issue 0.1 freedom ain’t free
freedom ain’t free
drop knowledge
Nooks & Crannies 05 The Factory 09 Stop. Look. Listen. 11 Just a Pinch of Freedom 16 Fluent in Failure 17 The Kitchen Debate 19 The Choice to Change 21 Who Am I? 22 GWB 23 Live Art! Recap 24 photo by Timothy K. Hamilton cover art by Plastic (Bradley Pipkin)
a letter from our president
staff President Monis Khan Chief Editor Jessica Spraos Associate Editors Kate Gaertner Ariana Tobin
Inspired by the current economic crisis, Drop Knowledge presents “Freedom Ain’t Free?” a collection of reflections on the repercussions of this unfortunate collapse of the market, and a presentation on our roles in remedying the situation. However, we do not claim to present all the arguments nor have all the answers. We beg the question to raise discourse on the topic, and challenge our readers to scrutinize their own opinions on the freedoms afforded in our country. If you don’t like what we have to say, please let us know. If you do, tell your friends about us. As an organization, the market has affected the future of Drop Knowledge, but surprisingly we see these changes as a marked improvement on our original plans. No longer do we have any intentions to release our magazine in print, instead we shall act in kindness towards Mother Earth and present our publication exclusively online. The crisis has also helped us understand that in these hard times, DK has a responsibility to give back to groups that give so much to the community. Although we originally intended our first event, Live Art, to be a fundraiser for our organization, we quickly realized that funds raised would be more helpful if directed towards City Faces, an incredible organization providing underprivileged children in St. Louis with access to art supplies, gallery space, and mentors. Embracing the market is embracing the future. We have to learn to do more with less. The age of excess has given way to the age of _______? This is where we, (as literate, adequately fed and sheltered
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citizens), come in. Regardless of the roles we played in creating the crisis, we are responsible for leading the world out of it. Yet, before we can take collective action, provide solutions to empowering the downtrodden, ensure freedoms for those oppressed, it is essential to utilize the liberties that we DO possess. As human beings, we have the freedom to think, feel, and act for ourselves. Societal structures influence our identities, but ultimately we choose our roles in influencing society. Just as the people in our lives, both imaginary and real, have helped construct our diction, actions, and ideologies, we harness significant potential in positively, and negatively, affecting the well-being of our fellow woman and man. We must inspire ourselves before we are able to inspire others. Own up to your role(s) in society and you will be best equipped to alter its form. Drop Knowledge endorses thinking outside the box, and if you prefer to stay within the lines, we urge you to avoid the monochromatic and opt for a more vivid palette of colors to paint your portrait of the world. Thank you for downloading our second issue. Salaam, Monis
Layout Editors Logan Alexander Austin Menard Publicity Makoto Chino Writers Dayo Adesokan Logan Alexander Kuan Butts David Fox Kate Gaertner Monis Khan Stephanie Kratschmer Joseph Lampe Nicole Lopez Nate Maslak Austin Menard Howie Rudnick Dan Rusk Nick Schade Jessica Spraos John Stanley Ariana Tobin Artists/Photographers Zack Cupkovic Austin Menard Maddy Sembler Adam Wand
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n&c
nooks & crannies
There are good burritos and then there are good burritos, right? You forgot the third category: La Valesana’s burritos - a f lawless combination of ingredients that warms the soul and just might restore your faith in humanity – all conveniently wrapped up in a grilled tortilla. Hyperbole? Not even close. La Vallesana, whose humble exterior belies its status as the crown jewel of the Cherokee Street taqueria scene, provides patrons with the most authentic, and certainly the most delicious, Mexican comida St. Louis has to offer. Yet man can’t live on burritos alone (though I wouldn’t mind trying). The thing is, as great as they are, the burritos might not be the best dish on the menu. That honor goes to the tacos al pastor – tiny corn tortillas filled with onions, cilantro, pineapple, and the tastiest, most tender pork this side of the Rio Grande. Tortas round out La Vallesana’s holy trinity of cheap eats. Filled with the freshest ingredients, these grilled sandwiches let you get your fix if you’re bored with tortillas. Equal parts crunchy, cheesy, and melty, they’re everything Taco Bell claims to be. Unfortunately, La Vallesana is a good twenty-minute drive from campus, but just think of it as a pilgrimage. Any restaurant this good deserves tax-exempt status as a religious institution.
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need to know Location:
2801 cherokee st
Contact:
314.776.4223
Hours:
11 am – 9 pm daily
Recommended:
tacos al pastor 3 for $5 lengua burrito $5
mad art gallery photo by Austin Menard
la vallesana
photo courtesy Jason Clevenger (friedbrainsandwich.com)
St. Louis‘ best destinations
Usually I wouldn’t be excited about the idea of walking into a police station in the middle of a Friday night out, but Mad Art Gallery proves the exception to the rule. Located in the abandoned Third District Police Station in St. Louis’s eclectic Soulard neighborhood, the venue comes complete with jail cells seamlessly integrated amongst the pop art hanging on the walls. The spacious gallery has hosted exhibits that display everything from the street art of Jim Mahfood and Peat Wollaeger, to the poignant multi-media creations in Judy Shaw’s work on eating disorder recovery. On Friday, April 24th Mad Art Gallery opens the MFA Thesis Exhibitions of Molly Douglass and Jessica May. Douglass’s work is inspired by the objects and things that evade clear classification. By capturing those images, she intends to invite ambivalent, yet profound, emotional responses. May conjures reactions from the viewer by juxtaposing images of decaying nature with familiar, comforting portrayals of materials we interact with daily. Ultimately, May asks us to assess, “how and why [we] assign varying levels of value for the life around [us].” Don’t miss their works at the free opening reception on Friday, April 24th from 7pm until 11pm.
need to know Location:
2727 s. 12th st
Contact:
314.771.8230 http://madart.com
Hours:
11 am – 3 pm tues. – sat.
Upcoming Exhibits:
gutbucket april 10th molly douglass and jessica may mfa thesis exhibitions april 24th
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n&c
n&c
lemongrass Location:
the shangri-la diner Meatless meat loaf? Vegetable sausage? Vegan bacon? Every omnivore I know shudders at the mere mention of these dishes. There’s no way a vegan Philly cheese steak could actually be edible, let alone delicious, right? Wrong. Shangri-La Diner, a funky and inviting corner joint on Cherokee Street, proves that when done well, herbivore substitutions are often better than the originals. With generous portions and few entrées over $10, this place is a true bargain. Dinner is served Wednesday through Saturday after 5 p.m., and a brunch buffet, complete with crème brûlée french toast and veggie tofu scramble, is laid out each weekend starting at 9 a.m. You may have to wait a little for your food, but while you’re working up an appetite for a decadent grilled cheese (so tasty) or a slice of veggie quiche (voted best in the city), you can take advantage of the restaurant’s eclectic assortment of board games and magazines, or challenge your dinner companion to a game of Go Fish. If the idea of dairy-free desserts does not appeal, skip the final course and walk around the neighborhood. Right down the block from Shangri-La are antique stores, clothing boutiques and art galleries. Whether you prefer to see animals in the wild or on your plate, this healthy, homey spot offers eats that will please every palate.
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need to know Location:
2201 cherokee st
Contact:
314.772.8308 theshangriladiner.com
Hours:
closed mon. – wed. 11 am – 9 pm thurs. 11 am – 10 pm fri. 9 am – 10 pm sat. 9 am – 5 pm sun.
Recommended:
veggie quiche $7 decadent grilled cheese $8
3161 s. grand blvd Contact: 314.664.6702
Hours:
LemonGrass, a non-descript Vietnamese restaurant on South Grand, is not the best kept secret. Many are familiar with the eatery’s multipage menu (best described as an encyclopedia of Americanized Vietnamese cuisine), its efficient service, and its kitschy chopstick dispenser, which passes from table to table. No, the atmosphere isn’t anything special - think f limsy paper napkins and a bar back lit in various shade of neon - but to be honest, no one comes here for the “vibe.” Instead, they come for the reasonable prices and insanely tasty food. After a long night, there are few things more satisfying than a plate of curry-ga or a summer roll. During prime dinner time diners, with mouths open
11 am – 9:30 pm sun. – thurs. 11 am – 10:30 pm fri. & sat.
Recommended:
summer roll $3.5
wide, stare as heaping plates of steamed rice and mountains of slippery, slurp-worthy noodles appear on neighboring tables. Upon seeing their own eagerly anticipated meal glide out of the kitchen, they often let out a squeal of delight. This place isn’t necessarily the best choice for a romantic dinner for two, but it can crank out food for 20 at lightning speed and will be sure to leave you in a hardcore food coma. How should you best prepare for such a meal? Wear loose pants and travel with friends who are willing to roll or carry you home.
Café Natasha’s Kabob International Location:
3200 s. grand blvd Contact: 314.771.3411
Whether you’re looking for a little bit of adventure, an off-the-beaten-path date spot, or a simple change of scenery, Café Natasha’s Kabob International will not disappoint your taste buds or your wallet. Offering an upscale vibe for a scaled down price, a dinner for two, which includes an appetizer, two entrées and two desserts, costs only around $40. In addition to serving up delicious Persian cuisine seven days a week, the restaurant also has live belly dancers every Friday night. The warm lighting and décor make diners feel at home, as does the friendly service. But enough about the amiable atmosphere—let’s talk about the food! The restaurant’s namesake, the chicken shish kabob, is roasted and spiced to perfection. This dish is very accessible to those who may be first-time Persian diners. And for those
Hours:
11:30 am – 9 pm daily
Recommended:
tongue of beef $13
who are feeling more adventurous, take a taste on the wild side and order the tongue of beef, which apparently tastes like pot roast. Then, when you think you’ve hit maximum contentment, do yourself the favor of ordering dessert. The Persian ice cream consists of home-made vanilla mixed with pistachio nuts, saffron, and rose water, and it is a perfect follow-up to a tasty kabob and rice dish. Another favorite is the faludeh, (essentially lemon slush with rose water and rice noodles), which provides a unique and refreshing ending to a great meal and overall experience. So if you want an opportunity to try something new, you should definitely make the trek down to South Grand and stop in at Café Natasha’s. The journey will be worth it. Guaranteed.
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poems, stories, and nonsense
sortie
the flag
by Kate Gaertner
by Joseph Lampe
high heels on legs too scrawny we run down furtive cobblestones giggling in English
A tattered cloth hangs Weathered and beaten. The tattoos from a wild youth Linger on its wrinkled skin Nearly faded.
July we are fifteen years old and we are enthralled: we only live once full moon street lights our eyes lined in black but the world is palpable in gray the air is still now and warm and we link arms like schoolgirls - we are chasing tall silhouettes in the Seine, we are making our wind – the city cuts through cotton dresses and dissolves on sun-burnt skin
The Evolution of Ability
and we will fall asleep laughing at August as our hotel window wheezes
by Monis Khan They say, “You cannot fly!” Then how did I land here, Amongst the clouds? How humble are your expectations Of mankind’s ability to discover? Pioneers peer past the illusion That one must construct wings. Explore! The mind, museum of dreams. Before the tool shed, visit the heartCinema of love: some ugly, all beautiful. Fear not the deep abyss, dive in, greet your Soul. Its sheer density anchoring the voyage. Secret revealed. Three ingredients Combine to form a most pungent potion, The power of passion transcends physics. Raw fuel blessed with the ability to Destroy, create, resurrect Yes, far from impossible, but is flight desirable? Even claps of thunder, quick to induce deliriousness, Find that the combination of confusion and clarity Clash to form perspective (most glorious flashlight) They say “Get your head out of the clouds!” They must be afraid of heights And a beautiful view
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fact.
the factory
Having seen the past Having been the now The frays, fed up, Let loose Their slender bodies, No longer fixed, Reach out to the world Across an edge Once defined. “Rid us of this tired rectangle” The loose threads sing, “With rigid lines That speak only in absolutes, Let’s dance And be truly free” They sway in the wind Still red white blue
It was painless by Nick Schade Though I am jerked awake by the sound of the crash, I’m sure I am the first to know we are all going to die. The first thing after the quiet of the clouds is the wail of an infant. Then the panic. Old women clutch their rosaries. An empty mask bounces, then sways before me, but I make no effort to grab it. If I could unclench my grip on the armrest, I think I would fold my hands in my lap. Thick smoke begins to choke the cabin. I close my eyes to the screams. I inhale through my nose, one, then out through my mouth, two. A fanny-packed father clutches his children in a reassuring embrace, three. Flight attendants mouth words inaudible over the clamor, four. A business man quaffs his drink, not caring when he splashes on his now worthless suit and tie, five. Hysteric high school friends declare love for one another, six. Fumbles to call friends and family to say final goodbyes, seven. Cries for help, eight. Cacophonous disorder, nine. Chaos. Ten. There is a blinding roar of Aluminum hitting water and a wrench that breaks a few bones. The screams have been succeeded by silent disbelief except for the infant, still wailing. But we’re all okay. We’re all okay? Exhaling heavily, I unclench my white grip on the armrest. Now I have to find a way to go on with my day.
genesis
march in tennessee
by Howie Rudnick
by Nate Maslak
In the beginning god created, Separating light from darkness, sky from land and from the waters. Then he placed the world in a man’s hands, and Adam mimicked his master. He ripped rib from chest, pulled child from womb, smiled god’s smile—for it was good. The steaming blood within compelled him as it dispersed throughout his body, new arteries branching off to funnel the fleeing red. So he built a fence around his garden, spread his seed to bear individuals and peoples, to produce villages and nation-states cutting with coin, color and creed. Then the sun fell from the sky and night came. Sitting down to rest he realized that in his ecstasy he’d forgotten to ask God how to put it all back together. As the darkness enveloped him he closed his eyes. He too was broken.
we drove slowly for hours. she waited (eyes closed) to touch ground in tennessee williams’ grave. it was dark. i remember now, we got lost. (we kept on driving) miles down the road, you said you had a (way back) compass. keep (crying) driving south, you said, we were almost there. you said thank god. let’s not talk (of god), not near tennessee williams’ grave. it made you think (of old friends) you said. it made you think (of william). i barely even knew william that february. i grew to like him slowly. he died
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s.l.l.
s.l.l.
stop.look.listen.
photo by Ramberto Cumagun
media, gadgets, and everything new
I lie tucked up in bed, reading the last pages of a French romance novel. It is late Sunday evening and the house is quiet. As I move to turn off my bedside lamp, I hear a sultry voice whisper seductively into my ear. It begs, “Steam with me. Boil with me. Pressure cook with me!” I immediately recognize the tone. This is not the dirty talk of a roommate or lover, but of that naughty, stainless steel rice cooker residing oh so suggestively beside my desk. “Use me,” it begs. Can I refuse the requests of such an incredibly compact gadget? It’s late, I think to myself. I’m tired. It would be crazy to start something up right now. Still, I can’t help but fantasize about the delicious steamed vegetables, the succulent salmon and the wild rice that
await me. With just the flip of a switch and a little water, I am guaranteed an amazing night. Clean up won’t even be too bad - I’ll use a non-stick spray along the bowl for protection. No one is around. We could be done before anybody else gets home. I would be lying if I said that the thrill of getting caught with my spoon stroking the contents of that pot did not excite me. I feel my resolve weakening. It’s that sleek, curvaceous design. I know that all it takes is the gentle press of a button to get us both going. I give up. I can’t resist...
nike dunk
photo/illustration by Austin Menard
rice cooker
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// Stepping into a Nike Dunk is like stepping into your own wearable paradise. Dunks allow a freedom incomparable to any other shoe. From the sole to the inner lining, the Dunk is personal; it’s a form of self-expression.
Structural Basics
MOVING OFF CAMPus We’re Millenials. We like efficiency, ease and accessibility. If it’s more than a click away, we usually won’t be interested, and fortunately, websites like www.movingoffcampus.com are willing to cater to our laziness. Here you can research local clubs, bars, restaurants, retailers, cleaning services, entertainment and apartments based on quality, proximity and price criteria. On movingoffcampus.com users can browse through apartment listings and simultaneously learn about the neighborhoods surrounding each property. The website is still useful, even if you aren’t looking for new diggs. Say you’re stuck on campus every miserable weekend and have grown
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The sturdy gum sole serves as the base of the shoe. Though not the aesthetic focal point, it plays a crucial part in upholding the Dunk’s overall integrity. It is a main concern of the owner to keep the sole spotless. Even the smallest blemish can disturb its overall visual impact. What makes a pair of Nike Dunks an expression of individuality is the iconic shell, which is entirely customizable. Connoisseurs specify the shoe’s structure (high or low), base material (leather or nylon) and accent colors. It’s the sum of all these parts that give the shell its distinct character.
Who Wears Dunks
tired of the frat scene. No problem. In the “Out and About” section you can find anything from the admission price and dress code at a local bar to the cost of a decent haircut at a salon nearby. “The Goods” section enables you to post and search classifieds listed by other college students in the Washington University area or beyond. For those looking for cheap and fleeting sources of entertainment, check out the “MOC Talk” section, containing Time Waster of the Week, WTF of the day, and Sites We Like links, ensuring your Anthro paper never gets finished.
The Dunk’s colors tell a story. They convey a mood. They reveal what their wearer is all about. For example, that guy rocking a pair of black and yellow dunks - approach him with caution and be polite, he could be a B.A.M.F. The dude who owns the bright, multicolored, work-of-art pair is a goof with a serious side. His colors represent a humorous character but his choice of shoe suggests a solid knowledge of culture. The owner of a solid colored dunk, often referred to as a Dunk Extraordinaire, can be seen sporting his “Gentleman’s Dunk” at formal events. This man has class.
It’s All in the Details Laces are a crucial aspect of the Dunk that is often overlooked. Some people don’t realize that laces can make or break the shoe. It’s not just their color and texture that are important, but also the way in which the shoe is laced; it’s an expression of the wearer. There are those who take risks, creating new ways to lace their Dunks. Sometimes these big risks reap big rewards, but occasionally a flubbed lace job will kill the shoe. Remember, it’s not just a shoe - it’s a piece of art. From the intricate stitching to the illustrious shell, Dunks are perfection.
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s.l.l.
s.l.l.
WORD? by John Stanley
A MODULAR CLASSROOM FOR ST. LOUIS
Rewind 12 years. It’s second grade and I’ve just returned from visiting my older cousins with more than a few presents in tow. Among them was a secret treasure, vocal gold, a diamond of a phrase: “the bomb”. Everything was “the bomb”. My favorite band was “the bomb”. A McDonald’s cheeseburger was “the bomb”. I even wrote, practicing my cursive, “John is the bomb” on the back of my notebook. It was shameless. Fast forward to today. “The bomb” is buried in a grave next to stacks of Sugar Ray albums and overalls with one strap down . A new day brings a new word and today’s word, ironically, is word. “Word.” “Word up.” “Word that.” To “word” or not to “word.” Are you a believer? I’m as guilty as the rest. I say it. It’s easy. It’s simple. Take
“I agree” and “sweet” and “sounds good” and “cool” and wrap them up in four easy letters. But is it too easy? Is “word” a cop-out, an escape from actually saying something with meaning? Hell yea it is! Still, “word” does have a place in modern language. I’m a believer, but a believer with some reservations. Language is a fluid entity and keeping up with the changes is essential. The words we use shape how we think of ourselves and how others perceive us. Simplifying our vocabulary impacts how we formulate our thoughts. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to dumb down what I’m thinking. Make sense of it? Yes. Dumb it down? No.
by Kuan Butts
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sign a piece of furniture that could, for a reasonable price, transform a simple, empty room into a highly functional learning environment for kindergartners. I began by studying a typical kindergarten classroom. Most of the components of the space, like the circular tables, low shelves and plush carpet, were economically sensible and served clear purposes. Other facets of the room, however, desperately needed improvement. The cubby area, comprised of hooks and awkwardly arranged cabinets, was totally inefficient. Valuable wall space was ignored. I created a modular low-cost installation that better serves the needs of the students. The cubby is a multifunctional piece. It provides students with a private space where they can store their personal belongings and a comfortable curved bench on which they can sit. Inside the cubby is a tablet that can act as an easel, table top or portable work surface. This modified design capitalizes on currently underutilized wall space, transforming the periphery from a dead zone into an integral part of the classroom.
photo by Zack Cupkovic
If you have been paying attention to recent developments within the St. Louis community or read any of the colorful signs posted around campus, you are aware that the city school system is in crisis. Facilities are in disrepair and students are failing to meet federal academic performance requirements. Next year, 60% of city schools are slated to close. Consequently, new temporary schools will have to be created quickly to accommodate the displaced students. This situation prompted me to reflect on the Montessori education I received from preschool to sixth grade. I remember that as a young student I spent very little time at my desk. In fact, it was essentially a glorified cubby, providing me with a place to store my various odds and ends. Desks were arranged in small clusters so that students could face one another, rather than in traditional rows. Instead of sitting motionless and watching my teacher standing at the blackboard, I spent most of my day with a clipboard sitting on the carpet in various groups, working on class assignments in a very tactile manner. As a second year architecture student, I sought to de-
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w.o.t.s
s.l.l.
by Logan Alexander
Summer 2008 was all about the “stay-cation,” which was, by all accounts, as lame as the name suggests. But now gas is half as expensive as it was last year, and Summer 2009 is looking to be the perfect opportunity to road trip across the nation. Below are the things you will need to make your “Search for the American Dream” unforgettable.
5-Hour Energy Even the most attentive of drivers can lose focus after a few days on the road. A couple of rounds of 5-Hour energy shots will alleviate your fatigue and give you the will to quench the highway system’s thirst for burnt rubber.
Moleskine Notebook Will using the same brand of notebook as Hemingway, Picasso, van Gogh, and countless other famous artists and writers give your work an added sheen of genius? No. Most likely, it will still suck. But knowing that you and Obama both jot down your thoughts in the same journal will make your writing more confident and that much more hilarious in retrospect.
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Flip Mino HD Screw cameras – if you want to share your journey, do it with video. The Mino HD lets you record up to an hour of 720p high definition video, more than enough to capture in-car pranks, encounters with creepy strangers, and beautiful roadside vistas. With dimensions roughly the same as those of an iPod classic, it’s easy to conceal should you need to document a run-in with the law.
Raw Denim Washing clothing is already a hassle when you’re not driving from city to city on the open road. Raw denim solves this problem. Detergent evasion is the key to making them look dope. Weeks of travel will give you a custom pair of jeans that fit better than any pre-distressed pair. Plus, every crease and tear will remind you of a different part of your epic adventure.
just a pinch of freedom
illustration by Maddy Sembler
ROADTRIP ESSENTIALS
by David Fox I don’t like to be rattled. Roller coasters have always when he struck pitches 500 feet. If your window of professcared me and horror films give me nightmares. Most gut sional opportunity was small, if your money was so depenwrenching of all? The news scrolling across the ESPN banner dent on your muscle, wouldn’t you stick a needle in your one recent Saturday morning: Alex Rodriguez, the baseball butt? hero and next greatest player of all time, was caught using I’m not so ready to say that we – the viewers and consteroids. sumers – are the ones to blame for the steroid epidemic in It was disturbing. It was disapbaseball. It’s true that we’re complicit, but pointing. It was terrible. But as the news most of the blame, however, must ulticontinues to trickle out and more big mately reside with the stars who lied and If your window baseball stars are named for steroid use, cheated. of professional I have to ask the question, do these guys We all have societal pressures that we opportunity was small, must confront on a daily basis. If I cheated really have a choice? Aren’t athletes like A-Rod just slaves if your money was so on all my college exams, I’d be able to get to the industry? To the millions of dollars As in my classes and secure a dependent on your straight they earn in endorsements? Baseball better, higher paying job in the future. But muscle, wouldn’t you I don’t cheat. I draw the line. I hold on to players aren’t superhuman. They aren’t gods. They’re working for the man just stick a needle in your my integrity like a newborn baby because I like everybody else. recognize just how vulnerable it is. butt? We live in a society that values proA-rod caved under the pressure and, duction and material success, quantity over quality. It’s why no pun intended, it bit him in the butt. Sometimes we just have to decide between right and wrong. Still, let’s not be so McDonald’s makes the most money but makes the worst remiss as to think these decisions are easy; we’re not always burgers. Baseball fans want to see longer, more frequent as free as we think. home runs and stronger athletes. Players face unrealistic expectations of performing beyond their physical capacities. Fans go to watch gladiators and A-rod didn’t disappoint
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w.o.t.s
word on the street mutterings & musings
Fluent in Failure by Ariana Tobin
“I two papayas would please like,” I said, squinting at the dark green book. My ever-patient suitemate nodded. “Well, at least it sounds like you’re getting it!” I wasn’t, of course. Though Hindi grammar tutorials claim the rules of syntax are only suggestive, almost every sentence I attempted came out incoherent. In fact, during my brief affair with the language I’m not sure I articulated a single thought correctly. I enrolled in Beginning Hindi-Urdu 1 with nothing but optimism. After two semesters of introductory English literature classes, I had scoured the course listings to find something totally different. I wanted to pre-empt the regret of “missing out” on opportunities only offered to college students. My perception of the beautiful, free world of academic exploration had activated my guilt complex. It was time for me to develop the “cultural literacy” and “global competence” that so appealed to my idealistic, literary aesthetic: and what could speak to my desire to globalize better than a non-romance language, a means to communicate with more than 700 million people? It wasn’t my first foray into foreign language. I spent the earlier half of my life learning Hebrew, albeit half-heartedly and with little accountability attached. Then, through middle school and high school, I took French from an emotional Haitian immigrant who spent class time explaining African racial crises in a mixture of broken English, French,
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and Creole. I loved it. I even volunteered as a tutor, heightening my delusions of “a natural aptitude for language” to the point in which I believed I could single-handedly make up for centuries of colonial rule. Somehow, I would use my easily attained fluency to reverse the injustices of globalization. Therefore, when I first picked up the Introduction to Hindi Grammar book, I did not struggle to suppress a twinge of unease. “It’s so… intricate,” my father said, thumbing through the pages of curlicues and artistic squiggly lines. “Are you sure you won’t need a calligraphy pen?” “I don’t think all South Asians use calligraphy pens,” I said, as images of Slumdog Millionaire ran through my mind. “I’ll be fine.” On the first day of class, the professor struggled to pronounce my name as she read off the roster. I looked around and realized that in a room of about 30 students, there were only 2 other non-native South Asians. It’ll be that much more authentic of an experience, I reasoned, as she asked me to repeat “Ariana” one more time. We started learning the Devanagari alphabet on day one. She introduced us to a tutorial website, which, by the end of class, I had already decided to set as my homepage.
I watched as she formed letters on the board – a group of lines and circles I had never seen before in my life. I started sketching, trying to reconcile the “ah’s” and “oh’s” with the childlike markings I was painfully copying into my notebook. I comforted myself with the idea of a review. It wasn’t until the second day of class that I really began to worry. In less than an hour, we covered six letters and all the ways to connect them. The only problem: I had no idea how to tell which was which. To my English-trained ears, the “aspirated” Hindi letters sounded exactly the same as the “unaspirated,” the “voiced palatal” consonants were indistinguishable, and by the time we reached the “sibilants and fricatives,” I wasn’t even confident we were still talking about the same alphabet. I spent hours in front of the website, determined to distinguish between the various “guh’s” and “ghuh’s” and “kuh’s” that sound like “guh’s”. I told myself it was characterbuilding and launched into hour-long mental inspirational lectures on the merits of discomfort and overcoming perceived challenge. By the next morning, I had managed to convince myself that my lack of auditory discrimination meant I was closedminded and ethnocentric., When everyone else moved on to “duh’s” and “dhuh’s,” “tuh’s” and “thu’s,” I was not only frustrated, I was ashamed. The professor came to stand next me, analyzing the position of my tongue. “It’s soft, like the English word ‘thug,’” she said, walking back to the board for emphasis. Helpful - except I’d always pronounced it “thug,” as in “thud” or “thundering” failure. As I was leaving, I struck up a conversation with one of the girls in my class. “It’s so boring, I want to shoot myself,” she said. I decide to be honest. “Really? I can’t hear the difference between a lot of the letters.” “Don’t worry – it can’t be that hard. My mom taught me when I was like, 5, and I didn’t have any problems with it. I think most of the class already knows it too.” That didn’t help. As we moved on to more complex concepts (“Hindi class in I am!”), I fell farther and farther behind. I sat in the back of the classroom, so that my turn in practice exercises would come last, maximizing my time to puzzle out an answer. I still always got it wrong.
the market, buy the ingredients for mulligatawny, and then explain how to cook it. Yes, in Hindi.” Everyone else was already writing, comparing their mothers’ mulligatawny recipes. I raised my hand. “I’m sorry – what’s mulligatawny?” Every morning, I would wake up and walk to class, mentally preparing myself for yet another blow to my ego. The professor pitied me. She would hand me homework covered in red marks, with maybe a half-point deduction. I knew better than to question it – I realized that, unlike certain grammatical constructs, my limitations were well understood. Before midterms, my friend watched as I planned out a paragraph. “Maybe you should just memorize it like a piece of art,” she suggested. “You know, forget about the language stuff and just act like it’s a bunch of lines.” Though I still believe in the importance of global communication, I now understand that it is more than a process people choose to ignore. We’re illiterate and monolingual for a reason – it’s hard! I only took one semester of Hindi, and the experience forced me to change my study-abroad plans and reevaluate my relationship with academics. In retrospect, do I regret staying up all night before our final oral exam, memorizing a Bollywood tune that I would annihilate the next morning (for many reasons, not the least of which concerns my singing ability)? Sort of. I’m still intimidated by the language, but I do want to try again someday, preferably with an authentic bowl of mulligatawny (spicy lentil soup, by the way) in my lap throughout. Hindi left my ego a little smaller, and it made my view of academia a little more cynical – but, ultimately, I think it was all to my benefit. I struggled to understand another language because I was so in tune with my own. As appealing as it is to randomly choose a class from a list of exotic sounding course titles, absorbing the material requires effort - we’re not free to “learn” anything on a whim, because whether it’s Hindi or biomechanics, it demands a significant and well-reasoned commitment.
On one memorable occasion, the professor decided to give an impromptu quiz. “Okay,” she said, and launched into a string of Hindi. I waited. Once she was done, she turned to me. “Ariana, I said your assignment is to tell me how to go to
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feat.
feat.
by Kate Gaertner
In 1959, as the ideological battle between communism and capitalism reached its height, the United States government staged a national exhibition in Moscow in order to bridge the cultural gap between the Soviets and the Americans. The idea was one of cultural diplomacy: by better understanding the way Americans lived, citizens of the USSR could focus on the similarities, not the differences, between the two nations. The center of this exhibition was a model of a streamlined, state-of-the-art American kitchen, furnished with appliances that the average American could afford. 19
photos by Howard Sochurek
the kitchen debate
It was in front of this mock kitchen that Vice President Richard Nixon and Soviet Premier Nikita Khruschev held a heated and impromptu argument, later known as the “Kitchen Debate.” Nixon made a stand for American values, gesturing towards the kitchen and proclaiming the superiority of a specific set of “American” freedoms: freedom from drudgery, freedom from want, and freedom of choice. To Nixon, American housewives were free because their lives were easy; they did not need to wash dishes because they had dishwashers to toil and strain on their behalves. Leisure time became the new work time. The American freedoms that Nixon expounded are the freedoms that we have come to value. The freedoms of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations have become, on a grander scale, the freedoms of our own. The innovative frameworks that created shiny 1950s kitchens have created a world in which we can purchase any service, have any need fulfilled. Our grandparents’ dishwashers are our cell phones, our laptops, our blackberrys, and our credit cards. We hold them up as Nixon did; we worship them at an altar of convenience. In economic terms, this is efficiency. In social terms, this is freedom. Having been raised in a capitalist culture, we cannot help but see the freedom to choose what we buy as the manifestation of our collective, social freedom. But Khruschev’s response to Nixon’s account of American freedom is telling. After the Vice President proclaimed the virtues of American manufacturing, the Soviet Premier famously responded, “Don’t you have a machine that puts food in the mouth and pushes it down?” Let us take Khruschev’s statement at face value. Consumer freedom makes our lives more and more convenient, but maybe we have reached a threshold where more convenience is not necessarily desirable, a point at which the ability to choose our goods is no longer the ultimate measure of freedom. I think it is particularly pertinent to reconsider what we define as “freedom” given the current state of the economy. If freedom is measured by the quantity of goods produced, we lose our freedoms the minute we stop buying. Perhaps it is time to ask ourselves this: given a world of convenience, what can we make of it? The great thing about the free market is that its principles need not apply exclusively to the material world, and the great thing about the level of consumer progress we have reached is that we do not really need to focus on
anything material anymore. Material symbols have become a cultural addiction, but they do not need to be. If we want, we can step away from the ever-present need to choose our worldviews by what we buy, and we can begin to select them on the basis of something deeper. We chose Barack Obama last November as a material symbol – a blue and red face with “HOPE” beneath it, a beautiful and trendy good – but we also chose him as an ideology. What is meaningful to us is not the aesthetic of the symbol, but the optimistic worldview that it represents. We have time now, and education, and wealth, and capacity, to see the world in terms of ideas. Any debate over how to define freedom becomes, inevitably, a debate over how to define “the good life.” The principle of competition that guides the free market gave Nixon’s housewives freedom in the form of leisure time, and this, to them, was the good life. But when material progress is no longer important or necessary, the means to the good life can be the pursuit of knowledge and happiness. Practically speaking, we are Obama’s version of Nixon’s housewives: we represent the forefront of progress and improvement. Our equivalent of the consumer freedom that Nixon’s housewives experienced can be the freedom to consume the knowledge we choose. Ideas can be our appliances: a free society produced both, and both create freedom. Thanks to the appliances of Nixon’s kitchen, we have the freedoms that come with an increased amount of leisure time. If we apply the principles of the free market to a marketplace of ideas – where people are free to choose the literature and art that compels them – the freedom we strive for is defined in terms of meaning and beauty, not efficiency. In the 1950s, freedom led to practical innovation, which led to efficiency. In the 2000s, freedom can lead to intellectual innovation, which can lead to meaning and beauty. Instead of valuing ourselves by the kitchen appliances we purchase, we can decide to value ourselves by what we read, by how we think and by how we want to see the world. Instead of purchasing appliances and calling it improvement, we can sit at our kitchen tables and make laps around our intellects. Perhaps it is time we used the principle of free market discrimination to find freedom within ourselves, to digest whatever we find beautiful or true, to seek whatever it is that makes us light up, and harness that power to light up the world.
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who am i? by Stephanie Kratschmer
As freshmen, we still expectantly await the drone of the bell as the minute hand nears the one o’clock hour, signifying the end of another class. For years, our lives were governed by a bell; in between each ring we sat – until, finally, we were granted three minutes to move to the next class. Our attendance was mandatory so we could stay on track for the obligatory next step: college. With each ringing bell, it seemed we moved one step closer to the destination we believed would bring freedom. Here we’re free from the rules and restrictions imposed by our parents, from our outdated reputations, and from the judgments of those who watched us go through our “awkward” phases. On the surface, it seems we finally have the opportunity to reinvent ourselves. However, in reality, most of us don’t. By the time we turn seventeen and eighteen, our habits and upbringing are already so ingrained that we’re unable to take advantage of our newfound “freedom.” Admittedly, we can blame a portion of our hesitation on the sense of responsibility that comes with maturity. By the time we’re here, the majority of us abide by rules that at first glance, make sense: we don’t leave our hair in the drains, we don’t smoke weed in our rooms, and we’re courteously quiet after midnight on weekdays. It is commendable that we don’t eat cake for every meal, that we finish our assignments on time, and that we may even attend Shabbat dinner or church from time to time. It’s also sad that by the time we’re granted a little more freedom to become ourselves, we’ve already become our parents. The real problem is a loss of curiosity and of exploration. We stick to old habits because we are scared to leave our comfort zone, and fall back only on tradition or habit. We deny ourselves the opportunity to test our boundaries and break the rules imposed by others and by ourselves. It’s too
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w.o.t.s
w.o.t.s
the choice to change bad that by the time we are given our first tastes of freedom we are already too “responsible” to take advantage of it. We search for people with whom we can identify, mostly befriending those who are like ourselves. Walk into the DUC and notice the different groups of students. Notice how those who wear brightly colored Nikes congregate together, how the girls with unnaturally colored hair tend to become friends, and how entire tables of non-English speakers huddle in conversation. Though we may have traveled out of our towns, our time zones or even our countries to come to college, we continue to surround ourselves with people who remind us of home, those with whom we feel most comfortable. There are no bells in college because we no longer need them. Instead of three minutes to get to class, we now have seven. Despite a lack of mandatory attendance, we show up to class to boost our participation grades. We would never refer to a group of people as the “popular kids” or admit to being a part of a clique; instead, we use Greek letters. While the outdated form of word-of-mouth gossip is generally frowned upon, collegeacb serves as a much more efficient and discreet method of discussing our friends’ latest mishaps. We may have a little more freedom in terms of choosing classes, but we still suffer through Writing 1. In the business school, we are taught the term “networking.” In high school this was known as “social climbing.” Most of us keep our rooms fairly clean, shower daily, and don’t spontaneously leave the country. We create a world of hierarchies and cliques, defining ourselves to feel like we belong. Politically, we crusade for freedom of choice, but when was the last time we actually allowed ourselves to consider all the options?
by Uri Morone There are two categories of identities; ones you select and ones you inherit. Club membership or professions are identities you choose. You were not born with an affinity for Oscar Wilde, but now you enjoy reading his books and consider yourself a true fan. Your ethnicity, on the other hand, is an identity over which you had no control. You were born into it, simply luck of the draw. Some associations, like political or religious ones, fall into either category depending on whether you do or do not choose them. To me, associating with people who share your interests and opinions seems logical. I believe who you are is defined by your outlook on life and your preferences; basically, how you think and feel. In this context, chosen identities describe a relevant aspect of who you are, but the same cannot be said about inherited identities. If a label is attached to you and not chosen by you it does not necessarily have anything to do with who you are. Are these associations worth maintaining? I do not think so. Associating yourself with a group inevitably separates you from everyone not in the group and can manifest a collective prejudice. Think of how people react to the headline “American soldier dies at 19, defending country” as opposed to one which reads “23 dead and 48 wounded in marketplace bombing in Fallujah”. The second headline should cause as much heartbreak and sympathy as the first. After all, most readers are equally unconnected to both parties. However, in my experience, citizens of this country seem to feel more sympathy for the family of the 19 year-old even if he is unknown or unrelated. Why? Because Americans feel more connected to other Americans and feel separate from Iraqis. This separation between peoples is, in my opinion, the main reason why wars are the horrible affairs they are. I do not think people of any
country would be supportive of military violence if they experienced every death “on the other side” as keenly as “one of their own”. As admirable as it would be if everyone could relinquish their inherited identities, it is hard to fault people for protecting them so vigilantly. No matter how you come to join a group, you often remain in it because it is deeply satisfying to feel like you belong. It is incredibly comforting to identify as French and know that no matter what happens there is a population who are likely to support you simply because they too are French. In a similar vein, it is empowering to be in an exclusive group, it is exciting to think of yourself as special. What group is more exclusive than one you have to be born into? It can be fundamentally terrifying to accept the idea that you are connected to everyone. I believe that if people could bring themselves to detach from arbitrary, predetermined connections, the rewards would be immeasurable. It takes determination and courage to step into the unknown, to fundamentally change our beliefs, to accept people who may not accept us. It is not enough to just tolerate “others”. We must strive to mentally and emotionally include them in our identities. Unlike birthplace or skin tone, the connection to other sentient human beings is genuine and significant. We can still love and feel connected to the people who look like us and were born near us. Realize though, that we can also love the people around the world who like to laugh and think brilliant thoughts and tell stories to their kids. We are not Scottish or Russian or Aborigine - we are human. I think if we harness the strength to accept people from all origins and backgrounds we can improve the world. Love is not a zero sum game.
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w.o.t.s
w.o.t.s As a black moderate who finds the nation’s newfound Obama zealotry as off-putting as the unyielding conservatism of years past, I think the time has come for me to admit that I miss George W. Bush. I miss watching him successfully stutter and bullshit his way through the presidential election in 2000, only to repeat the accomplishment in 2004. I miss him as a comedian, a public spectacle, and in his most invaluable role – as the national scapegoat. I will be the first to admit that I did not bother to learn anything about George W. Bush before making the choice to dislike him. I was 10 years old when he first ran for president, and going Democrat was then, as it is now, an auspicious social choice within my demographic. So, much in the manner of a child choosing his first sports team, I based my decision heavily on media portrayals and the opinions of others. . As a result, I, along with the general American youth, possess a demonized image of an otherwise respectable human being. Imagine, for a minute, George Bush in a role you would feel reasonably comfortable with him holding, as your uncle for example. Uncle George would be the cool, funny relative that uses made up words and takes you skeet-shooting at the age of seven. George Bush’s personality would thrive in a setting void of the media’s negative portrayals and the general responsibilities of office, someplace where his down-home personality could suffice. Uncle Obama, whom your parents would encourage you to emulate, would be the relative that speaks in platitudinous length about the weak infrastructure of the mortgage market at Thanksgiving dinner — and every other family gathering. I know, as you do, who which man is more suited for the presidency, but we shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking of George Bush as some deposed, fascist overlord — he is, above all, a decent human being who served his office with only good intentions for the nation. There will be those who will look at the Bush regime
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and see eight long years of decisions they adamantly opposed. They are the luckiest of all. There is no explaining what effect the past decade, coinciding with the formative political maturation of years for many of 2008’s first-time voters, has had on the lives of millions of citizens. During G. Dubs’ time in office, many became aware and proud of the intrinsic underdog status of the DNC. George W. Bush sought to be this generation’s Reagan by employing the “trickle-down” tax policy praised by neo-conservative strategists (which his own father once hailed as “voodoo” economics) and detested by liberals, and the fact that he was in office for the whole of our early adult lives will mark him as one of the most influential presidents we will ever know. For years, we had someone to blame for everything from the state of the economy to our failure in Iraq, and that is a privilege many are sure to miss. The fact that it was Clinton who began pushing mortgage companies to approve loans for people that couldn’t afford to repay them, or that Iraq’s recent provincial elections took place with almost no bloodshed, means nothing to those with the afforded privilege of counting on a national scapegoat. We’ve had the greater part of a decade to root against George Bush, oil companies, and Wall Street executives as the “bad guys,” but who will we now blame when the “good guys” screw up? Where will we cast our stones when beloved Barack is at fault? With the Democrats holding majorities in both the House and the Senate, it is abundantly clear that the leadership tide has changed. The “bad guys” are currently detained and there is no longer a figure at whom the Democrats can direct their concerted scorn. In the nation’s current state, it won’t be long before Americans grow to miss their chimp-faced patsy as I do.
all photos by Zack Cupkovic
by Dayo Adesokan
illustration by Adam Wand
GWB drop knowledge presents...
live art! March 20th, 2009: Drop Knowledge presented our first event, Live Art! Designed to expose the Washington University student body to the power and beauty of collaboration, we invited the most talented breakdancers, salsa dancers, and slam poets on campus and in the city to take part in the festivities. The live music was also bangin. Clive tore down the house as our headliners and thanks to the help of the on-campus musicians’ resource group, we were also able to assemble an impromptu jam session with musicians who had not even met each other, let alone rehearsed, before taking the stage. And if all that entertainment wasn’t enough to keep attendees occupied, we provided canvases and art supplies for students to express themselves on. Works were silently auctioned off to raise money for City Faces, an organization empowering inner-city children by providing art supplies and gallery space that enables them to enhance their abilities in the arts and leave them less vulnerable to the pernicious influence of the streets. Shout out to our resident live artists, Bradley Pipkin and Timothy E. Wagner, for creating works of extraordinary quality at our event and upping our street cred. Until next time, Drop Knowledge.
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Tim Wagner and Plastic (Bradley Pipkin) painting at Drop Knowledge presents: Live Art! photo by Zack Cupkovic
Drop Knowledge presents: Live Art! phoyo by Zack Cupkovic