LIBERTAS v ol . 25, n o. 2
The Issue Issue
SATREBIL Editorial Staff EDITORS IN CHIEF Quinn Massengill Maddy Page
ART EDITORS
WRITING EDITORS
Ben Caldwell
Jayleen Jaime
Emilie Hoke
Emelyn Schaeffer
Raven Hudson
Thomas Waddill
Isaac Scharbach
Katie Walsh
Dear Readers, When our staff chose “The Issue Issue” as the first theme of the semester, many of the the topics that came to mind for us editors did so at the far ends of a spectrum: on one hand, we thought of classic “first world problems,” from packing before a trip or “the difficulty of picking up a dime off the ground;” on the other hand, we considered issues that, for many of us, seemed quite distant, such as horrendous natural disasters or the multiple refugee crises around the globe. However, recent events serve as reminders that no community today finds itself immune to the ubiquity of issues like racial hatred, and the devastation of coastal Carolina communities reminds us that literally a change in the wind can divert local disaster. In the works of this issue, our contributors and staff members alike have worked to bridge that gap: Jayleen Jaime reflects on her personal response to a tragedy, her interweaving of humor and lightness a contrast to the heaviness of the disaster, and Emily Sirota’s concrete poem investigates familial ties, the staccato lines mirroring the tension in the fishing line, the tension in these relationships. In Susannah Cate’s film review, she eloquently articulates how Crazy Rich Asians successfully draws upon a beloved genre in order to work toward improving issues of minority representation. In the art by many of our contributors like Rebecca Pempek and Chloe Pitkoff, we see depictions of women who are at once beautiful and powerful, embodying the now seemingly radical truth that women can be both regal and revealing. Whatever issues you might be facing today, we hope that you will find, if not any solution, at least a reprieve from them in the Issue Issue of Libertas. Sincerely, Quinn Massengill & Maddy Page
Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College. Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu.
LIBERTAS October 2018 WRITING
ART
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Fishtale Emily Sirota ’20
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Observations and Anecdotes from the Beginning of the Very End of Florida: A Cosmicomic Henry Stockwell ’19
8 9 10 11 12 14 15
Not a Question of Politics Ben Caldwell ’21 White Meat Jon White ’19 Leaks Jayleen Jaime ’22 Where Have All the Folk Songs Gone? Ross Hickman ’22
4 6 8 9 10
Break the Line Ella Sams ’20
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Comics from Abroad Maura Tangum ’20
Selective Memory Helen Sturm ’20 from Sketchbook IV Rebecca Pempek ’20 Tension Cole Thornton ’21 Untitled Chloe Pitkoff ’21
Review: Crazy Rich Asians Susannah Cate ’20 Ask Em’ Emelyn Schaeffer ’21 Hozier Crossword Emelyn Schaeffer ’21
Cover: Frog Lake, Oregon, September 2018 by Pearce Hyatt
special thanks to... Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: Alyssa Glover, Samantha Gowing, Meg Mendenhall, Michael DeSimone, Jordan Luebkemann, Will Reese, Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Mike Scarbo, Vic Brand, Ann Culp, Erin Smith, Scott Geiger, James Everett, Catherine Walker, Elizabeth Burkhead, Chris Cantanese, Kate Wiseman, Lila Allen, Jessica Malordy, Nina Hawley, Kate Kelly, Zoe Balaconis, Rebecca Hawk, and Hannah Wright Founder: Zac Lacy
F I S H T A L E by Emily Sirota “Adult largemouth bass are usually solitary creatures, unless they are males guarding a brood swarm.� - American Expedition Out
From bed And into his boots Sun shining and dreams set in Angling proclivity drives a bright-eyed boy Setting spinners by lakeside Fingernails soiled with grime from pinched guts of unsuccessful earthworms Fishing for a guide He casts his lifeline Slashing strike Pugnacious tension Reeling home reeling faster his father where is his father he is reeling A tale about a fish who teaches patience A boy follows and learns forgiveness Fatherly pathology. His grandpa was the same. Slimy scales then bailed embrace Broken Promises Unbroken lines On this Morningside
BREAK THE LINE by Ella Sams
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Observations and Anecdotes from the Beginning of the Very End of Florida: A Cosmicomic By Henry Stockwell It needed the cross-section of the Earth’s crust to throw up our shells, which we had abandoned some hundred, three hundred, five hundred million years before, for the vertical dimension of time to open up to you and release you from the continual cycle of the stars’ circuit in which you continue to pigeonhole the course of your fragmentary existences. - Italo Calvino, “Shells and Time,” The Complete Cosmicomics Five times in the history of the earth nearly all life has winked out, the planet undergoing a series of changes so massive that the overwhelming majority of living species died. These great extinctions are so exceptional they even have a catchy name: the Big Five. Today seven out of ten scientists believe we are in the middle of the sixth. But there is one thing that distinguishes those past die-offs from the one we are currently constructing: never before have humans been there to tell the tale. - Elizabeth Rush, Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore When I—easily the most dismissable of those of us who have been here from the beginning—tell you that earlier today I watched a gator amble up out of the highwayside ditch next to where I was idling, skeleton-plop through the bumper-to-bumper hurricane evacuation-traffic, decide to administer a single chomp to the back right tire of a purple Mustang from which Flo Rida emanated, and then calmly retreat back to the litter lagoon from whence it came, I need you to know two things: first, I’m mostly not exaggerating. Second: that gator is, and I say this with one hundred percent certainty, from my zone. I speak to you now, listener, from a bungalow in the Keys, where I’m waxing my sturdiest surfboard in preparation for the storm which Qfwfq has informed me will change the status of my zone from “Land, Wet-Dry” to simply “Water.” Our observations used to be recorded long-hand—cave walls, stone tablets, scrolls, lithography, typewriter. We recently went digital, opting for voice memos over the written word. I think I speak for all of us when I say we would’ve liked to have made the switch sooner, but we had to wait for Axxww to take a break from belly sliding with his penguins so he could figure out how to use the satellite phone we dropped into his orbit a while back. The bottom line is: digital makes it easier to hear everyone else’s observations and anecdotes. In the past, if I’d wanted to read observations and anecdotes from, say, the Sahara, I try my best to use my zone’s contemporary parlance, nomenclature, etc., I would’ve had to rise up out of my orbit and drop into Nwrdx’s. Then, I would’ve had to ask Nwrdx to read some of his observations and anecdotes, and Nwrdx would’ve mounted an Arabian mare and ridden off into the dunes for six days round trip- and that’s just to retrieve one tablet from his files. Had I wanted to read accounts of, say, tens of thousands of years in his zone, or had I wanted surfing advice from Nwrdx, who of course hasn’t surfed for millions of years, I would’ve had to spend months in the desert, waiting for Nwrdx to return from the dunes with the next thousand pound file.
It wasn’t just that the waiting was boring. In situations like that, waiting for Nwrdx to whoosh about his dunes or Axxww to slurp over his icebergs or Pndfa to pid-pad through her rainforest, I found myself doubled-over with anxiety. I got anxious because, while I was off in some other zone trying to obtain information that might explain or at least contextualize other various happenings around the planet, no one was recording observations and anecdotes in my own zone. And believe you me, and I’m going to employ a mix of co temporary colloquialisms here, some wild shit goes down in my neck of these woods. And if I’m not there, all those observations and anecdotes would be lost to the ether, and plus then all the others would have more reasons to call me sloppy or self-centered or impulsive or brash or corrupt or vacation-prone or oddball or strangebird or tacky or mixmatch or responsibility-avoider or sweaty or superficial or any of the other supposed reasons why I was originally assigned to the zone which Qfwfq knew would one day evolve to include what human beings call Florida. Going digital alleviated a good portion of my anxiety over potential time-wasting, because now all I have to do if I want to hear observations and anecdotes from the Sahara is open up Nwrdx’s folder in our shared Dropbox. The other big benefit to digital beyond temporal convenience is I don’t have to stop observing to undertake whatever the chic brick and mortar writing process of the day is, likely missing out on any unexpected continuation of the anecdote. Give me a minute to think of an example or two, listener—and I hope you can still hear me clearly. In preparation for mid-storm voice dictation, I purchased a new, industrial-grade wind guard for my satellite phone—but the winds are already picking up, and the stray palm leaves and abandoned Budweiser cans fizzing through the bungalow’s open-air porch remind me of the pumice rocks I once saw bisect a tyrannosaurus rex. I’ll speak a little louder. Anyways, I’ve got one: in the 80s, when I saw a cocaine dealer mount a dolphin who lived in the massive tank in the lobby of the Four Seasons
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Miami, I thought to myself, what an anecdote. So I got to writing. One would think it would be a safe assumption that when one sees a moustached cocaine maverick don lime green neoprene, duct tape himself to a dolphin, then allow himself to be both bludgeoned to death and drowned as hundreds of bell-bottomed disco fiends snap polaroids, that’s about as interesting as a non-apocalyptic anecdote is going to get. One would be wrong. I admit I was slightly behind the times, but I had to rush upstairs and sit down at my typewriter, tap-taping observations as quickly as possible. Satisfied, I filed my anecdote. But when I returned to the lobby for a scheduled cocktail with two men I was simultaneously seeing, you try spicing it up after all of time, I was shocked to see that the uppered-out masses had strung up the now dead dolphin from the lobby’s chandelier using the leftover neoprene the medics had cut off the drowned drug dealer. I dared not leave the lobby again, for fear of missing further feats of grotesque civil engineering that might be of interest to Qfwfq. But that example’s small potatoes—or, nbd—because when Qfwfq assigned us to zones at the beginning of everything, he made one thing explicitly clear: if we ever get sloppy with our observations and anecdotes, make sure it’s not during big events. Events where afterwards, a lot of the various species that were there before the event are no longer there. So it wasn’t that big a deal when I missed the third act of the dolphin hanging episode, because
only one dolphin and one drug dealer died. I’ll tell you when I would’ve loved to have had voice dictation, though: Noah and The Flood. I missed some key points during that one. Believe it or not, I was working in woodblock and chisel back then, and organizing observations and anecdotes with a golden ark, not to be confused with Noah’s or the Covenant. Mine was far less famous, really just a filing cabinet. It’s actually in a storage unit in Tallahassee right now. Anyways, right before the water really started going, I took a few days’ break to go at some wood blocks with my chisel. When I returned, it appeared that I had missed the inciting event, because the action was certainly rising. So I used what we always use when we miss key narrative points: God. If you’re listening in the hundreds of years around the time of this recording, or if you’re familiar with the popular anecdotes of this period, you’ll probably associate The Flood with Christianity, on account of God’s prominent role in the final version. As I said, God is something we use when we’re tired, or when we’ve procrastinated up against the deadline, or when we miss parts of an anecdote to record observations, or when we want a particular part of a particular anecdote to cause a particular stir in the ether. In the case of The Flood, God was just a plausible narrative spark. I admit it was a little hurried, but I mean, come on, and I’m going to colloquialize again here, we’ve all chalked up a few anecdotes to one vindictive God or another. In reality, I doubt the why was that concise. If I had to bet, I’d say the whole thing was probably more like mopping the du-
Selective Memory by Helen Sturm
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plex floors Sunday morning after a big weekend in Daytona Beach than the “I will smite you” rhetoric of the final piece made it seem. Despite these technical snags, The Flood was a classic. “A tour de force,” Qfwfq said. Among other things, I wrote what I believe remains one of the catchiest taglines in all the anecdotes: two by two. The Great Flood, waves like mountains. A linguistic masterclass, to be sure. And the thing is, I wasn’t even exaggerating that much. Yes, the animals were slightly less organized than I let on, and also Noah had literally thousands of slaves who subsequently drowned, but I swear to you that when it comes to the water, I was faithful. Can you still hear me, listener? Noise pollution was one of the main objections to the switch to voice dictation when the idea was brought up. Not much sound in caves. But if, for instance, your zone includes a lot of constant construction, like Las Vegas, or loud animals, like a dairy farm in France, I could see how the dictation could pick up unwanted bits of audio. But on this point, the progressives among us won out-- surely the tech would advance, and even if there were a few hiccups in the first year or two, digital progress would eventually drive clarity in the right direction. I didn’t find the noise pollution argument nearly as compelling as those who were con digital out of formal and structural concerns. Rvmnx, one of the strongest opponents of the switch, insisted that she couldn’t read my early Dropbox submissions due to lack of any semblance of structural organization. The difficulty of consumption of anecdotes brought about by voice dictation, she argued, far outweighed the ease of production. In light of Rvmnx’s concerns, echoed by many of the others and even Qfwfq himself, we installed an additional algorithm into the dictation software that would liberally place commas, periods, apostrophes, and colons. To this day, I’m confused why the committee drew the line at
semicolons. They are, as I argued to the others, amongst the most versatile forms of punctuation. But the others argued that grammatical simplicity led to clarity, and tangentially related independent clauses are separate enough to keep fully separate, and to be honest with you, listener, I’ve been fresh out of negotiating clout for a while now, ever since I got inebriated at a pool party in Gainesville and left everything I had on tragic Bermuda occurences in the bottom of a hot tub. Anyways. My hands stick with board wax. I’ve worked hard over the past few years, listener, recounting everything I’ve heard in my zone in the runup to these waves. I’ve dictated as quickly as my mouth can move, from the time Qfwfq told me angrily that the current trough had ended much sooner than expected and that the horizon of time was cresting to, well, right now, on the porch of my embattled bungalow. The others will make fun of me for this, but for millenia I’ve fantasized over what it would have been like to surf the waves of The Flood. Surfing hadn’t been invented yet, listener. So in a minute, I’m going to indulge what the others will surely call an entitled sense of aesthetic grandiosity and surf the beginnings of the storm that’s lapping at my porch, the storm that will, according to Qfwfq, end reality as the current mortal inhabitants of my troubled zone know it. As has been the case with all events like this one, I’m a bit mystified, not really with emotion, but, with a sense of, I’m sorry, listener, a palm tree just fell into the bungalow, give me a minute. I’m a translator. A spin artist. I dictate what I see, I transcribe it to you, and then I upload it to Qfwfq’s Dropbox. Sure, I make it more marketable so that Qfwfq and the others will tell me I did a good job, and like me. But I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do, save for the storm’s spray in my eyes. I apologize for screaming. Signing off.
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What does he think to himself late at night, In his little White House with his little night light,
Let’s let boys be boys and not let the girls balk at our national language, locker room talk.
As he writes in the diary of Donald J Trump, That he sets on his lap while he rests on his rump?
Let’s fight against college for free for New Yorkers; Educating the masses could break social order.
In the entry that follows, he lays his convictions, And plans out the script for his next disquisition:
Let’s challenge fact and disprove global warming, While Houston is drowning and LA is burning.
Let’s live by the creed of the art of the deal. No foreign immigrants, soy beans, or steel.
Let’s defund the arts with executive orders, Then silence the students and board up the borders.
Let’s tweet our denial of refuge to refugees. Unless they’re from Europe, consider them dead to me.
Let’s pick out a judge and convince all our friends That drunken assault is a game of pretend.
Let’s muffle the media to keep people informed; Fake news is a ruse; it’s a dangerous norm.
Let’s speak for America and ignore human rights. Be mindless and petty and bitch and pick fights.
Let’s castrate the FCC and kill net neutrality, ‘Cause a warm slice of Pai isn’t blatant venality.
Let’s do what we can while we still have our reach And drink and be merry before we’re impeached.
Let’s nix free religion and press and then speech. Whitewash the culture. Hell, kill it with bleach.
Let’s keep people silent to keep them complacent, ‘Cause the house isn’t flooded if we stay out of the basement.
Sketchbook VI by Rebecca Pempek 8
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Tension by Cole Thornton I am a couch sunk in a couch. Big windows open the living room, the walls are locked in daylight. I stare at the corners of the walls where three shades of white meet, a silky eggshell cream. I wait for the doorbell, the A/C hums. I roll over– plant my cheekbone in the pillow. The dust is alive in the air, outside the trees are heavy with leaves.
White Meat by Jon White
I reach for the table in the corner, a glass of ice water and a dirty mug. I sit up to drink. The chill runs through my insides, The birdhouse coaster makes a clink. The doorbell rings– enter all the singing ladies. Surrounding me they sing to me, they sink me, beholden all to me, a couch sunk in a couch.
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Art by Chloe Pitkoff Jayleen Jaime
leaks
On Friday, September 15th, 2018, due to “persistent were on fire, I couldn’t help but think of my cat. disregard” of pipeline safety issues in Columbia Gas’ operations, a buildup of pressure caused a gas leak “Mami, is he okay? Is he okay!?” that ignited dozens of homes and businesses in Lawrence, Massachusetts, and across the Merrimack “Is who okay?” Valley. If our house didn’t explode, if he just got drunk My aunt lives in a nice apartment complex in off the smell of gas, then I believed his scrawny Lynnfield, Mass. The Lynnfield Commons lay cat body could withstand it. But if the house exatop a hill right above Route One and are paint- ploded and people found pieces of his singed ed an obnoxious yellow. Her apartment floor fur and cooked flesh along the street along with is rugged and she has a small patio where she everything my mom has ever bought but never grows grape tomatoes for her salsa, basil for needed in the house, if that happened, if we no when she has the hankering for Italian food, and longer had a house or a housecat (to be honest eggplant for when she wants to... eat eggplant. he does border on feral—he enjoys the outdoors She lives with her two cats that she overfeeds more than anything and has quite a temper), I and a new wife that replaced an old husband. wouldn’t know what to do with myself. This is where my family found refuge after half our city exploded. “Is T’Challa okay?” I was halfway through eating a burger when my mother called me. I didn’t know my hometown was burning down until she called me but when I learned that she was stuck in the middle of traffic—traffic caused by the city evacuation and not the usual back to home commute after a day’s work—and that my sister was right next to one of the first explosions—but she was okay and with my cousin who was ordering McDonald’s with UberEats at a very inappropriate time—and that about 70 homes and businesses
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“I’m on my way to pick him up right now!” “Wait, that’s why you’re in the car?” “Yes.” “Oh.” She stayed in traffic for three hours. I’m not from the kind of town where this thing
happens. I’m from a normal town full of immigrants where the worst thing that happens is an ICE raid or a slanderous news article blaming the people of Lawrence for perpetuating the opioid epidemic (which is not necessarily the truth but not exactly a lie). On their own these are pretty bad things, but they’re not as bad as being at the center of a state of emergency. I only thought about my cat until I learned that the boy died. My thoughts were only sobered by him, the boy. Tragedies take on all different forms in my town but they almost always target the young. I thought about his absence. I think I knew his brother... I always kind of know the deceased. I thought about the blunts he probably smoked after school in the park, how the skunky smell was replaced by the scent of natural gas. I wondered how long the fumes would stay in the streets and in the homes, how maybe even after being told everything is resolved people would inhale deeply and still smell the gas in their minds and doubt those words, uncertain that their own home would not explode beneath their feet. I wondered how long we would mourn or how long would it be till someone I kind of know dies again, I wondered if fireworks will sound the same. I wondered about my mom and how long it would take her to trust our stove again. I thought about all of this until it was over and then I thought about my cat.
Comics from Abroad by Maura Tangum
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Where Have All the Folk Songs Gone? by Ross Hickman
Fifty years later, our moment in the American pageant is just as fractured – and convincingly more so. The issues Americans now face have daunting complexity and offer few simple solutions. The incompetence and conceit of members of Congress astound the mind. Stemming from all corners of the federal and state governments, efforts to distort proper representation and undermine voting rights stifle the ability to remove inept politicians from their perches. Economic concerns enrage only those who feel the blows of poignant inequality. Wage workers, factory employees, immigrants, the homeless – all are either branded and utilized or disqualified and discarded. Freedom and rights are once again at odds. But is it freedom to express deep-rooted, inherited, nonsensical hatred? To deny service for a feature of identity? To rage against the free press? To disparage students? To refashion the truth? The parallels abound; the problems are heightened.
The year was 1968, and America was never more uncertain. Faroff conflict rattled the public; internal disarray left them desperate. The preceding eight years had been fraught with elements of a collapsing national order. Assassination followed assassination. Laws were drawn up, passed, ignored. War and death left the American conscience in decay. And yet, in the throes of Amid all this, where are the anthems of hope and justice? The parallels between the turbulent ‘60s and the formidable now despair, voices rose up. begin to blur in this regard. Several contemporary politically Stretching from the 1940s to the ‘70s, a vocal tradition of criti- substantive songs come to mind. Andra Day’s enthralling “Rise cism flowered on the American music scene. Folk music abrupt- Up” pierced the air before every one of Hillary Clinton’s camly thrust a mirror in the face of American society. Simple tunes paign events. “Rise Up” is an extraordinary work of musical art: and accessible lyrics buttressed a movement of down-to-earth Day’s unrelentingly powerful voice echoes in one’s conscience yet revolutionary artists. At the vanguard of this movement was for quite some time after hearing it. The work of Donald GlovWoody Guthrie – the epitome of young American discontent. er – known as Childish Gambino – also presents lyrics tinged To listen to Guthrie’s gravelly voice is to hear a plea from an with social commentary. Gambino’s “Redbone” has a central era of want. Born out of the economic and military whirlwind role in the groundbreaking film “Get Out.” The music video of the 1930s and ‘40s, Guthrie keenly poked at the threads of for “This is America” employs vital symbolic meaning while American society. His “This Land is Your Land” stands to this offering valuable food for conversation. Despite their popularday as an American anthem – but not the kind that flatters a ity, these songs don’t have the same political significance as banner of nationalism. Along with such folk luminaries as Pete folk songs did in the ‘60s. At protests and marches —from the Seeger and Bob Dylan, Guthrie did not share in the Ameri- Women’s March to immigration- and climate-related protests— can love affair. Skepticism toward the United States pervaded brave dissenters leave the power of song largely dormant. This his compositions and lyrics, but hope sustained them. Pete difference might be permissible—if the condition of the United Seeger’s work amplified this theme across the unspoken crevices States were not as dire as it is now. of the American mid-century identity. With songs like “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” and “If I Had a Hammer,” Seeger Most of us were born and brought up in an appallingly medioplumbed the depths of America’s faults and conjured up a sim- cre period of political engagement. Contrasted with the 1960s, ple, explosive response: enabling the masses to think and sing the 1990s had the lowest average voter turnout of any decade at the same time. Seeger’s performances were the stuff of legend in the 20thcentury, and the following years haven’t fared much for their boisterous, ethereal, collectively sung renditions of his better. Just as the young people of the 1960s endeavored to do, work. The civil rights staple “We Shall Overcome,” though not our generation must separate our roots from our present realhis work, was an audience favorite. Such songs surged in popu- ity. Each of us must grasp firmly the mantle of civic responsilarity with the advent of the group Peter, Paul, and Mary. These bility so abdicated in recent decades. The tradition of passive artists adopted the aesthetic of popular culture while sticking to acquiescence must not be passed down to the next generation. their ideological guns. Their sharp, gutturally saturated voices Being active citizens is a nebulous concept. But where vagueresounded across the National Mall during the March on Wash- ness and contempt fall short, meaningful music can clarify the ington for Jobs and Freedom in 1964. The pillars of the capital’s shape of democracy and embolden its actors. Compose, write, edifices must have grappled to stay put as these artists excori- sing, listen, hum, tap, beat, shout— just don’t let the legacy of our generation be the sound of silence. ated national failures of inequality, indifference, and injustice. By 1968, the global scandal of the conflict in Vietnam; the assassinations of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., and presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy; and the perennial failures of partisan politics put the future of the United States in grave quandary. Nevertheless, shouts and songs still rang out. Protests in the 1960s – particularly in large cities and at prominent universities – came to define a generation of young Americans. Not only was this an exercise in finding identity; it was also one of immense political ramifications. The 1960s hold the honor of having the highest average voter turnout over any other decade in American history. Whether galvanized by widespread participation in protests and activism or by a retaliation against these, the American populace, by the numbers, appreciated the urgency of their historical moment.
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Review: Crazy Rich Asians by Susannah Cate Jon M. Chu’s latest blockbuster rom-com has done something far bigger than produce laughs and romantic sentiments—it’s opened a whole new space in Hollywood. The film industry has long been known to whitewash movies, casting white actors to play the role of minority characters. But Crazy Rich Asians breaks the prejudice-driven trend, staying true to its title and its literary inspiration. The film, which is based on Kevin Kwan’s 2013 bestseller, is comprised of an all Asian cast in keeping with the book. Crazy Rich Asians tells the story of Rachel Chu, an Asian-American Economics professor at NYU, and her longtime (secretly rich) boyfriend Nick Young as they travel back to his childhood home in Singapore for a wedding described by the locals as the island’s “event of the century.” Here Rachel must make a good impression on Nick’s family, particularly his mother Eleanor, while also adjusting to the family’s opulent wealth. Sabotage hides in the bride’s wedding party and subplots abound in the lives of Nick’s cousins. Now, there is a new precedent, a revolutionary idea: Asian and Asian American actors playing the roles that were intended for their race, authentic characters which diverge from the stereotyped Asian martial arts masters or child prodigies. This alone makes it a powerful watch. You get to see the wealthy side of modern Asia, as well as a perhaps more familiar narrative about American immigration, all depicted through the exchanges of actors who actually own the cultural stories they tell. Beauty, romance, familial ties, and friendship are all illustrated through a unique lens; Rachel experiences the emphasis Nick’s kin places on extended family loyalty and hierarchy. At times she voices appreciation for this loyalty and at times she struggles against it. Having only lived with a single mother, what she finds in Singapore is quite different. In this way, the film exposes us to cultural differences within the family sphere. Hopefully, this time the precedent will remain. At the release of the movie, many were reminded of, or harkened back to The Joy Luck Club. This film, made twenty-five years ago, also had an all-Asian cast and was too based off a popular novel. Discouraging as this wide gap between the two films might be, with luck, the large-scale production of the second has placed the film industry back on track for an inclination toward inclusion over discrimination. The soundtrack is also unique. Music is often foregrounded, with multiple shots of Asian musicians at parties or the wedding itself and consists of a mix of Chinese songs from the 1950s and 1960s and Cantonese covers of American pop songs. Many of the tunes are familiar to an American audience while also forcing them to acknowledge they are just as catchy and perhaps more beautiful in a language which is not their own.
But don’t worry, the typical romantic comedy clichés are still there; there’s still an outfit-choosing montage, different worlds clashing, a goofy—strike that—two goofy sidekicks that provide comic relief, a quintessential mean girl, and lots of parties. Not to say that the narrative is dull. I personally remained engaged even if I was unsurprised by the plot because of how the story is told. The settings are so vibrant and the actors so lively that I enjoyed the film despite its clichés. My only caution to would-be viewers is not to go in expecting to leave with grand philosophical ideas or to have your notions of romance altered; the film is, at its core, an old story, but the particulars and the credible cast make it important.
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Ask Em’
Real Answers to “Real” Questions Dear Em, I forgot how boring Fall Semester is now that I’m not a freshman: no rush/self-selection parties, no Frolics, no formals, no Alenda Lux Symposium. And to top it all off, Sweater Weather has yet to come. How am I supposed to survive the event-less Fall without sweaters??? Desperate for Excitement Dear Desperate for Excitement, I’m with you on the disappointment in lack of sweaters, my dude. I was far too optimistic about cold weather when I filled my dresser with the entirety of Gap’s collection at the beginning of the school year. That said, if you spend your whole day in Chambers or a New Dorm study room, it’s almost like it’s Fall because they are so. freaking. cold. As for events, I too can’t wait for Spring Semester; Halloweekend was a disappointment compared to Frolics. In the meantime, however, we will have to make do with the random court parties, semiformals, and RLO movies. Too bad there is no Fall Semester equivalent to Alenda Lux – I could use the free food. Best wishes in entertainment, Emelyn
Dear Emelyn, During Fall Break, I realized how much of what I’ve learned at Davidson is different from what my family believes and it’s making me nervous for Thanksgiving Break. I come from a conservative family and I’m not looking forward to seeing my MAGA hat-wearing uncle. Any advice for navigating difference in political opinions when yours are discounted because of your age and “liberal professors”? Sincerely, Enlightened and Concerned Dear Enlightened and Concerned, Reading your note gave me flashbacks to Thanksgiving last year – such a wonderful holiday. The way I see it and have experienced it, you have a few options: 1. Sit still and look pretty with a smile on your face. Depending on how conservative your family is, this option also has the advantage of presenting you exactly as they want: docile and attractive. 2. Select specific family members to talk to, and specific ones to avoid. Aunt Carol now has the plague. Suggest to your liberal arts educated cousins that you form a new table. 3. Redirect the conversation. Any time the conversation turns to the chances of North Korea attacking us and what we should do to defend ourselves, mention how you’re considering getting an Emotional Support Animal because your professor cold-calls in class and you’re not sure you can handle the pressure of having the right answer and saying it without stuttering, let alone without proving to the upperclassman why you deserve to be at Davidson. 4. Take no prisoners. Go for the jugular. Ask your professor to help you prepare a 50-slide presentation. You are the smartest and most educated you have ever been. Prove to them why your $60,000+ per year education is worth every penny. Best wishes in navigating the Thanksgiving meal! If all else fails, just remember that by the time Winter Break rolls around, you will be too tired to do anything but sleep for 24 hours and they will take pity on you. Yours in awkward family dinners, Emelyn
Please send all inquiries, comments, musings, and quandries to emschaeffer@davidson.edu 14 LIBERTAS
Vol. 25
No. 2
How Well Do You Know Hozier?
Crossword by Emelyn Schaeffer
Across
Down
7. What are Jackie and Wilson raised on?
2. What were we born?
9. Power’s creed is pure and __________.
3. That’s a fine looking high __________.
11. How often does Hozier fall in love with someone new?
4. What did Hozier think was on his clothes when he was 16?
12. Offer Hozier what kind of death?
6. Blood is rare and sweet as __________.
13. Screaming the name of whose God is the purest expression of grief?
8. What was innocence doing when it died?
5. What fell on its sword?
14. What is Hozier going to be after stealing a Lexus?
1. It’s not the __________, it’s the rising.
10. On what should you keep you demons?
15. She’s the angel of small death and the __________ scene.
LIBERTAS Vol. 25 No. 2
15
LIBERTAS
Staff Member Tag Yourself Meme Maddy
-most likely to “accidentally” lose office key before hobart park meeting -“that image is .1 pixel off” -tells ‘the computer,’ “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed”
Raven
Emelyn
Jayleen
-facetimes their cat -fills in bubbles to make a picture on math SAT section -showers in a grunge outfit
-compliments people behind their back -owns too many cooking utensils -irons collars while crying
-silently communicates seamless coolness -specializes in depression meals -likes the taste of communion wafers, loves catholic guilt even more
Isaac
Katie
Emilie
-is a psyclepath -owns a very clean pair of converse -taking notes with a fountain pen
-uses terms like “spongebobesque” in english class -the instagram aesthetic you wish you had -contrary to popular opinion, will die peacefully
-makes such good art the president bought it -friday night “going out” means roaming meadows catching fireflies in mason jar -lifts weights on the DL
Quinn
-looks silently abhorred at someone in a passive aggressive way -most likely to shampoo with turpentine -in charge of snacks, only brought wine
Ben
Thomas -runs recreationally in 5” inseam shorts -intrepid in most situations but plagued by crippling nelophobia (the fragility of glass) -doesn’t skate or wear flannel, but identifies as a flannel skater
-“does cookout have salads?” -has lost track of what they do to be ironic and what they do in earnest -floor of 2004 ford escape littered with crushed pretzels and a few boiled peanuts