I was in school. So, I was coming and crossing the desert. I crossed the desert of Arizona. And, was very, um- I was eighteen years old, the only girl, young, in the whole group; it was twenty-five people coming. So at the time we are in Arizona, we need to get in the plane to the places everybody was going to go. But at the time- there was a war going on at the time, the year 1991, and we couldn’t get in the plane. Because we didn’t have no papers to show. Right? So they make us to come in a bus. The time we’re traveling the United States, uh, immigration, they caught us, so they sent us back to Mexico. They, arrest them, the people who were driving the bus, and leave us in jail. Mexico jail. Was very tough. Myself, crying “Mom! Dad!” You know? I was exploring the whole thing by myself, with other people that I never knew. But it was one way that God- I will say God because I can say nobody else- he make the person of immigration to the United States come to Mexico, take us from Mexico, and bring us to the United States. And they give us our papers for us to come to be residents. So they bring us to the United States and they call our families, and they say “yes, we have received them. Blah blah blah.” So I come in a bus from Dallas Texas all the way up to New York. All this time was almost fourteen days. I was walking the desert, and I was walking in Mexico, and I was walking everywhere. Bus and walking, bus, walking, bus. It was three days and three nights from Dallas to New York. Then my uncle picked me up in New York and I come here to Boston. 75 interviews & special features
And I’ve been here for twenty-two years. And the only way I wanted to be able to get papers was to be able to marry an American person. So, myself, I get in love with someone and, I didn’t know English at all, just “hi” and “bye” and nothing else, and it was pretty funny because at the time that I was dating him, I didn’t understand much, and I’d just say “Yes! Yes! Yes!” But then I started catching on to the language, and then we was married for eight years. So I come to be a resident of the United States of America. And then he passed away. He died. And I come to be single again and it was very tough on myself because it was the only family I had. My uncle, he went back to Guatemala, and when he was back in Guatemala they kill him. So I ended up by myself with friends. And I ended up living with these person that I knew, and her parents. She gave me her hand in every way, they held me up. And after that person die I ended up by myself in the house. And it was a very tough time, and the Academy gave me a lot of support. I was working here when that happened. And then my sister come from Guatemala with her husband and they were a big help. They were family, you know? And they started bringing me to church and I found a lot of supporting in God, and... I went through. I went through all the bad times. There were bad times, but it’s part of life. So, I remarry, and I’ll be remarried almost nine years, and I have two babies, and my husband and I now, we are the pastors for one church. All I can say is God was watching over me. ~Ingrid Sanchez 76
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-Janine Ko
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