Passport Spring 2013 by Undergraduate Publications Board

london

connections

hidden CHARMs

in venice defining

empowerment

dates with

Copenhagen Volume Volume 17 Spring 16 Fall 2012 2013

EDITOR’S NOTE Duke is, like many people say, a bubble insulated from the outside world: four short years designated to being young. With all of us in a constant flurry of meetings, midterms, and plans for the future, our lives can take on a seemingly monotonous rhythm. Yet, Duke is not impervious to the changing world around us. Whether or not it is voluntary, each individual on this campus is changing on his or her own. At the end of the four years, not one of us leaves as the same person who entered; the Duke bubble is only barely isolated, especially when the people residing in it are constantly stepping outside its boundaries. Each issue of Passport stuns me with the wide breadth of experiences that students on this campus have. Hearing each story depict a realm beyond what I know reminds me that all of us are incapable of staying still because we refuse to remain complacent with our world as it exists. We stray away from the bubble because it is only when we push ourselves outside our comfort zones that we can begin to change how we think. This change stems from finding value in places lingering below the surface of tourism: the unconventional stops in London, the warmth of cafés in a freezing Copenhagen, the hidden parlors of farmacias in Venice. It goes beyond merely experiences—it means traveling to China and seeing passion for language connect those from over fifty different cultures. It involves venturing to Ghana and overwriting preconceived notions of youth, privilege, and empowerment. It results in awe of cultures besides our own. As you read the seventeenth issue of Passport, I hope that you can join each and every writer on his or her story. With each narrative, recollection, or opinion, I hope this issue of Passport challenges you to venture outside not only the geographic boundaries, but also the intellectual and emotional bubble that college life can be. Keep an open mind. Change begins with the first intention to leave the bubble and the first step out of it, and honestly, it never ends.

editor-in-chief Jennifer Hong chief graphics Lauren Jackson editor senior editors Becky Chao Daniel Luker Caitlin Tutterow Yueran Zhang graphics Ukyoung Chang editors Jennifer Hong Kathy Huang Suhani Jalota Roshni Prakash editors Annie Piotrowski writers Becky Chao Karen He Jennifer Hong Lauren Jackson Drew Korschun Suellen Li Katie Ni Marc Osian Cara Peterson J.P. Senter

Jennifer Hong In the sixteenth issue of Passport , an excerpt about dwarf tossing was published in the senior staff piece presenting international games. The Passport staff would like to sincerely apologize to all, especially those with dwarfism, for the article’s trivialization of a harmful and offensive activity. We will do our best to ensure that such an article will not be published again. Thank you.

Passport magazine is a member publication authorized by the Undergraduate Publications Board and sponsored by the International House. The views expressed in this publication are the author’s own and do not reflect the opinions of the magazine.

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photo by Tom Sopen Photogaphy @ Flickr

cover photo by isriya @ Flickr back cover photo by Marc sud13 @ Flickr

CONTENTS

A Global Culture

3 5 8 11 13 17 19

Global Health Through Her Eyes by Karen He

Dumb Luck by Suellen Li

That Giddy Ridiculous Tower by Lauren Jackson Cooking Rice With My Señora by J.P. Senter Bridging Cultures by Drew Korschun Venetian Gimmicks, Venetian Secrets by Becky Chao Notes from the London Underground by Katie Ni Cafés in Copenhagen by Marc Osian Rape Culture:

by Jennifer Hong

From Ireland to Ghana:

Reflections on the True Meaning of Empowerment

by Cara Peterson

Crêpes Suzette by Lauren Jackson Just Desserts Senior Staff

photo by Marc sud13 @ Flickr

25 28 29

culture

Paris, France

by Lauren Jackson

that

Giddy

Ridiculous

Tower

ew things are as emblematic of Paris as the Eiffel Tower is. The soaring framework of lacy iron pierces the sky during the day and is illuminated by twinkling lights at night. 7.1 million people visited it in 2011, and it is the most visited paid monument in the world.1 Given its iconic status today, it is hard to imagine that the Eiffel Tower was once only a “temporary” structure, and indeed, incurred the wrath of many prominent Parisians.

the International Exhibition of Paris in 1889, which commemorated the centenary of the French Revolution. It was originally meant to be a temporary edifice that would be deconstructed in 1909. The design entered by Gustave Eiffel’s firm

The Eiffel Tower was built for

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from Wikimedia Commons

into the contest for the Exhibition’s centerpiece was described by Eiffel as “an expression of France’s gratitude” to “the great scientific movement of the eighteenth century.”2 However it won the contest by default – being the only feasible design submitted – and Eiffel’s rationale was far from placating critics.3 The most vocal of these critics formed themselves into the Comité des Trois Cents – Committee of Three Hundred – a group with three hundred members (one for each meter of the tower’s

height). The Committee was led by well-known architect Charles Garnier and included many of the crème of French intellectual life, including author Guy de Maupassant, composer Charles Gounod, and dramatist Alexandre Dumas the younger. They published a petition that, without mincing words, declared, “even the commercial Americans would not want this Eiffel Tower,” and mourned that for the next twenty years “we shall see stretching like a blot of ink the hateful shadow of the hateful column of bolted sheet metal.” 4 Despite such vehement criticism, the Tower was still built. Indeed, at the time of the protest, construction had already begun, making the most eloquent efforts of its critics somewhat useless.5 Several detractors were eventually won over to the Eiffel Tower’s side— others remained

photos left to right: from Wikimedia Commons, from Wikimedia Commons, by Sean MacEntee @ Flickr,, from Wikimedia Commons, by Franz88 @ Flickr, by y.caratec @ Flickr

steadfast in their dislike. Guy de Maupassant is said to have eaten lunch every day in the Tower’s café; when asked why, he answered that it was the only place in Paris where one could not see the structure. Fortunately for us, his opinion was not shared by many —the tower was an instant success upon opening, and has only grown in popularity in the successive years. What was once decried as “a giddy, ridiculous tower dominating Paris like a gigantic black smokestack” has become the centerpiece of not just one Exhibition, but the entire City of Lights.6 1. “Eiffel Tower,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eiffel_ Tower. 2. Henri Loyrette, Gustave Eiffel (New York: Rizzoli, 1985), 116. In “Eiffel Tower,” http://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Eiffel_Tower. 3. Ibid. 4. “The Eiffel Tower, 1889,” http://www.jssgallery.org/ essay/worlds_fairs/paris_exposition_1889/eiffel_tower. htm. 5. David Harvie, I Eiffel: The Genius Who Reinvented Himself (Stroud, Gloucestershire: Sutton, 2006), 99. In “Eiffel Tower,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Eiffel_Tower. 6. “The Eiffel Tower, 1889.”

that giddy ridiculous tower

memoir

Madrid, Spain

Cooking Rice with My Señora

by J.P. Senter

Heat up a pot and coat the bottom with olive oil. It was like standing in a pot surrounded by flames. Bashful beads of sweat hidden on my brow now revealed themselves and trickled down my face. Heart pounding, I squeezed into the elevator with my suitcases, backpack, and adrenaline—my unfaltering companions since the plane had taken off nearly ten hours before. 0, 1, 2…we were ascending, climbing through a building hugged by heat and the smell of detergent and olive oil. Did I know what flamenco-dancing, bolero-singing, paella-cooking personality was anticipating my arrival, probably just as nervous and excited as I was? 3, 4, 5…the elevator stopped, I pushed open the door, and bags, body, and butterflies tumbled out clumsily. I took a breath. I hesitated. The doormat read: Bienvenidos a la República Independiente de mi casa. Somewhat unconsciously I reached a shaky fist up to knock when, suddenly, the door opened and there she stood: my host mother, Daniela, the most intriguing aspect of my study abroad experience.

Until the fall of my junior year, I had never spent a significant amount of time abroad. In Madrid, Spain, I was bombarded with differences and struggles (copious cigarette smoke and salty food aside) that pushed me as no Duke class had pushed me before. You see, I loved the proverbial “Duke bubble,” and when the bubble would grow too big and start to quiver, I would dig in my heels and pull

toward the center to maintain the protective film. Yet Spain was different: everything from bathrooms to notebooks to WiFi (pronounced “weefee”) had a Spanish polish to it. The only way for that polish to rub off on me was not by going to bullfights or eating jamón on a daily basis, but by meeting the

2. Add two cups of rice to the olive oil. Like grains of rice plunged into simmering oil, I was inundated with Daniela’s zany lifestyle. The jubilant way she behaved and the lackadaisical way she worked were often the opposite of the stressful and rapid American environment I was accustomed to. She would nap or patrol Facebook before finally cooking dinner at 23:00 (whenever that is). While cooking, she would stomp her feet as she had learned in her flamenco classes or excruciatingly belt the newest canción on the radio. She would interrupt my studying to tell me lengthy stories frequently condemning her growing circumference. She often joked that I was tweeting about

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all photos by author

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Yet Spain was different: everything from bathrooms to notebooks to WiFi (pronounced “weefee”) had a Spanish polish to it.

people. The person I found was Daniela, who was both a rich canvas of peculiarities and a sharp needle puncturing my fragile bubble. Our cultural dissimilarities challenged me in a myriad of ways, yet Daniela taught me that while our differences structure our identities, we breathe the same air and feel the same emotions that ultimately make up our chaotic planet.

her secretly, and she insisted that the best way to scare me was to shout the f-word at any opportunity. Her substitutions for my American customs could barely suffice when I was desperately seeking bits of home: the “Texas steak” dinner she prepared consisted of strangely charred meat, and for Thanksgiving, we had a traditional feast of tacos and hummus. Yet, she would feed me impossibly large quantities of food, bring me breakfast in bed when I was sick, or call me in the afternoon just to check on me. She would call about everything, whether it was to alert me about the new furniture she had bought or to inquire about my midterm exam. Sure, the call had come during the exam, but it’s the thought that counts, right? 3. Toast the rice in the heat of the pan. Madrid itself was also a heated environment to live in; like Daniela’s apartment, it was steeped in more multitudinous differences than I’d expected. Currently, economic crises and skyrocketing unemployment plague its citizens. Citywide strikes are frequent as the country struggles to contend with its rather young democracy and uncertain position in the European Union. Throughout the city, a cultural and political

conflict thrives of old and new, a dichotomy between the moribund days of Francisco Franco’s dictatorship and the bright and youthful opposition. For our courses, we were often required to interview the citizens of Madrid and bridge the inevitable divide between them and us. By approaching these people and listening to their stories, I was able to glimpse the deep insecurities and confidences of the Spanish populace and began to appreciate the beautiful culture surrounding me. While the country may seem hardened by persistent economic failures, culture blossoms in the city’s cornucopia of street performers and museums. Madrid is a bustling and modern metropolis that boasts of incredible architecture. Besides, who can dislike a place where taking a nap is a famously common occurrence? Still, it was a challenge to walk to class every day and pass the same mattresses and blankets strewn on the city’s sidewalks, artifacts of the many who were sleeping on the concrete, begging for food, or rummaging through dumpsters in search of their next meal. If I wasn’t passing them, then I was passing the thousands of elderly citizens of Madrid’s aging demographic dangerously clinging to

both their canes and a past full of Spanish power and glory. However, the present reality in Madrid is not as glorious as it once was, and clashes between its citizens and government are common. While I enjoyed meeting my Spanish classmates, there was an inevitable tension rooted in knowing that while they were mired in Spain’s socioeconomic maelstrom, we were but fleeting visitors. It was therefore a riveting time to be in Spain when public dysfunction and independence movements were shaking the very concept of being “Spanish.” It was only through the people that I came to understand these national concerns, and their stories were intriguing pools I dove into headfirst.

4. Add twice as many cups of water as there are cups of rice. Perhaps the most powerful submersion into Spanish life I had was when I was rushed to the emergency room for stitches. Early in the semester, while running through the metro station to catch a train, I slipped on the tiles and It was only through the people landed on my chin. I did not realize that it had split until that I came to understand these blood began to pour down my neck when I was already national concerns, and their on the subway. I frantically got off at the next stop and stories were intriguing pools I hurried to our administrative director’s office, where she dove into headfirst. phoned the university nurse and a nearby hospital. In the cooking with my seÑora

emergency room, I felt pain and fear like never before; while I was dizzy and confused, nurses rapidly stitched me up to stop the bleeding. To this day, I carry the scar as a constant memory of both the fall and what I experienced after it. In those moments I realized how compassion could transcend the barriers of language and culture. Strangers aided me on the subway; my administrative director paid for the taxi to the hospital and called my parents in the U.S.; Daniela tended to me at home and made sure I had enough chocolates to heal my wound. When I thought all had been lost, the universal grace of humanity beckoned me back into its grasp and showed me how truly human we all are.

to clarity that will let you understand and appreciate the world and the universal presence of humanity. Daniela shattered my world, but she also helped me pick it back up again and start afresh knowing that we all share the same laughter and tears, the same hopes and fears. While Daniela credits herself for changing me from a boy to a man, I give that great accolade to my real parents. Yet she challenged me more

5. Add more olive oil and a pinch of salt. I finally realized that Daniela, Madrid, and Spain were like salt: a little coarse at first, but necessary to provide flavor. Daniela sprinkled my life with a Spanish flavor in multiple ways. She not only took me to bakeries, restaurants, and grocery stores, but also tattooed me with a plethora of memories, from the Juanes songs we sang before his concert in Madrid to our debates over politics and culture. For all the times Daniela left my laundry in the machine for three days or made me buy earrings and shoes with her, for the time she locked me out of the apartment so I wouldn’t interrupt her Skype date, there were the times we laughed so hard she cried, the times we sang and danced to Bolivian festival music, and the times we shared meals and memories together. 6. Finally, taste the rice for its flavor. I had an incredible taste of Spain. I encourage everyone to ingest, imbibe, and inhale all the curiosities and idiosyncrasies of their world. Approach people who are different from you and listen to their stories. Let their music, their food, and their clothes confuse you, but don’t let them get away. Your confusion will lead

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than I could ever imagine. For her, for Madrid, and for the country of Spain, I am forever grateful. 7. ¡Que aproveches! “I hope you enjoyed your first Spanish lesson: the art of cooking rice!” Daniela told me. Yet Daniela could hardly recognize the lessons she and her city had taught me already.

memoir

China

bridging

CULTURES by Drew Korschun

nly when I finally passed through security and finished waving farewell to my grandparents, who had offered to drive me from East Campus to RDU, did the realization that I was actually going to China again hit me in the stomach with a jolting, flat-palmed impact. As I held the ticket tightly between my fingers and walked toward my gate, I smiled subtly. The Middle Kingdom was going to see my face once again. Though the competition was known in English as “The Chinese Bridge Proficiency all photos by author unless otherwise specified top photo by amygwen @ Flickr

Competition for Foreign Secondary Students,” we competitors lovingly used the Chinese abbreviation Hanyuqiao. My high school Chinese teacher, Yuhsin Lee, scouted out opportunities for her students the way European sailors had sought a new route to India; when she came across Hanyuqiao, she realized that we had a real shot at an exciting experience. The competition had simple requirements: a speech in Chinese about learning the Chinese language and culture and cultural performance. In the first round of the competition at the University of

Texas at Dallas during my senior year, I had talked about my experience at a summer camp in China and had woven many famous Chinese tongue twisters into a story. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I received third place; my classmate, Neha Jain, received second. In the U.S. regional round at the Houston embassy, Neha and I both bumped up, coming in first and second respectively. However, it wasn’t until a month into my first semester at Duke that I was actually able to participate on one of the bridging cultures

American teams alongside Neha in the international competition held in China. I was stoked: just think, I was selected to represent District America amongst students from districts scattered all over the globe. May the odds be ever in my favor! Well…it probably wasn’t that dire. Neha and I arrived in Beijing on a November afternoon, earlier than most of the participants from over forty-five different countries, who poured in over the first couple of days. We spent our time sightseeing—the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, the must-sees—and sorting logistics; Beijing was the precursor to our real destination for the competition: Kunming in Yunnan Province. As our competitors arrived at the hotel, I had the opportunity to see what people from different parts of the world were like. Making friends with people I never imagined I’d meet was the highlight of my whole experience.

For certain, making friends with people I never imagined I’d meet was the highlight of my whole experience. There was David from New Zealand, with a large stature and equally large personality, who would constantly rave in a high-pitched voice about the traditional cultures in China, New Zealand, and his family’s country, Tonga. There was Georgie, a blond, Sydney girl with a sweet smile who had grown up in Indonesia and China with her parents. There was José, a first-year medical student from Mexico

City who was an avid linguaphile. There was Jin, a tall friend from Vientiane, the Laotian capital, who I taught a bit of English and with whom I had the most fun time practicing the word “giraffe.” Though participants came all over the world, from Mongolia to Norway, from Mali to Argentina, we all came to China with a passion for Chinese culture. Our exchanges and conversations at the hotel, the scenic sites of Shílín (Kunming’s “stone forest”), the CCTV television studio in Kunming, and the university where we rehearsed and performed proved this collective passion. Growing up, words had always fascinated me. I remember the times when I would scan over Chinese characters in paintings and books—I’d wonder how people could possibly derive sound or meaning from the beautiful yet complex symbols. This fascination with language caught me like a fish on a hook, leading me to learn that words, which had brought me such wonder in English, existed in all shapes and sizes. Never have I been in a place with such a degree of multilingualism as what I experienced at Hanyuqiao; with competitors from nearly fifty countries around the world, there was bound to be this level of diversity. Given that it was a Chinese competition, I spent most of my time immersed in the Chinese language—I

P a r tic ip ant s c ame fr o m Mo ngo l ia a n d No r way, Mal i and Ar gent ina, b u t we al l c ame t o C hina wit h a p a s s io n fo r C hines e c u l t u r e.

mostly spoke Chinese with the participants from Asia and the Pacific islands, which helped improve my Mandarin. With the Japanese contestants, though, I gladly practiced the Japanese I’d learned from Japanese 101 at Duke. With the Western hemisphere folks, English was usually the lingua franca when no official Hanyuqiao business was happening. On my own, I was able to practice Spanish, French, and Italian with some Chinese Bridgers from Europe and Latin America as well.

Language is one of my greatest academic passions, but it hasn’t come without frustrations. Language is one of my greatest academic passions, but it hasn’t come without frustrations. Sometimes the tedium of reviewing words feels excessive; even if I practice writing a Chinese character replete with many fine strokes until my hand tires, I may forget it the next day. Sometimes, it’s easy to feel that nihilistic angst with language, as if I’m merely learning everything that I had already learned as an infant, but with a new set of arbitrary phonetics and a different writing system. My Hanyuqiao experience put both my passion and frustration into perspective. In this transformative time of my life, language felt vital, as if it were the lifeblood of each new friendship. I made so many friends with whom I would not have been able to communicate had I not been able to speak Chinese or another language.

The competition created a bridge that allowed me a firsthand look at the lives of students and workers in China. I sat on a television studio stage, dressed in traditional Chinese garb and face painted lightly with makeup under flashing lights and beside dancers whose fluid movements exuded the aesthetics of Chinese. To complete part of our task as competitors

But all in all, what I experienced was more than a mere Chinese Bridge, a hanyuqiao of sorts; it was a bridge to the entire world. by participating in cultural activities of different minorities, we visited a Chinese ethnic minority village. During the photo on facing page by Buster&Bubby @ Flickr

competition, I befriended many Chinese university students who acted as my mentors. All in all, what I experienced was more than a mere Chinese Bridge, a hanyuqiao of sorts; it was a bridge to the entire world. Whether it was in the hotel rooms, where several Asian students taught me all sorts of word games and truth-ordare derivatives, or in the TV studio where we would complain about (yet again!) being forced to eat McDonald’s, I felt a kind of interconnectedness everywhere. No one felt like an outsider, because everyone technically was an outsider. When my main university student mentor whispered to me on the bus that my dear friend Neha and I had not only won the team competition but had also both won second place at the individual level, I

I know that Hanyuqiao brought me to a deeper understanding of what it means to be citizen of planet Earth. couldn’t help but feel proud of myself and my teammate for being able to represent our country at the 2012 Hanyuqiao competition as victors. However, I felt even prouder to be a part of something greater than myself or even my country. There is a whole world out there, and even though I don’t even scratch the surface in knowing all that lies out there—the culture that lives in people’s hearts and minds every day—I know that Hanyuqiao brought me to a deeper understanding of what it means to be citizen of planet Earth. bridging cultures

memoir

Venice, Italy

Venetia� G

ondolas line the canal, held in place by rope. In real life, they look much less romantic and much more tacky than they do in the movies, with their shiny black bodies and gold paint accents flaking off on their tails. They seem mass-produced: each one the exact same length, color, and shape. The tide sways them back and forth, as if they’re trying to get somewhere— anywhere—but they stumble and choke, the rope rearing them back, bumping them into one another. The ones that manage to get away are steered by the same slightly overweight, tanned middleaged man (though they do not always wear the same black and white striped shirt with the red scarf), bored and tired as he slowly maneuvers his boat in and out of the narrow waterways, reaching up to push off the occasional bridge (409 in all 117 islands).1 The passengers who board the gondolas are usually not young and glamorous; they are older, dressed in T-shirts and shorts, complete with cameras, visors, and sunglasses, though (hopefully) in love. For unsuspecting tourists, Venice is the epitome of romantic. With gondolas, delicate engravings of cherub creatures, and picturesque buildings, it doesn’t need

Venetia� by Becky chao

much else. But its over-commercialized gimmicks triumph over the ambiance: as you make your way down the streets and up the bridges, disheveled men obscure your path with knock-off purses and toys and run off without a moment’s notice at the cry, “Polizia!” Restaurants, many in number but all with the same menu of “authentic” Venetian cuisine, cater to the tastes of tourists: pizza done in extravagance, spaghetti and meatballs made early in the morning for a quick spin in the microwave before reaching the customer’s table, and sophisticated

Spritz (a mixture of Prosecco, Aperol, and carbonated water), the drink of choice among Venice’s trendy youth. Typical overpriced museums offer glimpses shared with other tourists eager to get their money’s worth of ancient relics carefully crafted and adorned. For just ten Euros, you can enjoy two Spritzes and admission to what once was Ms. Guggenheim’s home, which showcases contemporary art from artists beyond the scope of city. There is something disconcerting about Venice’s romantic charm. There are streets with suggestive names like calle del bezzo, which translates into something like “alley for embracing/kissing.” Its famous Bridge of Sighs is often one of the first sights where tourists pose for a photo or two. Its carvings, intricate waves that change the landscape of the

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marble, are undoubtedly beautiful. Its history is far from romantic, however: it connects the Doge’s Palace to the prison, and its small window offered convicts their last glimpses of Venice before imprisonment. Yet people insist on putting a romantic spin to this landmark: popular belief suggests that if lovers kiss under it at sunset on a gondola, they shall be granted eternal love. The city is set up like a labyrinth; only true Venetians are able to find their way through the narrow alleys that twist and turn and weave into one another, meeting at imperfect angles. But for the temporary Venetian, getting lost is not so bad—it is a welcome escape from the hoards of people that invade the city’s streets, a means of tapping into Venice’s true self. Known as “the City of Masks,”

Gimmic�s Secrets

Venice is adept at concealing its many treasures, like the fractured four-storied palazzo that stands behind closed gates, guarded by a humble garden of cisterns. A spiraling staircase builds a tower; exterior hallways force it to connect to a structure too plain and simple to share a limb. We can only guess at what it houses. There are the buildings that mislead with modern neon signs of bright green in the shape of a cross: farmacias. Step inside and they look like your typical drugstore with pharmacists, fluent in both Italian and English (perhaps even more), who run about in pristine white lab coats and sell overpriced necessities like fourounce bottles of mosquito repellent with tiny Italian print. But exchange a few words with the pharmacist and, for a fee, he will reveal the key that unlocks the door to the right of the entrance. It opens up to a room from the past: gilded gold patterns and oval miniature portraits

all photos by author

line the ceiling in uniform alternation between ceiling and beam. Chandeliers are kept from falling by delicate glass links, possibly Murano in nature. Labeled porcelain jars of familiar blue and white resembling Chinese ceramics are filled with herbal medicines. Gold statues of goddesses sit on unfinished marble arches and act as guardians of this sacred place. Secrets like these make Venice. It has a rich history of medicine, famous for its theriac, a concoction meant to cure all ailments. Small holes in front of farmacias, originally meant to hold cauldrons in place as pharmacists stirred, still exist today. Venice’s architecture is impressive: chisels and knives have long ago chipped away at their surfaces, exposing elegant twists and lines that make up the facades. The results are the centuries-old works of art that adorn the buildings. They only hint at what they sheathe. The

inside of Scuola Grande di San Rocco, for example, is covered with Tintoretto’s vision: light and shadow captured midwrestle as they highlight scenes from the Old and New Testament, covering both the ceilings and the walls. These Biblical scenes take on a dark, powerful energy, sparking awe and appreciation for Tintoretto’s artistic power. The rooms are empty, spacious, with the occasional cluster of chairs and portable mirrors for viewers to examine the ceiling without craning their necks. There is neither plaque nor tour guide to describe the intent and method behind each piece— just silence. The art speaks for itself. 1. Sailing Among the Channels. Nautica Editrice Srl, 2003. Web. 29 March 2013. <http://www.nautica.it/charter/venezia. htm>.

venetian gimmicks, venetian secrets

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Notes from London Underground Heathrow Terminal 4

by Katie Ni

ow was London?”

“Oh, um, great! Really loved the city and got to travel a lot! …And, um, it rained!”

Almost as soon as I returned to Duke’s campus this spring, this question This answer, of course, is light years burst forth from every friend and away from an adequate description of acquaintance I bumped into. Each time, my experience in London. In fact, I’m despite knowing the question was coming, slowly becoming convinced it is actually I found myself at a loss for how to answer impossible to summarize London. It is a properly. Ideally, my answer of choice city with no single identifying flavor but Transport for London December would be along the lines of: “Are you free a composition of modern and2012 historic, of for the next five hours or so? This could take grand and dingy, of tourism and resident a while,” but my answer usually consisted life. There are1elements that are unabashedly of sputtering out an inane line or two like, “British,” as well as many other cultural

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pockets that have settled into the city. London’s heterogeneity is perhaps not unexpected. London was historically a one square mile walled area north of the Thames, the area that we now refer to as the “City of London.” As the city expanded beyond its walls and the nearby towns also grew, they melded together into the larger city now known as London. The unwavering element that has strung together the distinct pieces of the city is the London Underground 2system, which just about everyone calls the Tube. The Tube quickly

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St. Paul’s Bank

Covent Garden

High Street Green Park Leicester Square Kensington view of London; these were the places that became my best friend in adventuring erd’s Bush I found among the most memorable, that Market through the city. No matter how different Piccadilly Hyde Park Corner Cannon Street Kensington Circus made me feel like I had experienced the my surroundings were, the beacon of M (Olympia) Mansion House awk Road a familiar Underground sign gave Knightsbridge me city beyond the usual tourist stops. Charing assurance that I was not lost.Gloucester Simply by Blackfriars Barons Cross a tube map and a refillable St. James’s Roadfare Court mersmith having Park Temple card (known as an Oyster card) in hand, St. Paul’s Victoria I had the confidence to explore the farther Already I am cheating, as St. Paul’s is Westminsterthe city, evenEarl’s alone. avenscourt reaches of the West Sloanein Central London—on Embankment South technically L Park Kensington Square Kensington Central Line that runs east and west Court B Armed with an Oyster card, no-class- through the middle of the London. The St. West Brompton Waterloo Fridays, and the knowledge that my stay Paul’s stop is aptly named for its proximity in London was a devastatingly short three to St. Paul’s Cathedral, one of London’s months, I took as many opportunities as I most important buildings and absolutely could to explore various parts of the city. a tourist stop. Yet the cathedral is, in Southwark Pimlico Fulham Broadway At first, I made the rounds to Imperial the cliché my opinion, underappreciated. Exiting WharfEye, its namesake underground station, the London sights: Big Ben, the London Parsons Green Oxford Street, Buckingham Palace, the cathedral is actually nowhere in sight, Lambeth Borough North markets at Bridge Notting Hill, and London’s tucked behind the tube stop exit and Putney South Bank. These were the heart of central obscured by surrounding buildings. The London, usually busy and bustling with sight of the dome, however, comes into both inside and out, but my favorite part East Putney both tourists and locals. Having dutifully view as you make your way back around is the view from the top. Up 528 steps of Qu Vauxhall first, it is & wide Castleenough seen these, I started venturing out further, the station and through an unassuming spiral staircase, atElephant Southfields moving radially outward from my school’s walkway on the side of the cathedral. for two-way traffic but then slowly narrows Clapham campus in Central The cathedral is one of the best London into to a tightly spiraled staircase on which Junction Wimbledon Park London. As I went lined up single-file, dizzyingly huff farther from my doorstep, the sights I saw structures to look at and to look from. TheOvalvisitors, Wandsworth Kennington and puff their way up the final few stories.Peckham Rye Road were more and more unlike my traditional cathedral itself is an architectural beauty Wimbledon Stockwell Clapham High Street Denmark Hill Clapham North

Clapham Common

Brixton

Clapham South Balham Tooting Bec Tooting Broadway

Crysta

Colliers Wood South Wimbledon Morden

Standing on St. Paul’s highest gallery allows the viewer an incredible panoramic vista of the city, including the South Bank 4 5 of3the Thames River and the London Eye. all photos by author

notes from the london underground

Stanmore

Harrow & Wealdstone

rrow Northwick Park

Burnt Oak

Canons Park Kenton

arrowthe-Hill

Preston Road

Wembley Central

Queensbury

Hendon Central

Kingsbury

Brent Cross

Neasden

Willesden Green

Willesden Junction

Kensal Rise Kensal Green Queen’s Park

West Hampstead Finchley Road

Brondesbury Kilburn High Road

Finchley Road & Frognal

Kilburn

Brondesbury Park

Highgate Archway Hampstead Heath

Hampstead

Dollis Hill

Stonebridge Park Harlesden

East Finchley

Golders Green Wembley Park

Finchley Cen

Colindale

South Kenton North Wembley

Edgware

Headstone Lane

South Hampstead

Swiss Cottage St. John’s Wood

Belsize Park

Gospel Oak

Tufnell Park

Kentish Tow

Kentish Town West

Chalk Farm Camden Town

Cal

Camden Road

Mornington Crescent

King’s Cross St. Pancras Kilburn Parkis known not only by its namesake brick The open markets at Brick Lane sell an assortment of Brick Lane Edgware Great Maidabut Vale Paddington housewares, antiques, produce, and other eclectic items. buildings, also by the layers of vivid streetRoad art thatMarylebone adorn Portland Euston Baker them. Warwick Avenue Street Street Royal Oak

Westbourne Park out on the balcony you haggle for your meal. “We’ll throw in market Eustoneclectic array stalls sold a puzzlingly Once you’re standing Warren Street Edgware Square to at the dome’s highest gallery, however, the a free beer Roadwith your meal,” they’ll say, “or of items, from souvenir burlap coffee sacks, Farringdon Regent’s Park breathtaking view of the Thames and the free naan.” A pro negotiator might manage fruits and vegetables, to light bulbs and power Ladbroke Grove Russell to packs of paper beer, appetizer, and naan all with one entree. cords, to antique furniture, London skyline is worth the workout. I Bayswater Square Barbica Latimer Road simply could not look away or tear myself However, having only just arrived on the towels and toilet paper. I could not begin to Goodge street, I staved off the food-offering hecklers this merchandise came Chancery to be the balcony,Shepherd’s despite the freezing wind Notting EastfromWhite Lancaster Bond Oxford imagine how Street Bush Acton approached Lane markets. The laid out on rickety tables in the markets, but at theCity top of the dome. Walking around the Hilland Lane Gatethe Brick Street Circus Gate nevertheless the market was a sight to behold entirety of the dome, I could see everything St. Pa Tottenhamkept my interest. Holborn Marble North and continually The food from the Millennium Bridge,Holland just below the Queensway Court Road Arch Acton Park and markets, combined with the abundance cathedral, Wood Laneall the way to the London Eye, far Covent Garden of street art on the brick walls lining the off in the distance by the edge of the Thames. High Street Green Parkaptly named Brick Lane, gave the street an Leicester Square Kensington Shepherd’s Bush atmosphere not found anywhere else. Aldgate Market East Piccadilly Hyde Park Corner Cannon Stree Kensington Circus Riding out on the Hammersmith Line to the (Olympia) Knightsbridge Mansion House infamous Greenwich Goldhawk Road East London, known for scores Charing of Kentucky Fried Chicken imitation shops Greenwich? Like Greenwich Mean Time? Blackfriars Gloucester Barons Cross (Tennessee Fried Chicken, St. James’sThat’s the one, and to my surprise it was Court anyone?), falafel Road Hammersmith Park accessible on the Tube’s less prevalent Temple overand kebab joints, and overall a shadier feel Victoria than that of central London. However, ground system, at the edge of southeast hopping off at the Aldgate London. Taking the over-ground itself was a Westminster Stamford Ravenscourt WestEast stop, Sloane Embankment South Earl’smy Brook Park destination Kensington particular was Brick Lane. Brick new experience, as I passed through the heart Kensington Square Court Lane and the surrounding area are notable of Canary Wharf and its surrounding areas. Weststreet Brompton for five things: art, hipsters, vintage Unlike historic Central London, Canary Waterloo clothing markets, Indian food, and bagels. Wharf is a major business and financial bury Walking down Brick Lane, then, was a bizarre center, with tall modern buildings that may experience to say the least. Emerging from the not measure up to New York’s skyscrapers, Southwark Pimlico Fulham Broadway tube stop, none of the Brick Lane specialties Imperial but are the closest thing to skyscrapers dens Wharf are apparent, butParsons a ten-minute that exist in London. The city lights and Green walk brings you to an increasingly bustling street jammed shining buildings whip Lambeth past in a blur asBorough North d with endless Indian restaurants, perhaps the over-ground snakes its way through. Putney Bridge eight of which advertise as London’s top rated Outside Greenwich’s observatory, Upon reaching Greenwich, however, the curry house. Unlike at usual restaurants, a clock marks the official time, surroundings immediately change. Though East on Putney the fierce competition Brick Lane has accompanied by some standard the skyline of Canary Wharf is visible across Vauxhall Elephant & Castle the restaurant hosts standing outside to let measures. the Thames, Greenwich resembles a large Southfields Clapham Junction Wimbledon Park passport 15 spring 2013 Oval Wandsworth Kennington P Road Wimbledon Stockwell

Bounds Green

ey Central

Turnpike Lane

ate

Woodford

Wood Green

inchley

Harringay Green Lanes South Tottenham

Crouch Hill Seven Sisters

Manor House

way

ll Park

sh Town

South Woodford

Upper Holloway Arsenal

Finsbury Park

Snaresbrook

Blackhorse Road Tottenham Hale

Chigwell Hainault

Fairlop Barkingside Newbury Park

Redbridge

Walthamstow Central

Wanstead Leytonstone

Gants Hill

Upm Walthamstow Holloway Road Leytonstone Leyton town, nearly suburban. Clean and quaint, it would beQueen’s ice skating rinkHigh among others. Standing more efficient bus Road Road to take the Midland Road Hor dotted buildings, & museums, to Wood Green than to go by the Tube. So on the deck of the palace also allowed Caledonian Roadwith historicHighbury Islington and notable architecture, Greenwich Dalston was when I boarded the red double-decker bus forLeyton perhaps the best panoramic view of especially quiet when I visited in Kingsland chilly I hadn’t a clue that it would take me nearly London. Despite the fog, I could still pick Dagenham Stratford East Hackney December. I was pleasantly surprised to an hour to reach my final destination. some recognizable InternationalIt out in the distance Wanstead Park Caledonian Central stumbleRoad across&the filming of the Thor sequel appeared that a great many Londoners buildings near University of College Canonbury at the Barnsbury Old Royal Naval College. The hubbub were out and about on Saturday London’s campus, reminding me I was D of filming punctuated the Dalston otherwiseJunction serene afternoon, and the bus was forced to stop indeed stillStratford in London. H Homerton town (Fun fact: portions of Skyfall and Les for passengers nearlyHackney every three blocks. Becont Wick Woodgrange Park with so much to see and Misérables were also filmed in Greenwich As agonizing as this was, the silver lining London is so big, Haggerston of taking the bus was the opportunity so much to do. Yet after three months, I Upney recently). The true attraction of Greenwich, Stratford the city. I had routines, however, is its Royal Observatory. As a reward to see the city as I passed through it. felt at home in High some Street oft-frequented Barking for trekking up to the Observatory, I could Whereas the Tube whips through dark favorite stores, Pudding coffee shops and eateries. I could give stand across the Greenwich meridian line, tunnels, the unhurried bus allowed me to Angel Hoxton East Ham Mill Lane Abbey directions and feel slight exasperation at with one foot in the Eastern Hemisphere and peer out at the city as it passed. As the bus Road Bethnal Old Street tourists, as if I myself was not one. I could the other in the Western Hemisphere. The chugged its way north, the narrow streets Mile End Green Upton Park experience is admittedly a bit anticlimactic, of shops and businesses give way to old- (eventually) cross a street and not glance on Bow Road for oncoming cars. but the wonderfulLiverpool sunset view of Greenwich Shoreditch style residential homes and apartments. I in the wrong directionPlaistow Street High Street finally arrived at Wood Green and made a I could traverse the underground. Despite and of Canary Wharf in the distance arbican Bromleymy best efforts,West I feelHam like I still have much made my trip to the observatory especially short walk to Bow Alexandra ChurchPalace, refreshedby-Bow Moorgate worthwhile. at the serenity of the suburbs versus the of the city left to explore, and I can only Road hope to be able to return. constant Stepney hustle and of Central Greenbustle Devons Star Lane Aldgate London. The Palace itself, affectionately St. Paul’s East Wood Green Langdon Whitechapel nicknamed the “Ally Pally,” was built Park in Bank My journey up to Wood Green, one of the 1873 as a public recreation center and Canning Aldgate northernmost regions of London, was a Saintsas Town fulfills that purpose now by All serving Royal bizarre one to start. Google Maps, which Shadwell Victoria Blackwall a concert venue,Westferry conference center, and had never before failed me, estimated that Custom Street Poplar Limehouse East Monument Tower Prin Emirates India Hill se Royal Docks Tower Fenchurch Street West Wapping Gateway India Quay West River Thames Silvertown Rotherhithe Canary Wharf Emirates North London Canada Bermondsey Greenwich Pontoon Dock Greenwich Bridge Water Heron Quays Peninsula for The O2

ugh

Surrey Quays

South Quay Crossharbour Mudchute

London City Airport

King George V

Island Gardens

The Alexandra Palace has been affectionately nicknamed “Ally Pally.” Though it Wood Green, one of the northernmost looks like it was made for royalty, the palace was in fact built to serve as a public areas of London, featured refreshingly Cutty Sark for recreation center. serene suburbs and residential homes. Maritime Greenwich Queens Road Peckham Greenwich New Cross New Cross Gate map provided by Transport for London 16 notes from the london underground Deptford Bridge Brockley Peckham Rye Elverson Road

memoir

Copenhagen, Denmark

CafÉs in C

At first, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. As I walked the city’s slippery cobblestone streets, or joined the bicyclists efficiently whizzing through their lanes, I consciously told myself that the pale pink, blue, beige, and maroon buildings I passed were beautiful. I recognized the integration of modern and historic architecture— tall, glass buildings contrasting colorful, shorter ones—as distinctly Danish. I even took note of the various styles: men in dark colors, flat-brimmed hats, and thick facial hair and women with scarves, tall boots,

climate sort of way either, nor from some dramatic onslaught of rain and snow; it was the wind—a bullying wind that wove in and out of the gray that always blanketed the city. Like a ghost with sandpaper fingertips, it poked my cheeks, the tops of my ears, my hands, and my temples. To bear it, I layered wool on top of oxford cotton over polyester, an amorphous blend of fabric that smothered my skin as if I were assiduously bathing in lukewarm honey. Even so, if I were out for too long, the wind

would grip me by the bare bones, slicing through the fabric of my pants and the woven cotton of my sweaters, ceaselessly sucking the heat out of me, draining my spirit entirely. I gratefully sought solace inside whichever museum, church, or store on my agenda. I observed my surroundings with the same objectivity of a scientist collecting data, realizing that as the days grew nastier and shorter, my mind would remain active to appreciate the city, but my heart was slowly being forced into hibernation. One day, while hurriedly walking to see a church that was only open to the public once a week, I popped into a café to grab respite from the cold. It wasn’t really a popin—more of a deliberate shove, as I had to lean my full body weight into the heavy metal and glass door to swing it open. My ungraceful entrance introduced me to the vibrant scene of jackets strewn over chairs, boots heavily clanging against stairs, the high-pitched, gentle ping of silverware, and thick coffee glasses knocking on wooden tables. There were groups of friends eating together, others eating alone while reading books or swiping on their iPads, and couples leaning in close as they drank espresso and conversed. The warmth cradled my soul back to life, and gave way to the swell of emotion that had been frozen over by the cold. I tentatively

spring 2013

mug drawn by Lauren Jackson

by Marc Osian

y first encounter with Copenhagen was like a disappointing first date: I was captivated and intrigued, but the seduction lacked substance, and at night I returned home feeling empty. Aesthetically speaking, Copenhagen is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It is full of postcard-perfect sights, attention-grabbing cultural phenomena, and stunning people. From Tivoli, the oldest amusement park in Europe, to Christiania, a hippie-commune laden with nature trails, art, and openly sold weed, Copenhagen is more than sufficient to tantalize any tourist. Yet despite making steady progress in visiting the various places recommended in my guidebook of Copenhagen, I found myself dissatisfied.

passport

wide headbands, and plump sweaters. My mind were intrigued but my heart was not compelled. I had expected a connection to Copenhagen and was desperately chasing it. But for some reason, it just wasn’t there. It could have been the cold. Copenhagen was freezing. Face-numbingly frigid. And not in the expected northern Scandinavian

My eyes were intrigued, but my heart was not compelled.

Copenhagen took a few steps inside and felt the heavy door close with certainty. It was warm, but more so, it was cozy. I couldn’t find an empty table, and as I carefully tried to make my way through the café, I was jostled by the discomfort of doing so alone. When I finally found one, I sat down for a few minutes before taking off my jacket to save my spot. As I waited patiently in line to order, I found myself barely inching forward, but there seemed to be a lot of movement nonetheless. Each step toward the counter pushed my plan to visit the church further back into the recess of my mind. I ate slowly and looked around, taking in the soft energy of the brick walls, the leather bound books that lined shelves, and the gentle heat from the dimly lit candles against my body. Unlike the other times I had sought comfort from the cold, the café warmed me from within, its cozy atmosphere an apparent pause from the pace and expectations with which I had been absorbing the city. I had arrived at

the café around two in the afternoon and stayed until nightfall. I didn’t take any photographs, nor did I invite any friends to join. I sat alone, contemplating, reflecting, observing, and slowly eating. When I left, I was full. I went back to the café and visited others throughout Copenhagen on a daily basis. They became my center. I chatted with locals, grew to recognize the waiters and baristas, started to pick up on the cultural flavor, and occasionally went on dates or brought friends. But the best times were when I went alone, sitting quietly, drinking and thinking, by far the least glamorous of my travel activities. Through an awkward entrance and a flirtation with discomfort, I was able to forget my pre-existing expectations and instead fell fully for the city. I realized that the first date was disappointing because I had used the guidebook’s standards—in reality, I just hadn’t been looking in the right places.

But the best times were when I went alone, sitting quietly, drinking, and thinking...

all photos by author unless otherwise specified

cafÉs in copenhagen

op-edop-ed

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Global

sd;[e bq A Global Culture

Rape Culture.

by Jennifer Hong [TRIGGER WARNING: the following article contains descriptions of violent sexual assault cases.]

n mid-December of 2012, the brutal gang rape of a female Indian college student in New Delhi sparked international outrage. The 23-year-old woman and her boyfriend, after coming out of a movie theater, boarded a private bus to ride home. As the bus circled the city, a group of men on the bus beat the couple with an iron rod, repeatedly raped and violated the female student with the rod, and then tossed the couple onto the streets. The couple was found on the road naked; the woman required multiple surgeries to repair her ruptured intestines and ultimately passed away due to sustained injuries in a Singaporean hospital weeks after the violent attack.1,2 This much publicized rape case called attention to a multitude of similar cases in India, such as the rape of a sixteen-year-old girl by eight men who recorded the incident on their phones and threatened to kill her if she told anyone. When the videos circulated around the village, her father committed suicide by drinking pesticide.2 In India, rapes often go unpunished and the incident is blamed on the victim; rather than fight for justice, families feel compelled to hide the rape and the stigma that it represents. The publicity of the December gang rape in India resulted in a roar of outrage, with

to India and other South Asian countries in the wake of the New Delhi rape and murder.”3 This initiative not only discounts the decades of work Indian and South Asian feminists have poured into addressing this problem on their own, but also attributes rape and murder to “India and other South Asian countries,” as if these crimes are foreign concepts to the U.S. Let us take a look at what happened in Steubenville, Ohio just last August. A sixteen year-old girl went to a high school party and

began drinking early on in the evening. By the end of the night, photographs and videos of her being sexually assaulted while unconscious by members of the Steubenville High football team had been uploaded onto Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Witnesses testified that the onlookers at the party taunted her and cheered when Steubenville High baseball players dared each other to urinate on her. She was dragged from party to party, violated and videotaped, all the while unresponsive and surrounded by bystanders who passively observed.4 Yet it was only in December, when the New York Times covered the case, that the incident began to gain nationwide attention. Both Steubenville town and school officials have been accused of burying crime details to protect the football team’s reputation; in response, hacktivist group Knight Sec, a subgroup of the better known Anonymous designated to cover sexual assault cases, released video footage of team members who had raped the girl joking about the rape.5 The video is on YouTube. If you watch it, keep in mind that these are student athletes. They are sixteenyear-old boys. They are minors. Essentially, they are children. Where is our gender equality task force? “But this is the United States of America!” we cry. We don’t need a gender equality task force because we have equality already! We are inclined to believe that gender inequality does not exist in a country like our own.

spring 2013

top photo by Lotus Carroll @ Flickr

Indian activists staging protests demanding both political and social changes against gender violence. International support for the cause flooded in with multinational news stations covering the case. While I am horrified by the news of the gang rape in India and encouraged by the international vehement response to end gender violence, I am simultaneously troubled by the common sentiment that seems to be expressed in the comments section of these articles—that this is a problem found exclusively in India or other less “civilized” countries, and that these kinds of atrocious acts aren’t found in the countries like the U.S. In fact, Harvard College’s Women’s Center created a Beyond Gender Equality task force to “offer recommendations [to end gender violence]

This initiative attributes rape and murder to “India and other South Asian countries,” as if they are foreign concepts to the U.S.

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Some call these student athletes “sociopaths.” But are they really? Sociopaths are those who lack a social conscience, those who deviate from the norm, but are these boys actually deviating from the norm? Do we actually know what rape means? More than once, I have heard the excuse, “Boys will be boys,” or, “It was all just fun and games.” Has rape become reduced to “fun and games” for all involved? Has rape become excusable? Has rape—you must see where I’m going now—worked its way into our culture, taking root in the minds of young children who now see it as harmless fun? Rape culture is the legitimization of rape, the belief that sexual violence against vulnerable populations, especially women, is unavoidable and the norm. It excuses any form of aggression, no matter how benign the aggression may seem. It perpetuates that rape only means forced sex on a modestlydressed woman as she walks home from work. In actuality, rape means forced, unwanted sexual assault on any person, regardless of how they are dressed or how intoxicated they are. Rape culture teaches women not to “get raped” rather than teaching men to “not rape.” Rape culture teaches victim blaming. The mentality driving rape culture is rooted in a maledominated and male-privileged society, where a man’s social worth is dependent on the number of women he sleeps with and where a woman’s worth is her chastity and how well she can prevent herself from being raped.

Growing up in rape culture may not necessarily lead to the act of rape, but rape must stem from growing up in rape culture. Worse, rape culture doesn’t always have to manifest as the physical rape itself—it can manifest from the Duke student’s casual “I got raped by that midterm” to an Amherst fraternity’s cartoon of a pig roasting a beaten woman over a fire, with “Roasting Fat Ones since 1847” printed over it. It becomes ingrained in our daily actions and thoughts as we look at advertisements, watch movies, 6

44%

of sexual assault victims are under 18 years old.

2/3

of sexual assaults are committed by someone the victim knows.

97%

of rapists will never spend a day in jail.

engage ourselves in conversation. It exists in India. It exists in Steubenville. It exists at the 2013 Oscars. It exists right here, on this campus, when we think of women and think of men, when we think of what is harm and what is harmless fun. Rape culture is not a “Third World” culture. It is a globally pervasive epidemic that is planted in our minds at a young age and then cultivated into casual words and actions. It makes us complacent and ignorant. As those living in the United States of America, we are not exceptions to this epidemic—we need to recognize it and we need to recognize that gender violence, no matter how much benign it may manifest itself as, is still not okay. Though the Steubenville case resulted in a verdict of “guilty” for two students,

mainstream media’s sympathetic portrayal of these two young men indicates how deeply victim-blaming and rape culture are rooted in our society.7 We live in a global rape culture, and we contribute to it. There are ways to stop the propagation of rape culture, but they all begin with the acknowledgment that we are not exempt from it. Change starts with us, from the way we joke about rape, from how we perceive women and our different expectations from different sexes. Change goes beyond teaching women how to better protect themselves; it centers on teaching gender equality and on teaching men not to rape. Starting with us, we need to uproot rape culture. Let’s stop this global epidemic. 1. Mandhana, Nikharika, and Anjani Trivedi. “Indians Outraged Over Rape on Moving Bus in New Delhi.” Indians Outraged Over Rape on Moving Bus in New Delhi Comments. The New York Times, 18 Dec. 2012. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 2. Timmons, Heather, and Sruthi Gottipatti. “Woman Dies After a Gang Rape That Galvanized India.” The New York Times, 28 Dec 2012. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 3. “Harvard Helps the Less Fortunate.” Daily News and Opinion from the Left. Socialistworker.org, 25 Feb. 2013. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 4. Schweber, Juliet Macur And Nate. “Rape Case Unfolds On Web and Splits City.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 17 Dec. 2012. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 5. Roesch, Jen. “How a Victim-blaming System Excuses Rape.” Daily News and Opinion from the Left. Socialistworker.org, 07 Jan. 2013. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 6. “Statistics | RAINN | Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network.” Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, n.d. Web. 30 Mar. 2013. 7. Strasser, Annie-Rose, and Tara CulpRessler. “How The Media Took Sides In The Steubenville Rape Case.” ThinkProgress RSS. Thinkprogress.com, 18 Mar. 2013. Web. 29 Mar. 2013.

Rape culture is the legitimization of rape, the belief that sexual violence against women is the norm. above photo by cascade_of_rant @ Flickr

rape culture

interview

Ghana

Global Health

Through Her Eyes A

t Duke, students are often taught to think globally and to apply their knowledge and skills at an international level. One of the most appealing aspects of Duke is its plethora of study abroad and global service programs. One such program is the Duke Global Health Institute, which was established in 2006 to “address health disparities around the world.”1 Currently, its primary undergraduate program is the Global Health Certificate (GHC). I interviewed a senior here at Duke about why she chose to pursue global health. Grace first became interested in global health because she thought that the name is an “appealing catchphrase,” for those with a desire to provide international community service. Her desire to serve stems from the sacrifice her parents made for their children. Prior to coming to the U.S., Grace’s parents had successful careers and comfortable lives in South Korea. In order to provide a better educational environment for their children, they left everything behind to start a new beginning in America. Having grown up in a Christian family with first-generation immigrant parents, Grace has personally witnessed the power of selflessness and 21

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the richness of giving. “Inspired by the selflessness of my parents’ decisions to better the lives of their children,” she recalls, “I wanted to become a medical missionary to serve patients around the world who can’t afford healthcare otherwise—I wanted to become as selfless as my parents were for me.” Before her sophomore year of college, Grace hadn’t learned about what the field of global health actually entailed. Though many students explore a new discipline through an introductory course, Grace was first exposed to Duke’s global health coursework by taking a bioethics elective. This course not only taught her the ethical issues associated with global health, but also stimulated her curiosity for how U.S.-based NGOs operate in foreign communities. The OTS-Costa Rica program was Grace’s first global health field experience, and its coursework laid the foundation for her education, while fieldwork and research practicum allowed for experiential learning.

by Karen He CR clinics and hospitals, and interviewing residents within different communities, with lectures that covered a diverse array of topics, including infectious diseases, health care systems, epidemiology, and medical anthropology,” Grace recalled. Eager for other global health opportunities, Grace came across Unite for Sight® (UFS), a non-profit organization specialized in delivering long-lasting and sustainable healthcare to communities around the world. UFS collaborates with local clinics in Ghana, Honduras, and India to extend access

“Tropical Medicine and Public Health was by far the best class I took in Costa Rica because it coupled fieldwork experience, like working in a primary clinic, visiting spring 2013

all photos by Grace Huh

to eye care to patients living in extreme poverty. While many organizations focus on direct intervention and temporary relief, UFS is based on the principle that every individual clinic has to determine how community outreach programs are designed and implemented. In turn, UFS supports these clinics through human and financial resources. This structure allows local physicians to provide healthcare without the constraints of foreign organizations and to incorporate factors such as cultural nuances and beliefs into effective patient care. All UFS volunteers must go through extensive training—not only do they have to take several online courses on global health, ethics, eye health and pathology, and cultural competency, they must also fundraise at least $1,800 to fund cataract surgeries, collect at least 600 reading glasses/sunglasses, and shadow an ophthalmologist to learn the basics of eye care.2 While these requirements were challenging, Grace found that these responsibilities prepared her to be an effective volunteer: “[These requirements] increased my interest in evaluating global health organizations for social responsibility and sustainability, two characteristics that are imperative for effective global health work.” During the seven-week program, Grace traveled around Ghana to work with three local partner clinics. Each day, she and other volunteers tested the visual acuity of every patient using the E-chart, helped the clinic staff dispense prescribed medication and corrective lenses, recorded the information of patients who were referred

Despite its name, global heatlh work must be localized and specifically tailored respectfully to the cultures, beliefs, and conditions of the communities that it serves. to the clinics for surgery, and maintained the medical record database. Additionally, she shadowed ophthalmologists during surgeries and documented each operation. Any experience abroad would certainly come with challenges. For Grace and other volunteers, the language barrier was a significant issue. While English is the official language in Ghana, over seventy other languages are spoken across the country. Over time, Grace was able to improve direct communication with local patients through learning eye care related phrases in two languages: Twi (commonly spoken in central/southern Ghana) and Dagbani (commonly spoke in the northern Ghana). While learning new languages was challenging, she found the experience rewarding because it allowed her to meet the local people and improve her ability to interact with patients. Global health immersion programs, such as the Duke-OTS semester and summer programs and the Unite For Sight Global Impact Fellowship, are great opportunities for students to witness the progress as well as the various challenges faced in the line of global health work. Grace’s experience with UFS introduced her to a culturally nuanced foreign aid model that emphasizes the role of local

human capacity to improve health care for the underserved; it has also helped her understand the indispensable role of program evaluation in recognizing both successes and failures of an intervention. Despite its name, global health work must be localized and specifically tailored respectfully to the cultures, beliefs, and conditions of the communities that it serves. The strength of Duke Global Health education lies in its international programs; the component of fieldwork experience is what allows students to consolidate their learning through practice. Additionally, students’ increasing exposure to different modes of thought around the world is crucial for a socially responsible and holistic approach to global health, as doing so liberates us from the confines of our own limited perspectives and ideologies that we tend to impose on developing countries. 1. “Duke Global Health Institute.” Duke Global Health Institute. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. <http://globalhealth.duke.edu/>. 2. Unite For Sight. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. <http://www.uniteforsight.org/>.

global health

memoir

China

dumb luck

by Suellen Li

“T

hat American girl must be dumb,” sneered one of my classmates behind me. I cringed as I sank down lower in my seat and tried to stare straight ahead. Though I attempted to focus on what the teacher was saying, I couldn’t ignore the mocking laughter in the background. I was eight years old, attending class at Kunming Railroad Elementary School in China over my summer break. The teacher asked me a question, but I froze, not understanding the question and unsure of how I should respond. Classes in the U.S. had stopped in June, but school was still in session in China. My parents had decided to send me to my mother’s hometown, Kunming, to improve my Chinese. They dropped off my older brother and me at the airport, handed us our passports, plane tickets, and luggage. After a brief goodbye, they left. Our relatives picked us up at the airport in Kunming, and we stumbled off, jet-lagged and travel-weary, to our separate homes for the summer. My brother went with one relative and I with another who lived on the opposite side of the city, separating me from my only remaining connection to home. The first night was miserable. Unable to sleep, my homesickness kicked in as I laid in bed, tears silently rolling down my face. I wanted to be back in my own bed, with the familiar presence of my stuffed animals beside me, the glow of my faithful night light alleviating my fear of the dark, and the comforting knowledge that, if I needed them, my parents were just next door. Instead, I was lying in total darkness, tossing and turning on an unfamiliar bed with its stiff springs poking out at me, scared of the strange sounds of the

city outside the window—alone. My great-aunt woke me up bright and early the next morning to take me to school. She marched me into the classroom where I would spend the rest of my summer; when I arrived, a silence fell over the room, and the students turned to stare at me, the foreigner who had interrupted their class. I approached the teacher to introduce myself—she glanced at me and remarked curtly, “You’re late. Sit down and don’t be tardy again.” I was completely taken aback by the rigor of the Chinese school system, which

The day passed in a blur of foreign characters, concepts, and conversations. I was shocked by the sheer amount of work my teachers assigned. When I returned to my great-aunt’s house with a stack of books and a pile of worksheets, I felt overwhelmed and demoralized. Though I knew a few words, the elementary Chinese I had picked up at home seemed so inadequate here, especially when matched against the thousands of characters I was expected to know for my homework. Thankfully, a new friendship brightened my situation. When I walked into class the next day, one of my classmates approached me and introduced herself. Her name was Gāo Xīng and she had noticed my Pikachu headband, a gift from my mother and one of my most prized possessions at the time. We began talking and from that day forward became fast friends—the kind of easy childhood bond that develops over a shared love for Pokémon. She helped me with my Chinese and I taught her English, introducing her to American music with the Oscar Mayer Weiner Song. However, school was still a struggle. Math and Chinese were undoubtedly my worst subjects. One day towards the end of math class, Wáng Laoshī wrote an assignment on the board and asked us to copy it down, complete the problems, and turn them in the next day. Though I scrambled to copy down what he wrote, he erased the board before I finished and dismissed the class. I returned home and attempted the homework, but I knew that Wáng Laoshī would be angry when I brought back an unfinished assignment the next day. As I predicted, Wáng Laoshī was furious. After class, he called me and a few of the

While my teachers back home had lavished praise on me, the teachers here handed out punishments and reprimands like candy.

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was so drastically different from the U.S.’s. Here, teachers held supreme authority and students only addressed their teachers as “Laoshī” to show respect. While I was used to classrooms filled with bright, motivational posters and teachers who tried to be their students’ friends, I was under no illusions that my teachers here would even try to do the same. While my teachers back home had lavished praise on me, the teachers here handed out punishments and reprimands like candy. My math teacher, Wáng Laoshī, introduced himself by telling the story of how he once threw a student out the window. True or not, this threat had its intended effect, and I made a mental note never to anger him. spring 2013

other “trouble” students into his office. When I tried to explain that I wasn’t able to finish copying down all of the problems that he wrote on the board, he stood up, grabbed me by the ear, and demanded that I write faster. Shaken, I left his office and returned to class, shocked and in tears. Gāo Xīng quickly found me and comforted me, easing my worries about Wáng Laoshī and told me that I shouldn’t take his criticism personally. She promised that she would try to help me with my homework in the future and encouraged me not to give up. True to her word, Gāo Xīng began meeting with me outside of class to work on homework, and more often, just to chat and show me around the city. The work was still difficult, but with Gāo Xīng’s patient help, I improved gradually. Thankfully, there was always one class that I excelled at: English. The moment our English teacher walked in the door, I suddenly became the most popular girl in the class and my classmates would clamor to be my partner for our speaking assignments. My classmates, including the one who had called me dumb on the first day, began to gradually accept me. The girls showed me how to play Chinese jump rope, a traditional game similar to hopscotch, and the boys challenged me to games of ping-pong. I finally felt as though I belonged, and that I was no longer that American student—the girl who looked like everyone else, but struggled to read the simplest Chinese sentences. When I returned to the States, I brought back memories, lessons, and friendships with me. Gāo Xīng and I continued to correspond through email—hers in broken English, mine in equally broken Chinese. We exchanged stories about our lives, intrigued by the differences and the similarities between our two worlds. In high school, she proudly told me that she was the best English student in her class and hoped to go to college in the U.S. In many ways, our lives were taking parallel paths. One day, after seven years of emails and shared stories, Gāo Xīng emailed me to tell me about a program that let Chinese students photo by author

practice their conversational English skills with native speakers. She asked me if I wanted to participate, and I agreed, excited to see her again. When I asked Gāo Xīng what the students would be most interested to hear, she told me that I should talk about my life in the U.S. I was nervous when the first students walked into the room to listen to my presentation. I was fifteen at the time and the students I would be talking to were mostly older: college students, English teachers, and people who were simply curious about the topic. I took a deep breath and began explaining what school was like in the U.S., from the athletic and extracurricular opportunities, to the variety of interesting electives I could

She looked at me, shook her head, and said, “You’re so lucky.”

choose from. They were fascinated by the amount of freedom I had to explore my interests, my teachers’ willingness to have their views challenged by students, and the amount of resources I had at my disposal to help me pursue my passions. After the session was over, several stayed to chat with

me. I went up to Gāo Xīng afterwards to get her opinion. She looked at me, shook her head, and said, “You’re so lucky.” Before I heard those three words, I had never considered how truly fortunate I was. Lucky. I had simply taken for granted all of the opportunities I had available to me and had not bothered to take advantage of them. Gāo Xīng and my former Chinese classmates were toiling tirelessly for the chance to attend school in the U.S., an opportunity that I had simply been born into and yet, had failed to appreciate. When I returned home to Virginia, I became president of my local Chinese Association and organized cultural events to engage youth in my community. I worked to bring exchange students from China to the U.S., finding host families for them and editing their college applications. I volunteered more, worked harder in my classes, and made the most of each and every resource I had available to me. To this day, Gāo Xīng’s words still stick with me and remind me to never take my educational opportunities, however mundane they may seem, for granted. This “dumb American girl” is determined not to let her luck go to waste.

author (on right) with Gāo Xīng's family.

dumb luck

memoir

FROM

Ghana

IRELAND TO

GHANA:

Reflections on the True Meaning of

EMPOWERMENT by Cara Peterson

I walk through the market of street vendors, my heels kick up red clay dust that collects in the folds of my full-length skirt. Tree nuts, woven bracelets, bottles of milk and fruit juice wind their way around me in large tin bowls and woven baskets securely balanced on the heads of well-postured women. Every step takes me past a cart or storefront with a vendor beckoning for me to come look at what they are selling. I soak in a sea of difference—the dense population, the bold-patterns of the women’s colorful long dresses. Ghana smells like a soft mix of stagnant water, sweet bread, body odor, and deep earth. It feels weighed down by heat and sticky from sweat. It is a womb with too many children for its too few resources, yet this fact seems to be acknowledged with a shrug and a smile.

This country is using every possible mode of propaganda to propel its citizens forward on the uphill climb toward the golden words of “modernization” and “development.” In a convenience store with drinks on the unrefrigerated freezer shelves, the clerk’s countertop radio spews repetitious cheers of phrases like “Know that you are a free man” and “Work hard and make something of yourself and our free country.” Billboards for cell phones and beer advertise consumer culture and new technologies as symbols of progress. An equally abundant number of billboards with mixed political slogans and religious messages coax citizens to place their faith in social development under the leadership of their party’s presidential candidate. One reads, “Have faith, the Lord is coming,” as if God and the President are in on this campaign together. The vision for the nation’s future is wrapped in a paradoxical culture of faith and hope. Women carry this hope—soft, round

faces with black peach fuzz hair—on their backs as they perform their daily work. Their babies peep out of brightly colored swaths of cloth wrapped around their mothers’ waists that form a cradling pouch in the back with a bulky knot in the front. A heavy load to bear, it is collective hope of all Ghanaian mothers that the future will be a step better for their children than the hardship they have endured. They push forward with faith in the promise of higher employment rates, improved healthcare, and a more transparent government. I walk up to a woman selling oranges and she takes the tin basket from her head to give me a better look at the produce inside. When I tell her how impressed I am by the amount of weight she can balance on her head, she laughs. We start very young, she says. That night, I return to the M.V. Explorer, the Semester at Sea study abroad ship on which I’ve been taking classes complemented

spring 2013

passport

by culturally immersive stops to different Atlantic Coast nations. I’m in the middle of writing a journal entry when the words suddenly stick. “Young” is a word that holds an entirely different meaning in Ghanaian society than it does in my own. In my home country, “young” is an adjective used to describe me—a twenty-year-old single college student with few responsibilities outside her studies. “Young” in Ghana also means “youth,” but the age cut-off comes earlier, at twelve years old. If I were to list the identity categories to which I feel the greatest sense of belonging, I would begin with “human.” On a fundamental level, I am connected to all of humanity by the basic needs that drive me and the emotions that allow me to feel the meaning in my experiences. After that, things become a little more complex. Before I gained the insights I did from traveling around the world, I would have selected “woman” as my next defining

category due to my strong feminist values and sense of joint gender identity. Yet, I have come to realize that, though I feel the strongest loyalty to this category, there are other categories that claim me first. The way in which I experience my womanhood is distorted by two blinders blocking my periphery vision: “Western World” on the left and “Privileged” on the right. Although I have an immediate urge to distance myself from these labels, they play an enormous role in shaping my understanding of how the world works and what I can expect from it. The perceived gap between the Western “developed” countries and those labeled as “developing” holds a myriad of differences, both economic and social. Subsequent cultural implications of these differences are reflected in a wide spectrum of traditional roles, societal expectations, rules of engagement, and public life. In Ghana, womanhood typically means long days spent providing food and care for five to eight children stretching out their little fingers and demanding attention. Lack of infrastructure means spending more time collecting clean water or traveling to the market on foot for produce. Lack of healthcare means worrying about earning enough money for preventative mosquito nets and praying family members won’t fall victim to illnesses that one simply doesn’t have the economic resources to treat. Furthermore, womanhood in Ghana means all these responsibilities start much earlier in life. Girls are expected to help care for their siblings as soon as they stop needing to be taken care of themselves. “We start very young” is epitomized in a glance out the bus window with the sight of young girls carrying photos clockwise from top left: by Ian Muttoo @ Flickr, by Terriem @ Flickr, by Ben Sutherland @ Flickr, by Terriem @ Flickr

from ireland to ghana

even younger girls and boys on their hips. Though differences in culture and economic development do make these burdens less prevalent, Western women of lower socioeconomic class are just as constrained by similar circumstances. The biggest indicator of female empowerment stems not from one’s nationality, but from one’s socioeconomic standing. Wealth and privilege carve the greatest differentiation of experience. Earlier on the voyage, in Ireland, I asked a woman whether or not she felt equal to her male counterparts, to which she responded, “Absolutely not! I don’t think women are equal anywhere!” She continued, “There are a lot of young poor women who face the same empowerment issues in this country as they do in the countries considered less developed.” It’s a poverty issue that denies women access to education and political power. A woman is more likely to be oppressed by her own economic standing than the laws and economic standing of her country. Wealth means the ability to remove oneself from an unfortunate circumstance. Poverty means making the best of the circumstances one cannot escape. I have come to understand that the political and internal stability of my country is the exception, not the rule. International war and internal strife is a reality in more countries than not. Living in a country plagued by volatile national economics, corruption, and commonplace flouting of the law is like holding onto the reigns of a horse that can’t be steered. The political stability and peaceful homefront of the United States provide predictability and a sense of control over my own destiny far beyond what most people feel. My opportunities to learn in school, to explore different hobbies, to develop a wide range of friendships, and to hold goals of making a meaningful impact on the world—the things I most strongly associate with my “identity”—are much more a product of my nationality and affluence than a product of

my femininity. Again, though I hate to be so strongly associated with such contentious words, the categories of “Western World” and “Privileged” claim me first.

spring 2013

As a student looking to forge a career path in Human Rights Advocacy, International Development, and Globalizing Gender Equity, I can’t ignore this realization. My identity brings with it a multitude of caveats identity brings with it a multitude of caveats that dramatically increases the potential

we see the world mean that the way in which we experience our personhoods will be inherently different, as well. Who am I to say what is necessary to improve others’ quality of life when I do not even fully understand their circumstances? Approaching an impoverished population with the notion of “I am here to ‘fix’ your country’s problems” further adds to the process of disempowerment. This implies that their voices count less because “I know better” indirectly translates to “I am better.” Instead of reinforcing a hierarchy, a partnership must be forged to create opportunity for empowerment. The notion should be more than, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” The notion must be expanded to include the input of the people living the problems being addressed. That same man must be enabled to explain the factors that deny him from fishing already or how his skills could better suit a profession other than fishing. True empowerment will only come once these local populations feel that their voices count to the government, NGOs, foreign investments, and aid programs. Helping to improve quality of life is beneficial, but doing so in a way that allows an impoverished person to feel in control and as if he or she has things to offer—that is true empowerment. It is a blessing to be able to think of my future knowing that I have resources to accomplish almost anything I set my mind to and the ability to make my voice heard. Despite how rare this is for most people in the world, especially for women, I carry a feeling of empowerment with me every day. It is this sense of empowerment that we should be seeking to instill in impoverished populations, not the sense of “being helped,” in order for our efforts to truly make a lasting impact in the places we work.

a woman is more likely to be oppressed by her own economic standing than the laws and economic standing of her country

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of unintentionally disempowering the very populations I seek to empower simply because I may not understand the world in the way the people I work with need me to see it. Differences in identity, socioeconomic statuses, and cultural lenses through which

all photos by Terriem @ Flickr

recipe

France

CrÊpes Suzette

Try your own hand at one of our desserts from around the world!

Cuisine: French Yields: 4 servings Prep time: 30 minutes

Recipe by Linda Stradley at What’s Cooking America Preparation:

Ingredients: Vanilla Sugar Sauce Suzette (see recipe below) 2 tablespoons vanilla sugar (see recipe below) 4 eggs 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 3 tablespoons milk 1 pinch of salt 1 tablespoon water 2 tablespoons sweet butter Thin strips of orange zest, for garnish

CrÊpes Batter: Using an electric blender or food processor, blend the eggs, flour, milk, salt, and water to the consistency of olive oil, or until it will pour back silently and smoothly from a foot or more above the mixing bowl. Place the crêpe batter, covered, in the refrigerator for at least 1 hour. This allows the bubbles to subside so the crêpes will be less likely to tear during cooking. The batter will keep for up to 48 hours. Cooking the CrÊpes: Heat a frying pan or crêpe pan with 2 tablespoons of sweet butter (don’t use too much butter or the crêpes will be greasy). Once the pan is well-heated, pour in enough batter, approximately 3 to 4 tablespoons of batter, to cover the bottom of the pan. Tip the pan from side to side to spread the batter thinly, and keep it moving. Don’t worry if the crêpe isn’t perfectly round or has uneven edges, as it will be rolled or folded and the imperfections will not matter. The finished crêpe should be paper thin.

Source: Crêpes: Sweet & Savory for the Home Cook, by Lou Siebert Pappas

After one minute, turn the pancake upside down, then turn it again, until it is nicely browned. Fold the crêpe in half, and fold again to form a triangle. As the crêpes are finished, stack them one upon the other. Proceed to make the remaining crêpes, adding butter to the pan only if the crêpes begin to stick. NOTE: Also, as when making other types of pancakes, expect that you may have to throw away the first 1 or 2 crêpes until you get the pan temperature just right.

- Edges of the crêpes are crisp with a tendency to crack if the pan is too hot: Decrease the heat.

Storage of CrÊpes: The crêpes may be made hours ahead of time and kept, covered with plastic wrap, at room temperature. Crêpes may be frozen for up to 2 months. When using frozen crêpes, thaw on a rack before gently peeling apart.

- Small holes appear in the crêpes: Use more batter and completely cover the bottom of the pan.

Prepare Sauce Suzette (see below): When the Sauce Suzette is warm, carefully flame the liqueurs. When the fire goes out, add the prepared Vanilla Sugar mixture. Then plunge the folded crêpes/ pancakes into the warm Sauce Suzette. Turn them, and add the remaining 2 ounces of blended liqueurs. When the fire dies down again, they are ready to serve.

CrÊpes Troubleshooting Tips:

- Batter will not flow around the bottom of the pan with ease: Whisk in 1 to 2 tablespoons milk or water.

Serving: Garnish with thin strips of orange zest. Serve three crêpes per portion. Spoon a little of the remaining sauce over each serving.

Sauce Suzette: Small piece of orange Zest, cut very thinly Small piece of lemon zest, cut very thinly 1/4 pound unsalted butter 5 ounces of blended favorite liqueurs (curacao, triple sec, Cointreau, Grand Marnier, cognac, kirsch, etc.) At least 1 to 2 days before making Crêpes Suzette, slice a thin piece form the outer rind of an orange, large enough to cover the ball of your thumb, and a smaller piece of lemon rind. Cut both into thin strips, add to 2 tablespoons of vanilla sugar, cover, and put away until the sugar absorbs the flavoring oils. To make the sauce, melt the 1/4 pound of butter in a large frying pan. When it begins to bubble, pour in 3 ounces of the blended liqueurs and the prepared sugared orange and lemon zest. The Sauce Suzette is now ready to use. photo by ax2groin @ Flickr

crÊpes suzette

staff corner

Just Desserts

its exuberant preparation, then for its deliciousness.

The French have a reputation for being the most flamboyant—even when it comes to their desserts. The Crêpe Suzette, for instance, takes the crêpe—a thin pancake— to another level: in restaurants, it is usually made in front of the guests. Liqueur is poured over a freshly cooked crêpe with sugar, and the whole thing is set on fire. This evaporates the alcohol, creating a caramel sauce.

The origins of this dessert are much disputed. In his autobiography, Henri Charpentier claims that he had created this dish after a mistake as he prepared a dessert for the Prince of Wales.1 However, Larousse Gastronomique, an encyclopedia of cooking, doubts that Charpentier, who had been fourteen at the time, had actually served the prince, as he would’ve been too young.2 Another claim is that the dessert is named after French actress Suzanne Reichenberg, who went by Suzette. In 1897, she appeared in Comédie Française as a maid serving crêpes. The chef who provided the crêpes decided to flambé them to attract the audience’s attention and keep them warm for the actors.3 In any case, the dessert is a signature served in many French restaurants, if not for

spring 2013

top photo by Rennings @ Flickr

CrÊpe Suzette France

passport

PAVLOVA New Zealand/ Australia

Pavlova: a delicate dessert for a delicate dancer. Named after the ballet dancer Anna Pavlova, this meringuebased dessert’s origin is unclear, as it was created for the dancer on one of her tours in Australia and New Zealand. Though the nationality of its creator is still up for

debate, official research points to New Zealand.4 Regardless, the beautiful dessert is often served year-round as a holiday or celebratory dessert, though particularly during the summer. With a hardened crust but a fluffy interior, pavlova is often decorated with cream and garnished with fruit pieces such as strawberries, kiwi, pomegranate, and passionfruit. The largest pavlova ever made, deemed “Pavkong,” stretched 64 meters long—clearly, there’s a huge demand for pavlova!

CHOCOLATE & Churros Spain

Though it goes by the same name, Spanish hot chocolate is an extremely distant cousin to its American namesake. Adding cornstarch and extra-dense chocolate chunks transforms the beverage into a warm chocolate pudding as decadent as a bowl of fudge and perfect for dessert. Since its consistency is similar to melted Nutella, Spaniards usually don’t drink hot chocolate, but instead use each cup as an individual fondue pot. Wondering if your hot chocolate is truly authentic? Try the churro test: dunk one of the sugary Spanish donuts into the cup, and see if it stands on its own. If you have enough time to scream “Look Ma, no hands!”, your hot chocolate is perfect. Spaniards usually eat hot chocolate and churros as a mid-afternoon snack, but abstain from sweets after dinner—since the last meal of the day occurs after 10 p.m., a glass of orange juice or piece of fruit is a typical dessert. After the pure joy of chocolate and churros, the desire for moderation is quite understandable.

from top to bottom (all @ Flickr): photos by mars!, correoscar, dave.scriven, and louistan.

TurÓn

The Philippines Want an easy-to-make but delicious delicacy? Turón is a popular street dessert in the Philippines. Made of thinly sliced bananas and jackfruit with brown sugar lightly sprinkled on top, this combination is neatly rolled in a spring roll wrap and then fried. The heat causes the brown sugar to stick onto the wrapper, turning the wrapper golden brown. The dessert is best served hot. For variety, the inside filling of the turón can range from sweet potatoes to mango to coconut. Sometimes, even cheddar cheese can be used. In certain parts of the Philippines, turón specifically refers to the fried spring roll wrapped around sweet mung bean, while valencia is used in reference to the spring roll wrapped around bananas.5 1. Charpentier, Henri, and Boyden Sparkes. Life À la Henri: Being the Memories of Henri Charpentier. Modern Library, 2001. 2. Montagné, Prosper. The Larousse Gastronomique: The New American Edition of the World’s Greatest Culinary Encyclopedia. Ed. Jenifer Harvey Lang. Crown Publishers, 1998. 3. Claiborne, Craig. Craig Claiborne’s The New York Times Food Encyclopedia. Wings Books, 1994. 4. “Pavlova (food).” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 29 Mar. 2013. Web. 29 Mar. 2013. 5. “Turon (food).” Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 28 Mar. 2013. Web. 30 Mar. 2013.

senior staff piece

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