CONTENTS 6 Nacho Mama’s 8 Aesthetic Allegiance 9 Religion & Politics: An Animated Story 10 Shoes & Bags 12 When Obama Goes to the Bathroom 14 Welcome to Cement Land 22 Last One Standing 24 The Bastardization of the Cupcake 25 Yemanja Brasil 26 9:23 to White Plains 29 Drowning is the Worst Way to Die 30 Home is Where? 32 Artificial...but Earth Friendly 33 Cats & Dogs 34 Hip-Hop Against Hunger Wrap-Up 38 People Watching
DK is... PRESIDENT Monis Khan
A LETTER FROM OUR PRESIDENT
CHIEF EDITOR Jessica Spraos
To the Drop Knowledge Family, It’s been a busy semester, but Drop Knowledge is back! Over the last few months, we worked closely with many talented groups on WashU’s campus to put together Hip-Hop Against Hunger, a weeklong smorgasbord of delectable events that supported Operation Food Search in its efforts to alleviate hunger in the St. Louis community. Through HHAH we had the opportunity to enact many of the goals we set out to accomplish when we began Drop Knowledge in September of 2008: We inspired meaningful collaboration between resourceful groups on campus, put on a diverse array of quality events, and raised awareness for a great cause. Our third issue will continue to advance our vision by provoking dialogue on a variety of compelling subjects. This time around we’re talking about chance encounters, aesthetic philosophy and man’s best friend. We’re revealing new places to eat and new trends to try. We’re presenting the work of the talented writers, poets and artists in our community. We encourage you, our readers, to contribute all flavors of feedback by e-mailing us at admin@dkstl.com. And if you’re broke, don’t be afraid to show those special people in your life how you feel by sending them a (free) copy of Drop Knowledge.
ASSOCIATE EDITORS Kate Gaertner Ariana Tobin LAYOUT EDITOR Logan Alexander TREASURER Lucas Olivieri PUBLICITY Makoto Chino
WRITERS Dayo Adesokan Emily Berger Miki Carter Stephanie Dresner Kate Gaertner Monis Khan Austin Menard Daniel Rusk Aaron Samuels Nick Schade Daniel Starosta ARTISTS & PHOTOGRAPHERS Zack Cupkovic Austin Menard Maddy Sembler
Thank you for downloading our third issue.
Sincerely, Monis
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NACHO MAMA’S 9643 Manchester Rd Saint Louis, MO 63119 314.961.9110
REMEMBER THAT TIME your mama promised you a delicious homemade quesadilla prepared with love and care? Remember when you bit into that soggy mess of processed ingredients and got slapped in the face by a world of disappointment? Well ’eff that shit! Next time you’re craving Mexican, go to Nacho Mama’s, where the food’s not yo mama’s cooking — it’s a lot better. From the outside, Nacho Mama’s looks like MC Hammer’s mansion after a back taxes lawsuit. From the inside…well from the inside it doesn’t look much better. Fortunately for you, the moment the food touches your lips you’ll forget where you’re eating and realize why you’re eating there. Start off with a bowl of homemade chips and a side of fresh-made guacamole served in its avocado skin. Then, grab some of the cheesiest nachos you’ve ever eaten; like an erupting volcano, the molten cheese runs over your taste buds, obliterating all previous allegiances you had to other nachos. Finally, finish off your meal with a chicken burrito platter. For only $8.79 you’ll get a burrito the size of Kimbo Slice’s forearm and a hefty side of rice and beans. If it’s fish that you’re craving, Nacho Mama’s fish tacos are legendary. To wash all that food down, grab one of the house margaritas. It’s the best six dollars you’ll ever spend. And if you’re one of those homie’s who’s always in a rush, swing through the drive-thru and get your meal (and margarita) to go. — DANIEL RUSK
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RELIGION & POLITICS: AN ANIMATED STORY by NICK SCHADE ON THE SURFACE, the 2008 animated film Kung Fu
AESTHETIC ALLEGIANCE by AUSTIN MENARD HERE’S AN IDEA: maybe the art you like isn’t cool to you because of how it looks, but because it reflects how you see the world. A professor of mine, in defending this philosophy of aesthetic, argued that, on some level, there’s a connection between you and the artist whose work you admire; when the artist manipulates a canvas to demonstrate his interpretation of the universe, you go along for the ride. In some inherent way, you’re inextricably linked by your shared perspective. Sure, there are many phenomena that can create a bond between two people, but the connection revealed by shared aesthetic preferences is extremely meaningful. There’s a moment of profound understanding and satisfaction when you find evidence of your own viewpoint in a piece. Your sense of aesthetic is so absolute and visceral; it can be the strongest link between you and another person. People who like the same art often find they share other tastes: many fans of underground hip-hop are also fans of golden age comic books. Admirers of ancient Greek sculpture tend to be similarly enamored by Victorian era classical music.
These cross-cultural, cross-medium connections, with such largely overlapping fan bases, can’t be totally coincidental. What makes these overlaps so significant is their social implications. If you keep company with people who share your aesthetic preferences, who find the same art beautiful or who like listening to the same music, there’s a danger of shutting yourself off from different viewpoints and new experiences. At the same time, however, surrounding yourself with like-minded friends may help deepen your selfunderstanding, and even your understanding of the human experience at large. Ultimately, it comes down to how important a role these things play in your life. No matter how a work of art affects you, if you’re only a casual fan, than it’s unwise to base relationships off of a common aesthetic preference. But if you’re the type who finds a deep connection between yourself and the artistic expression of others, than friendships with people who share your tastes might prove to be the most deeply rewarding.
Panda follows the classic kid movie you-should-beyourself-and-believe-in-yourself-and-you-will-bea-hero narrative archetype. Po, an underachieving Panda high in aspiration but low in self-confidence, accidentally finds himself in training to become the Dragon Warrior, savior of the Valley of Peace. However, this politically correct coating hides a more important message: that of the proletariat overcoming the bourgeois. The story opens with a 2-D dream sequence depicting the adventures of Po as a legendary warrior. He wears the rice hat and cape, the classic uniform of Eastern heroes. In his waking life, Po is employed in the noodle house that belongs to his father, one that has been in his family for several generations. “We are noodle folk,” remarks Po’s father, “broth runs deep through our veins.” Interestingly, Mr. Ping is not a Panda, but a goose. In KFP, geese and rabbits make up the majority of the lower class and are generally employed as waiters or servants at the temple. Here, Po affirms his lineage as a member of the proletariat. To underscore his social status, when the other residents of the Valley of Peace get the day off to watch the superstars of the region, the Furious Five, compete for the prestigious title of Dragon Warrior, Po is forced to drag the Noodle Cart to the temple to be a vendor. On the other end of the socio-economic spectrum are the Furious Five. These martial artist monks live far above the valley in a temple housing the rarest and most valuable historical artifacts. The fame and status of these monks is reflected in the attendance of their competition. Po himself owns action figurines of each member. Bourgeois capitalist traits are even more present in the story’s villain, Tai Lung. His greed for ultimate power in the form of the
Dragon Scrolls causes him to turn against the temple masters, who temporarily subdue and imprison him. After his escape, the temple masters are forced to name a Dragon Warrior to defend the valley from Tai Lung’s wrathful vengeance. By the end of the Dragon Warrior naming ceremony, Po’s determination to watch the Furious Five has paid off, but he accidentally lands himself in the middle of the ring and finds temple leader Master Oogway naming him the Dragon Warrior. When Master Shifu questions this decision, Oogway replies by saying, “There are no accidents.” Oogway, representing Marx’s fatalistic support of the proletariat, repeats this line several times throughout the course of the movie. In classic form, Po is forced to persevere through the training process and try to win the respect of the monks. By the time his study of Kung Fu is complete, Po is able to resist his compulsive overeating habit. Unlike Tai Lung, who hungers for power, Po frees himself from desire. Jump forward to Po’s heroic emergence from the cloud of victory. At first, we see only his silhouette. He appears to be wearing the traditional rice hat and cape of the Asian hero. When the smoke clears, however, we see that he does not dress as our traditional hero, but instead wears a wok and an apron, the symbols of his proletariat class. From Christianity in We’re Back: A Dinosaur Story to Randian Objectivism in The Incredibles, the animated film industry is no stranger to the subtle inclusion of political and religious themes, and “Kung Fu Panda” is no exception. When the pieces are arranged in a contextually clear manner, KFP can be seen as the story of the proletariat, propelled by fate, to overcome the monastic class and save society from greed for power.
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SHOES & BAGS THEY SAY THE GRASS is always greener on the other side. So naturally, everyone and everything wants to be someone or something else. Cell phones want to be computers and Facebook wants to be Twitter. Heidi Montag wants to sing and Kanye West wants to be God. However, famous identity crises, with the exception of Michael Jackson’s transformation (too soon?), have not all been epic failures. For the fashion industry, the identity crisis of shoes was this past summer’s hottest trend. Fresh out of the closet came a fabulous fusion of the sandal and the boot. The end result was a revival of “peep toes”, with cut out’s and height as an added twist. These shoes have the power to transcend seasons (but maybe not global warming, so wear them while you still can) and redefine the rules of fashion.
Top Left — Molly Peeptoe Top Right — Jeffrey Campbell Lattice Heel Bottom Left — Sweet Life by Dolce Vita Mercury Heel Bottom Right — Jeffrey Campbell Suede Cage Heel opposite page Left — Coco by Deena and Ozzy Right — Chain Strap Bag by Urban Renewal Leather
When going to concerts it’s essential to carry a number of items: ticket, phone, camera, I.D., and money. This might not sound like a lot, but consider the context; for women, it’s common to wear clothing that allows for maximum flexibility when busting a move (typically an oversized band T-shirt and anything from American Apparel). These spandextual ensembles leave no extra fabric for pockets. There’s an obvious conflict here: Where does it all go? Don’t even think about trying to bring back the microscopic backpack or fanny pack from the 90’s. IT’S NOT HAPPENING. And you don’t want to be the fool who ignores proper concert etiquette and dances with a bag big enough to hold a small child, giving everyone around you bruises. There’s only so much room left in your bra before you end up looking like a flat-chested sixth-grade girl who thinks she’s fooling everyone. Two possible solutions remain: Either leave the camera and phone behind, leaving with them all Facebook documentation opportunities and textual bragging rights. Or, wear a purse of the appropriate size. Small purses with long straps are deceptive. They can hold all the essentials without making you look like an idiot or sideswiping the poor shawty dancing next to you. — MIKI CARTER
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WHEN OBAMA GOES TO THE BATHROOM by AARON SAMUELS The Pentagon has twice as many restrooms as necessary. When it was built, Du jour segregation was still in effect And separate restrooms for blacks and whites Were required by law The pinnacle of military intelligence Power, Efficiently And now, no one has to wait in line To pee Or poop So when Obama gets tired Of carrying the nuclear football, eyes focused on Iran And when Obama is finished Being briefed about the necessity of rendition And the confusion about Abu Grabe And when Obama is done with Signing continuations of the no child left behind act And straddling the lines between health care and budget deficits He can finally take a break Well earned And walk down a steel hallway Inside his 5-pointed mausoleum His penny loafers just a few floors above a bunker holding more uzis than Afghanistan And Obama is tired When he arrives at the end of the hallway Staring to his left at two doors One marked men With a white outline of a stick figure With rectangles for pants and a square chest The other door marked women With another white outline A triangle of a body And a circular head balancing on the point And Obama has been holding it in since breakfast
He turns to his right Two doors One marked men With a white outline of a stick figure Straight legged, firm, and patriotic The other marked women Pale and expressionless And Obama really needs to let it go But he is stuck To his left Two doors stoic and silent To his right Two doors, solid and noble Parallel constructs Gateways into America’s ideals The bathless washrooms lavetting themselves alongside classrooms and offices Accompanied by rusted water fountains And inferior education And Obama stares down interior decoration Daring the doors to reveal themselves To conjure up from the new paint And remodeled surfaces And he stares, presidentially Demanding them their heritage Searching for a scratch or a scar on the wall paint For a tac or a nail That once hung the sign Coloreds only On one side of the hallway And whites only On the other But time has rendered them identical Fake wood and ivory Faucets and urinals It is almost as if they are the same Parallel realities Eyeballing each other as if to play chicken with our president Who is too prideful to ask a janitor To political to demand a change And too close to peeing in his pants To ponder much longer
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WELCOME TO CEMENT LAND TEN YEARS AGO, Bob Cassilly — creator and owner of City Museum — purchased about 60 acres of old industrial ground along the Mississippi north of St. Louis. He christened it “Cement Land,” and hatched many grand schemes for the property. He would build a castle. He would recreate Egyptian deserts. He would flood it. He would have boats traveling through the many abandoned cement silos. In short, imagine a combination of a more adult City Museum and Waterworld. It’s incredibly mindboggling, but if you can get on Bob’s level, you just might understand the sheer ballsiness of his vision. Unfortunately, projects this epic take time, and due to a few problems with city officials, Cement Land hasn’t gone as planned. What remains is a post-apocalyptic scene of
monumental proportions. The aformentioned silos tower above old, graffiti-covered Metro buses grown over with weeds and grass. Rusty stairs extended up level after level up to infinity. Old planes (and even an old flight simulator), lie in the shadows of giant metal hanger-esque structures and the castle turrets Cassilly has managed to complete. And there’s a sweet hanging bridge. Decrepit and dangerous, Cement Land is nonetheless home to many fantastic afternoon adventures. Should Cassilly’s dream ever become a reality, consider this an album of baby pictures.
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photos by Ben Busch
LAST ONE STANDING by DANIEL STAROSTA TO SEE A beautiful building abandoned to the elements and questionable figures is often a haunting shame. To see the ivy vines of a vibrant counterculture wrap itself around one and transform it into a living enclave of art progression? Well, that’s a strange, crazed, and beautiful thing. While its battered, graffiti-smeared façade evokes an idea of suspicious activity, Berlin’s Kunsthaus Tacheles is anything but sinister; artist squatters have taken the rundown, bombed-out, five-story building, ironically located in the heart of what is now one of the city’s trendiest neighborhoods, and renovated it over the last 25 years. A maze of studios, exhibition halls, and bars, it stands as a last bastion of the underground artistic movement. As a 28-year veteran artist explained it, Tacheles is a medium for undiluted expression. With a community of artists from over 130 nations, it continues to fight against the area’s gentrification. Here, art and activism take priority, coexisting in a bizarre utopia while capitalism sits on the back
burner. Walking through the wrought-iron gates into the courtyard behind the building, the sidewalk suddenly becomes sand, and the painted ice-cream truck just inside beckons visitors to come explore a different world. A 15-foot metal sculpture of a human head sits placidly on the grounds, surveying the outlandish scene. It watches over the outdoor bars and the old leather couches where patrons sit in an artificial desert. This fortress of strange culminates with a tiny bar on the top floor. There, another old couch, small tables, and plastic chairs that don’t match are clustered together; a DJ in the corner plies his trade as the breeze floats through a knocked-out window that offers a panoramic view of the Berlin skyline. Tacheles is truly special because it’s not so special at all. It’s an amalgamation of leftovers rearranged under layers of paint to make a simple, coherent whole. It’s a world falling apart and coming together all at the same time.
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THE BASTARDIZATION OF THE CUPCAKE YEMANJA BRASIL
by DAYO ADESOKAN
THE COFFEE ELITISTS came for my coffeemaker like scheduled cable men, dutifully replacing the homely device with a rather imposing and deafening espresso machine. They removed the last of my home brew and held out a trayful of Starbucks gift cards, insisting, “This is what the mature must drink.” Next, the tea snobs came for my Lipton and Swiss Miss, grinning like car salesmen. Unwrapping loose tealeaves and a small hollow mace, they boiled and steeped this foreign medicine and urged me to swallow, commanding, “This is what the mature must drink.” Now, the cupcake nobility are preparing their order for the greatest coup of all. Their goal is utter bastardization. This I will not allow. As a child, even before I knew the difference between right and wrong, I knew that cupcakes were sacred. They were my moral compass. While there were many things far beyond my innocent reach, those delicious goodies, hand-crafted by a sovereign God for my tiny clay palms alone, fit comfortably in my grasp. They were my comfort from a world of uncertainty and constant change. And now, the coffee shop progressionists insist that I am much too old to enjoy the treats of my youth. They demand that I eat ‘gourmet cup cakes’, giant and ostenta-
tious affronts that bear a more striking resemblance to muffins in wigs than my offended dessert. They argue that a humble dome of cake batter topped with a modest cream frosting will not do; the six-pack for $2.49, holiday-variety, sprinkle designed, chocolate or vanilla cupcakes I grew up with are not what the mature should eat. My dessert must be styled with added bulk, hardened frosting, and such outlandish flavoring as lemon meringue. Is nothing sacred? Shall I warn my mother to guard the mac ‘n cheese? Have my Lucky Charms replaced by Smart Start? I understand that many of the changes marking a transition to adulthood will be difficult and unpleasant, but I refuse to concede my youth simply because it is expected. I will have no part of this maturation into pretentious old-fart-itude. I will embrace age as it comes, dear friends, but my days with tobacco pipes and suede-patched hacking jackets are still far off. Till then, make yourselves sparse, ’O robbers of innocence and bearers of civilization! But be warned: If it is by force you intend to pry this ripe adolescence from my clinched hands, remember that I, unlike yourselves, still have the vigor of youth.
2900 Missouri Ave St. Louis Missouri 63118 314.771.7457
LOCATED IN ST. LOUIS’ BENTON PARK DISTRICT, Yemanja Brasil serves up authentic Brazilian cuisine in an auspicious environment. Owned and operated by Cathleen Sidki and her daughter Lemya, the restaurant is a visual fantasy world; vivid colors, enticing murals, and genuine Brazilian pottery decorate every room. The space is enormous, three floors in all, so Yemanja can host a party of 70 as easily as a group of three or four. At first, it’s easy to get distracted by the stellar surroundings, but your focus will quickly shift to the award-winning food the moment you bite into an empanada. Every item on the lean menu incorporates a unique and delicious blend of flavors and ingredients. Don’t waste you night out on dishes that sound familiar — try something new! The Aipim Frito, fried yucca root wedges, and the Moqueca Baiana, a mixed seafood stew, are unlike anything else you’ll find in the city. And they’re crazy tasty, too. After engorging yourself to the point of extreme discomfort, take a walk. With downtown so close by, Yemanja is the perfect spot to stop at before a night out on the town. — MONIS KHAN
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photo by yeuxrogue
9:23 TO WHITE PLAINS by KATE GAERTNER IT IS TWILIGHT, and I have been on the Metro North train for long enough that the shiny faces of Manhattan have deteriorated into worn burgundy brick, buildings with gaping windows that shout against a violet sky. Above them, a billboard announcing the merits of a new phone plan — “Stay connected for less” — reaches up to touch the descending horizon. My suitcase and I sit watching the buildings go by, far above the pinpricks of headlights on the streets below. Nestled in the crook between my shiny laminateand-vinyl seat and the carpeted metal of the train’s side, I press my cheek against the window. The train whistles past echoes of a neighborhood that has changed and changed again, signs for Subway and McDonalds upon the former facades of dry-cleaning shops and bodegas. The air is cold outside for August, and the window feels cool against me like the hand of a mother upon the forehead of a feverish child.
Melrose, Tremont, Fordham. Names strangely familiar pass as the train stops and starts again, pausing at wood-paneled stations. I press my head back against the glass and watch my suitcase sway back and forth, back and forth. I close my eyes and can feel the same sensation that I used to feel entering elevators as a little girl, a placid feeling of rising up as the world goes down and gravity shifts your position. My suitcase — a seventy-pound mammoth, packed full with wedge sandals and summer dresses, with short shorts and Marquez novels — oscillates again and again like a spring, its weight carefully balanced on the vinyl fulcrum of a seat curved to fit a human being. A man in a hat comes and takes my ticket, delivering six punches randomly-placed yet mechanical — a twelve-dollar entrance fee to a conveyor belt that will take me home. In my head I struggle to remember what my parents look like. There is my mother, always too thin, frizzy-haired and pragmatic. There is my father, balding, nervous yet hospitable. I struggle to place
the discoloration on my father’s front teeth, the blueberry-flavored beer and persuasions about how places where my mother’s hair is graying. I wonder much I would certainly have liked Arcadia. what it must be to see the lights in these windows, I am prepared to ask about the dog, to talk about to meet your twenty-year-old daughter outside of my courses for next semester, my internship, the city. New York City alone on a train with a suitcase that I am plotting a directive in which everything is dwarfs you and her. justified, justifiable, explicable. We cross the Hudson: Tuckahoe, Crestwood, Looking out at phantom suburbs, I fall upon Scarsdale. I have entire caissons of memory to place a long-dead memory of when I was nine, of the time before I can sit across a dinner table and spill them my family went to Rocky Mountain National Park. out to my parents, and I know this. I listen to the I went to use a dilapidated bathroom at the top of echo of the wind sweep the thin glass that separates a snow-peaked mountain trail and could not stop me from the world and pull my jacket tighter around staring at the beauty of the scene — the mountains, me, making myself smaller and smaller. the sky, the lake below. By the time I found my way I am placing myself in jars, tell and don’t tell, see back to my mother, she was frantic and frenzied, and don’t see. Again I am putting aloe on pink skin worried that in the twenty minutes I had been gone from a fourth-of-July sunburn. I am standing on a I had fallen off the mountaintop. terrace, letting the wind whip my dress as I look Passengers enter and exit; the conductor punches at the opaque black of the East River. I am walking more cards. Next stop: White Plains. I stare out through a chorus of polyester scarves as my friend the window at lights too blurry to place, at neighboreats corn on the cob. I am lying awake at night next hoods of people I will never meet. I flip open my to a fifteenth-story window, listening to the distant phone and type to my mother’s familiar 314 number: beat of a Michael Jackson song. I am dressed in “Be there in five.” a borrowed print blouse, nervously telling a set I want to type goodbye to 917, to 646, to 212. of West Side Jewish parents about milking a cow It occurs to me that I have said these goodbyes, one in Missouri. I am sitting Indian-style on the floor after another. I want to say goodbye to something of a studio apartment, uncorking a bottle of wine that I am leaving here, a giggly set of jars full of and splitting a vegan cookie three ways. I am lying saturated humidity and Midwestern fascination, jars on a field as 5,000 people watch a giant screen in containing borrowed blouses and rum-loaded taxi Bryant Park, looking up at the exercise room in backseats. Placing my finger on the window, I trace an office building far above me and at the phantom lines along the glass. Fact: my parents are taking me clouds far above it. I am sitting on the stoop of to a Greek restaurant tonight. Fact: I am going back a restaurant that serves falafel of all colors, drawing to Missouri tomorrow. a theory of pluralist metaphysics on the palm The train slows as it approaches White Plains, of a friend. the suitcase jostling rhythmically. I push my hand And again I am running into a high-rise apartout to stop it from falling. On the platform under ment building as rain plasters white shorts to my yellow spotlights I see my parents waiting, my body and the doorman throws back his head to father’s arm around my mother. They are a little laugh. I am running in heels on tile to catch the 8:40 smaller, a little grayer than I remember. With my 6 train uptown. I am running alone along the piers head still pressed against the cool window I feel a at sunset. I am running down West End to hail the one-syllable sentiment, a thrust that exists outside cab that took me to Grand Central and put me here. the messy world of East Village restaurant stoops The shelves in my brain shuffle and align again. and taxi backseats, beyond the sterile corridor of this Synapses fire forward and back, reminding me where train. A needle pierces my stomach, and I can only I am going: the Hilton, White Plains. I am repeating ascribe this pang to the knowledge that these two these syllables to a taxi driver that I have not yet met. human beings traveled here to see me, that I will get My parents are returning from Maine to meet me at off the train and, no matter what is in it, they will the train station, and I can only anticipate tales of carry my suitcase home.
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DROWNING IS THE WORST WAY TO DIE by DAYO ADESOKAN We are at the aquarium. I tell her that I want to bathe in the liquid glass of her eyes; That I want to lie below the surface of those endless fathoms And breathe out adoring reflection through the pores of my skin. I tell her that I would give anything to bask in those shining orbs And let their glorious substance pour over me like water Over an ocean bound seal. She smiles. And reaches for her sunglasses in the V of her shirt. She tells me that I am being silly, And that perhaps we should see the penguins.
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illustration by Maddy Sembler
HOME IS WHERE? by EMILY BERGER DOROTHY ONCE SAID, “There’s no place like home.” But, if Dorothy was right and there really is “no place like home,” we’d all be screwed; individual growth would be stunted and confined to fenced-in childhood backyards. As human beings, we need to immerse ourselves in new and unfamiliar surroundings in order to reach our full potentials and truly grow into ourselves. This might sound scary, but we come fully equipped to do so; the ability to adapt pulses throughout the human bloodstream. Uprooting from the familiar gives hope for new opportunity, a fresh start, and ultimately, the prospect for change. At first, the notions of “new,” “fresh,” and “change” can be alluring and promising. However, when the initial seductiveness of a new place wears off, the growing pains of adaptation kick-in. As a new person in a community, it’s easy to feel out of place, lonely, or lost. These feelings catalyze an urge for familiarity that we are compelled to satiate in making a place feel like “home.” For the last few years I’ve bounced around the country like a pinball in an arcade machine, struggling to hit the “jackpot.” This experience has given me plenty of insight into what it takes to make
a place “home.” From what I’ve gathered, the process can be broken down into four stages: It starts with the “allusion stage”. This is the stage that really just makes a place feel like home on the surface. As a college nomad, I took on the challenge of making a shoebox dorm room feel like home. I adorned my extra-long twin bed with colorful sheets and blankets, tacked pictures of my friends to my bulletin board, covered the white walls in trendy posters, and even threw my clothing around the room for that just-messy-enough-to-be-realistic effect. Others, a little less anal about aesthetics, just need to unpack their suitcases or throw a pillow onto their bed in order to make a place “home.” Delving a little deeper, there’s the “routine stage.” Eventually, amidst new surroundings, individuals develop routines that help to make a place feel more familiar. These patterns of behavior force people to adjust to a schedule and grow accustomed to passing the same people and places day after day. The continuation of familiar routines from a previous home links the past with the present, helping to make a new place seem a little less foreign. This integration of the old with the new is important, because no matter how different your
surroundings may be and how eager you are for a fresh start, you’re still ultimately “you.” You inevitably carry some of your stuff along from place to place. When moving, you chose what to bring with you and what to leave behind. In trying to radiate a mature, intelligent image in a new place, you may choose to bring your book collection and world map to hang up in your room, yet opt to leave your stuffed animals and Britney Spears poster in the past. Next, there’s the “commitment stage,” when people start making commitments and promises to new friends, places, etc. in order to anchor themselves and transition into new surroundings. This stage forces integration with people and organizations already adapted to the environment. Commitments establish presence, identifying the newcomer as more than a mere visitor. Before long, nothing’s drastically new anymore. Therein lies the final and most important stage, the “living stage.” Home is a place where you live. So, to really make a place home, you have to live there. Living constitutes time, experience, and growth. Since living is a constant action, this stage has no definitive end.
However, I think you know you’re “home” when you stop contemplating, “am I there yet?” and finally allow yourself to enjoy the ride, truly live in your surroundings. And, while living, what you once considered a “new place” will eventually become your home. Let’s return to Dorothy’s claim. Yes, she said, “there’s no place like home,” but consider the context: she had just suffered a serious blow to the head and proceeded to enter a world of munchkins, witches, and talking scarecrows. If Dorothy was in the right state of mind, I’d like to think that she’d have realized that there are places like home. While making a place “home” requires significantly more effort than a few heel clicks, that’s no reason to shy away from taking on the challenge. Persevering through the discomfort, we break out of fenced-in childhood backyards and learn to fend for ourselves. We adapt.
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CATS & DOGS by NICK SCHADE THESE ARE MY THOUGHTS ON CATS AND DOGS.
ARTIFICIAL... BUT EARTH FRIENDLY
There are exactly two cat stories:
by STEPHANIE DRESNER
FLASHBACK TO MY FRESHMAN YEAR: I was in Whispers Café trying to get work done, and my friend Alison sat down with me. Alison, a chemical engineering major, pulled out a newspaper and started reading. Minutes in, she throws down the paper. “So stupid!” she yells at me, and I spend the next couple of minutes listening to her rant about how artificial and natural flavors are the same thing. That’s right. Artificial and natural flavors are the exact same thing. As I learned that day, ‘artificial’ just means that the flavors come from synthetic chemicals, whereas natural flavors are required to originally come from a naturally occurring substance. Still, once the naturally occurring chemicals or substances reach the lab, a professional flavorist blends-in the correct proportion of chemicals to create the desired flavor. The end product has the same chemical composition regardless of whether it starts with an artificial or natural base. So, one method of making flavors isn’t better than the other, right? Wrong. Artificial flavors are safer because they’re simpler to make, and the substances used to make the artificial flavors are all safetytested before they reach a flavorist. Natural flavors can be unsafe, both for the people ingesting them and for the environment. For example, the Massoya tree, in which natural coconut flavoring is found, dies when its bark is collected and made into flavoring. This tree, found in Malaysia, dies when the bark is collected and made into flavoring. Also, the process of collecting flavors from the environment requires extensive traveling and is extremely costly for manufacturers. Despite these costs, manufacturers are still
1. As you sit comfortably on a couch or a park bench, the cat approaches, cautious at first. Its tail winds upward and bends to point towards you while it meanders, serpentine, towards its target. As it nears you, it slows and stares, at first wincing, but then accepting your slowly offered hand to sniff. Once satisfied, it will allow you to pet first its head, then along its back, which it arcs to more firmly meet your hand. Then, it gets better. The cat begins to purr, begins to wind around your legs with force. It winds in and out between your legs, arching beneath your touch, while still reaching its crown towards eager fingers. At this point, the cat will, if summoned, jump up on the couch or bench and onto your lap and, if it is an especially nice cat, it may even rub its face on yours, tapping its whiskered nose on your cheek. Then, without due notice or warning, it bears its claws, swipes at your eyes, and bounds off, propelling itself by the traction of claws on flesh, because, apparently, it had received enough attention from you.
exploiting resources from all ends of the Earth so they can put a ‘natural flavors’ label on their product. And who do you think is footing the bill? We, the customers, and it’s because we’re willing to dish out for the label. After a decade of Al Gore and reusable burlap grocery bags, green has become attractive to us; anything that implies we’re about to reduce our carbon footprint is extremely appealing. It’s okay if you want to join the green movement, and it’s okay if you don’t. That’s your personal choice. The problem is that green is trendy on a national level, and people are looking for any easy way to appear environmentally conscious. They’re not going to commit to learning about things that make a real impact, but they feel better about themselves if their refrigerators look like those of local hippie farmers. Now I’m not saying that it’s wrong to want to join the green movement, but we should be going green for the right reasons and in a knowledgeable way. Marketers know there’s a group of us who are trying to jump on the green bandwagon, which explains the increase in ‘natural’ products designed to look healthy, earthy, and organic. So the next time you’re drawn to something in the grocery store because it has the word ‘natural’ all over it, remember that the label has nothing to do with the product being healthier or better for the environment. Let’s bring back artificial flavors and save everyone a little green. Money, that is.
The common theme of these two stories, which are both true stories, is the use of claws. The cat itself can’t truly be blamed for using its claws — it must use them, after all, to gain traction, to gain purchase, and to defend itself. The claws themselves would not be an issue, were it not for the jumping towards and away from my flesh. The real problem with cats, though, is their endless, egotistic greed for affirmation. The cat’s whole routine, from the moment it becomes aware of you to its delicate, teasing approach, is one of deception and self-gratification. Sure, in a way
There are plenty of ways to do your part, and if you want to get involved, get informed by getting some information first. A great site to visit is www.planetgreen.discovery.com
you are aware of this — obviously the cat is not scratching your head — but you feel gratified by the cats presumed gratitude. It is, after all, arching its back and purring and positioning itself to be stroked by you. The cat obviously loves it and, you are
2. While you are asleep or otherwise not paying attention, the cat jumps on your face, claws first.
certain, it sort of needs you. You are the key piece in its enjoyment to life — remember that it approached you in the first place. It has found selfaffirmation through your attention and your attention alone. It surely must need you in some manner. But it does not. As soon as it reaches a certain threshold of contented self-esteem, it becomes not only dismissive of you, but also irritated. The cat does not give you a last nuzzle and leave you with a wistful smile. Instead, it reacts violently, scratching, clawing, and biting. Blaming you for the attention that it had, up until that moment, shown every sign of loving. It gives no proper warning that what you are doing is wrong. In fact, the very most you can hope for before the onslaught is a halfsecond of indifference in its eyes before it bounds away, springing painfully from your lap. But, what about dogs? Dogs are great in that they are the perfect opposite of cats. Their love is nearly unconditional. If you scratch them, they will lick your hand and wag in earnest. When you arrive home, they shout animatedly from the door before following you around the house until you stop long enough for them to show you their appreciation. A dog is always there when you need it, unlike a cat, which is as likely to support you as it is to be found beneath a bed frame. A dog will even sit and listen attentively to your problems for hours on end, though it probably understands little, if any, of the social nuances or implications of your problems. Nonetheless, a dog will love you. But therein, as is said, lays the rub. The dog loves too much. If a cat comes to play with you and you scratch it and it purrs, you have done something right. If you are holding a cat’s attention and generally pleasing it, you are doing something right. The same cannot be said of a dog. Its near-unconditional love is such that you can really do just about anything and a dog still slobbers at the sight of you. It is quite simple: Being loved by a dog is unsatisfying. If a dog loves you, you have proved nothing. If a cat loves you, then you have done something right, something to make it happy. You have shown yourself worthy of the feline’s fickle adoration...even if it is a selfish asshole.
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photos by Austin Menard photo by Zack Cupkovic
T
hip-hop against hunger
his November, Drop Knowledge, in collaboration with a number of other student groups on WashU’s campus, hosted Hip-Hop Against Hunger: A Week of Cultural and Social Awareness. Led by John Huang, Celso White, Lucas Olivieri and Monis Khan, HHAH set out to accomplish two goals: benefit Operation food search and celebrate expression, the essence of hip-hop. Participants were encouraged to free themselves from the shackles of self-censorship and to explore the
many sides of an often misunderstood, multifaceted culture. Events throughout the week, including a graffiti exhibit, rap battle and numerous concerts, provided the opportunity to do exactly that. Many thanks to John Huang, who designed the fantastically fly t-shirts, and Trackstar the DJ, who was kind enough to handpick some of his favorite tracks from participating artists for the official mixtape.
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photos by Zack Cupkovic
MONDAY | Nov. 9th
TUESDAY | Nov. 10th
WEDNESDAY | Nov. 11th
THURSDAY | Nov. 12th
FRIDAY | Nov. 13th
SATURDAY | Nov. 14th
Eleven Magazine got the week kick-started with a mixtape exchange that encouraged students to make a mix of their favorite hip-hop songs and exchange it for one made by someone else.
OneWorld Magazine hosted a Pop and Lock dance workshop with STL’s finest, Nicholas Gates, the founder of Hip-Hop Foundation Fanatics. At the event, Nick taught participants basic popping and locking moves, and everyone left with their swagger on high.
Drop Knowledge hosted the Expression Expo, which fused fashion show, graffiti exhibit, freestyle battle, and DJ showcase into one hell of an event.
Idan Raichel headlined a multicultural concert hosted by WashU Students for Israel. The concert promoted pluralism in the WashU community and abroad.
Is America really post-racial? During Rap Sessions, sponsored by Drop Knowledge panelists Bakari Kitwana, Jabari Asim, MC Serch, Joan Morgan, and Lisa Fager Bediako debated the question.
WU Cypher hosted Cypher of Fortune, a 2v2 bboy/bgirl breakdancing battle. A wheel of stipulations dictated the special conditions of each round.
WU-Slam hosted a special edition of Inklings, a weekly poetry workshop, focused on creating verse in response to hip-hop related prompts.
When world champion turntablists, DJ Costik and DJ Deception, began their showcase the party launched into overdrive. Capping the night off, audience members participated in a freestyle and beatbox cypher that kept the crowd crying out for more.
The Hip-Hop Festival, HHAH’s finale concert, featured RJD2, The Paxtons, and iLLphonics. The event was hosted by the Gargoyle, Team 31, and Drop Knowledge. — MONIS KHAN
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PEOPLE WATCHING by MONIS KHAN WITH WASHCLOTH AND CLEANSER IN HAND, I sprayed down the windows of Cousin’s Subs sandwich shop. From my periphery, I caught sight of a stocky, heavily tattooed black man, shrouded in baggy clothes. Usually, his presence would not have distracted me from my work, but his anxious pacing and the faintly audible cusses I heard him murmur under his breath began to make me nervous. I rationalized his behavior as the usual habits of a harmless pedestrian frustrated with the unreliable bus schedule, but this line of reasoning did not soothe my subconscious; when he dug deep in his pockets I nearly flinched until I saw that he was only checking his phone. Clearly disappointed, he thrust it into his pocket, noticed my presence at the storefront, and approached me. I subtly reached for my back pocket, happy that I only had three dollars to offer in case things turned ugly. My heightened sense of apprehension, however, was disarmed when I recognized that his t-shirt was adorned with the Cousin’s Subs insignia. I sighed in relief; he was no criminal, he was my comrade. And he treated me as such from the moment I met him. After introducing himself, Lovelle asked if we’d be working together that evening. “Actually, this is my last shift. I’m off at five, and I’m headin’ to St. Louis tomorrow for the semester.” “Oh, word. That must be real excitin’. You got a roommate down there?”
“I mean, I live with two other guys, but I have my own room,” I answered, flattered that he was curious about my living situation only moments after meeting me. “Yeah, that’s the way to go. Last time I shared a room with someone I was in prison. He was the most foul person I ever met. Absolutely disgusting.” I nodded, suppressing my reaction to his statement. Yet, I couldn’t help but speculate that along the path to incarceration Lovelle must have come across some exceptionally sordid individuals. His experience sharing a jail cell with the most repulsive of all these acquaintances put my freshmen year roommate qualms in sharp perspective. “No joke, man,” he continued, “I would get into scraps just so I could be put into the hole, so I could be alone. Yeah, one day in the hole meant one day added on to your sentence, but I couldn’t live with that dude. I was supposed to be locked up for two years, I came out after five. Maximum security.” Entranced by his tale, I pressed him with questions to learn more about his lifestyle, which was as alien to me as that of the aborigines in Australia. Lovelle acquiesced, informing me in great detail about his childhood. His parents, both drug addicts, had not offered much positive reinforcement during his early years. In fact, in an attempt to establish a sense of entrepreneurship, his mom instructed him
to sell drugs to her friends at the tender age of six. Direct exposure to drugs and violence from the start left Lovelle desensitized to the downsides of a criminal lifestyle. Abandonment by his foster parents only gave him more motivation to find his own way on the streets. Without adult supervision, Lovelle developed a sense of community with his peers by committing crimes around the neighborhood. Close calls led to arrests and eventually Lovelle was sentenced to 18 months in Juvenile Detention at the age of 14. There, his friends became family, and a week after he was released from his first sentence, Lovelle returned to Juvenile Detention for another 18 months. Even after two lengthy stints of incarceration, Lovelle was sentenced to two years in a maximumsecurity prison for armed robbery at the age of 17. Five years removed from his final term in prison, Lovelle reminisced on his friendships solidified behind bars, realizing that his relationships with fellow inmates filled the void left by not having a stable family life. “Those were the first real friends I had,” he said. “They would look after me, protect me, make sure I was eatin’ right. Not even my moms was doin’ that. Nobody was doin’ that.” Disturbed at the thought of his abandonment, Lovelle once again reached for his cell phone. “Sorry, man. I’m just waitin’ for a call from my girlfriend. Should be comin’ in anytime now. My — ,” his voice wavered, “my uncle had a brain contusion last night. He’s an organ donor so they are harvesting his organs right now. I’m just waitin’ to hear back from my girlfriend. She’s gonna call once they pronounce him dead.” I apologized, knowing there was only so much I could say to console him. Still, he found enough comfort in my words to open up even more.
“My pops died when I was in juvie. Both my grandma and my mom died when I was in prison. Now, I’m losing my uncle. Man, I’m telling you I ain’t got much left. My girlfriend is always askin’ me how I get through it, why I ain’t cryin. Most of the time I just don’t know how to react, a part of me is so used to this feelin’. She keeps on tellin’ me to let some of these emotions out, says I bottle ‘em up too much. Thinks I gotta be careful, could be dangerous.” Although they were hidden under his baggy clothes, thick tattoos, and a heavy build, Lovelle’s emotions were getting the better of him. While he didn’t shed any tears in my presence, I could tell that what I was hearing was privileged information. For days and weeks to come, I thought about my first and only conversation with Lovelle. Out of the multiple assumptions I made about him, I was surprised to learn how accurate some of them were. With one look at his appearance and apparent frustration, I quickly concluded that I was at risk to be mugged by this man. Upon learning that he had been incarcerated three times, at least once for armed robbery, it wasn’t fear that consumed me, but a growing sense of empathy. Fear is not the tool by which we should address concerns in our society. Clearly Lovelle’s childhood was defined by adversity and abandonment, creating a void he sought to fill with camaraderie cemented through criminal activity. To ensure that children encountering similar struggles avoid these hazards, we mustn’t hide behind stereotypes, regardless of their occasional accuracy. Through my conversation with Lovelle, I learned the importance of challenging my fears and assumptions. Indeed, they are only impediments standing in the way of meaningful experiences.
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