Thaw

LIBERTAS

V o l . 18 , no. 3

the thaw issue

SATREBIL editorial EDITORS IN CHIEF Jordan Luebkemann | Will Reese POETRY Rachel Beeton & Jenn Chalifoux FICTION Tim Rauen & Meg Mendenhall NOT FICTION Ben Wiley FILM Edie Nicolaou-Griffin MUSIC Michael DeSimone TRANSLATION Katie Kalivoda & Graham Whittington JOKES Charles Pennell

contributors Blanca Vidal Orga, Will Reese, Jordan Luebkemann, Ben Wiley, Lincoln Davidson, Michael DeSimone, Annalee Kwochka, Yuxi Lin, Corinne Hester, Jack Murphy, Hannah Foltz, Charles Pennell, Molly Dolinger, Jocelyn Boyarizo, Vincent Weir, Elizabeth Welliver, Tim Rauen, Katherine Blackburn, Edie Nicolaou-Griffin, Jessie Li, Dave Benusa, Kelsey Wilson, Charlotte Michaud Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College.

Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu

special thanks to. ..

Faculty Advisors: Paul Miller, Scott Denham (emeritus), Zoran Kuzmanovich (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: 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 visit us online: sites.davidson.edu/libertas

LIBERTAS M a y 9, 2 0 1 3

<— (T HAW )

Will Reese/Jordan Luebkemann

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Editor’s Notes

Ben Wiley Lincoln Davidson

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To Our Leaders Review of Steven Wilson’s The Raven That Refused to Sing (And Other Stories)

Michael DeSimone

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Michael’s #Relevant Music Picks

Annalee Kwochka Yuxi Lin Corinne Hester

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(Caffeine doesn’t mix well with Zoloft) It Is Barely Winter Alba

Jack Murphy

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The Dirt

Hannah Foltz

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From an Aspiring Chubster

“Carl Ressers”

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Dressing the Season

Molly Dolinger

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What the Wind Knows

Jocelyn Boyarizo

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Cancelling a Subscription

Vincent Weir

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Insufficient Support: The Future of Division I at Davidson

Elizabeth Welliver Tim Rauen Katherine Blackburn

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Lotus Gay-Lussac’s Law Tuesday Mornings

Edie Nicolaou-Griffin

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Top 5 movies for people who didn’t get summer internships

Jessie Li Dave Benusa Corinne Hester

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Reclaiming Frolics Schopenhauer was Right Touch

Kelsey Wilson (trans.)

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Hard to be a God (Boris and Arkady Strugatsky)

Charlotte Michaud (trans.)

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Stiff Warning (Priapea) (Unknown Author(s))

featured artist Blanca Vidal Orga is a second time one-year international student from Zaragoza, Spain. She received a degree in Psychology from UNED, but here at Davidson she has explored her interest in art, taking numerous drawing and painting courses. Over theses two years she has been an active member of the Davidson International Association and Dance Ensemble and has even founded her own organization – Foosball Club! Her hobbies include art, foosball, and sleeping.

editors’ notes.

44 elected voting members At least 80% (35.2) to be active members of a Christian church (i.e. no more than 8.8 = 8 non-active Christians or non-Christians) 24 (55%) are selected from among members of the Presbyterian Church (USA) 6 of these must be from Presbyteries within North Carolina A “balance” (51%+?) of these must be from the national membership of the Presbyterian Church (USA) 20 (45%) are selected by Trustees and alumni 12 selected by current Trustees 4 of these must be alumni 8 selected by and from alumni The 45th voting member of the Trustees is the President of the College, “a person who is a loyal and active church member, whose life provides evidence of strong Christian faith and commitment.

Such faith and commitment will be appropriately expressed by affiliation with the Presbyterian Church (USA) and active participation in the life of Davidson College Presbyterian Church.”

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

to our LEADERS an unbiased news column by Ben Wiley

I

t’s funny that the theme this month is “thaw.” It’s like all the editors of Libertas got into a room, argued for an hour, and then chose the most underwhelming verb in the English vocabulary as the pillar upon which the next issue would be built. This is not the least accurate description of what actually happened.

But it’s an interesting exercise to try to come up with pieces to fit this kind of arbitrary word we’ve chosen to stick on the front of our issue like it stands for something important. I really did try. I was going to publish a poetic adaptation of a short story I wrote in middle school. In that story, a female society who thinks they are all giraffes discovers they are actually squirrels, and that some of them have penises, and their world turns upside-down. It’s like their identity “thaws,” get it? I obviously scrapped that idea. Then I was going to write a confessional account of how the last book I read was The Grapes of Wrath before my junior year of high school, and how I have totally avoided actually reading books since then, except my aversion toward books is “thawing” recently, now that I have rediscovered the value of literature in college … I scrapped that idea too. Not only was it not true (I still don’t read books), I would have had absolutely nowhere to go with it, even if it were.

A profound thought recently occurred to me—I could just ignore the theme. This is what our film editor is doing. She knew she was facing a choice between producing something meaningful and writing a review of Ice Age 4: Continental Drift. By the way, did you know the screenplay for that movie was written by a guy named Michael Berg? Berg, as in “iceberg”? I thought that was funny. Speaking of ice and thawing, did you know that over 90% of Greenland’s ice sheet thawed during the summer of 2012? Or that 40% of the arctic polar ice cap has thawed since 1979?

We’ll move on, because empirical research has shown that, still, no one gives a shit.

It wouldn’t be unreasonable, given the premise I will be ignoring our theme

from now on, to just cover some current events. Here’s one: The Davidsonian experienced a huge increase in readership recently after (apparently accidentally) publishing an article in which a student accused the student government president and vice president of being children of Satan. The newspaper staff ’s subsequent realization that this article caused controversy along with an unsuccessful attempt to delete said article from existence generated even more controversy, and www.davidsonian.com has reached an all-time high of both hatred and page views. The outgoing Davidsonian head editor is still wondering why this couldn’t have happened on his watch.

As our film editor recently put it, “The Davidsonian is more controversial than Libertas.” As it happens, another failed idea of mine was to interview both exiting head editors and produce something meaningful out of that. I pulled out the quote from the beginning of this paragraph while in conversation with the arguably more charismatic of our two graduating heads, asking how he viewed this cold sting of irrelevance. “Libertas has published almost nothing controversial since I have been editor,” he pronounced, adding he finds this interesting given that he, himself, is “very controversial.” Nonetheless, he suggested Libertas should be seizing its role as a more contentious publication on campus, perhaps even by annexing articles which would otherwise appear in The Davidsonian. “[The piece accusing SGA of corruption] doesn’t really fit as a Davidsonian article,” he argued. “It belongs in a publication like Libertas …” He was quick to add that he would not have published that piece in the form it was in. When I asked the other exiting head editor about The Davidsonian, she said, “Good for them.”

I’m going to finish on another controversial topic: trustees! It turns out the only thing that generates more hatred and page views than a scandal cosponsored by SGA and The Davidsonian is a trustee. What’s the difference between an SGA member and a trustee? Trustees, unlike SGA members, are elected (by somebody). Also, SGA members pretend to give a shit when they aren’t representing your interests.

I wish we had had the foresight to make this the “trustee issue.” We would have had loads of submissions.

Review of Steven Wilson’s The Raven That Refused to Sing (And Other Stories) L i n c o l n Davi ds on

F

ollowing Steven Wilson’s announcement on April 17th that Porcupine Tree is going on hold for an indefinite period of time while he pursues solo projects, fans of progressive rock can rest easy knowing this is a bold musical step forward.

Wilson’s third solo album, The Raven That Refused to Sing (And Other Stories), is an engaging collection of captivating stories grounded in genuine musical achievement and bound together by formidable stylistic ties.

The seven-track album (the final track is a demo version of the third) tells six different stories, all mystical in nature. Each story features one or more welldeveloped characters, most of whom have some kind of emotional issue – the couple who are together out of convenience and familiarity rather than actual attachment to each other, the hypocritical Holy Drinker, the husband who won’t face the reality of his wife’s death. With each song, Wilson skillfully places the listener in the midst of the emotions the characters

feel (or, perhaps, his emotions when contemplating the characters). In the process, Wilson does a great job of portraying a slightly different shade of emotion with each story.

While modern progressive rock is often criticized as homogeneous, the genre has several distinct main-

stream styles. A lot of the prog is very bombastic, supported on lofty sounds and over-the-top instrumentation. Other prog is not so grandiose, but still very self-aware and proud. In Raven, Steven Wilson separates himself from the baggage of pomp and arrogance that surround most progressive rock endeavors and in the process remains true to the first maxim of prog: break the mold. This album is as fresh and sharp as a scalpel.

This is not to say Wilson fails to pay homage to the artists who have been his inspiration. From the very first chorus of ethereal voices in “Luminol” (Yes?) to the fluttering flute solo of “The Watchmaker” (VdGG?) to the infernal squeals of the saxophone in “The Holy Drinker” (King Crimson?), it’s clear that art does not operate in a void. However, unlike much prog, where the massy bulk of others’ accomplishments presses in on the sound from all sides, Raven stands on its own, with past achievements shining light on it, making it glow all the brighter.

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picks

music

michael’s

#relevant M i c hael D eSim on e

Track 7

Jai Paul

T

rack 7 is a star turn. This is the song you would hear on David Letterman for the first time late on some Thursday night, where Letterman wouldn’t really have much to say about this new pop artist “Jai Paul” but was oddly enthusiastic about this performance anyway.

The song would start, but you wouldn’t hear the beginning of a normal pop song. The opening is modest, sexy even, but you become confused when you hear a vocal sample saying “Real hits...” as if Jai Paul has always been a star all along. The craziest part is that when he starts singing, you begin to think this random British, Indian fellow decked out in all Adidas everything has been a star since before you were born. Paul enters the track with a coolness no new artist can pull off, knowing he can bring a crowd to his knees just by whispering. The song evolves into an exploration into every pop megastar America has seen. Paul absorbs the cadence of Prince, a hook that combines all the Backstreet Boys into one, and a beat that sounds like studio executives had fought small wars to place it at Paul’s feet. Probably the greatest standalone fact of this song is that it is not an original tune but a cover of Jennifer Paige’s deeply late 90’s hit “Crush.” Paul managed to take an innocent tune deserving to be on the soundtrack of American Pie and turn it into a song that any fan, guy or girl, would break down into tears if he/she heard it live. Jai Paul managed to become the pop star we so desperately need over the course of a song he “never meant to release” and from what we know about Jai Paul, that is the stardom he always wanted.

You would also enjoy: Bonita Applebum by A Tribe Called Quest, CocainKeys by Mellowhype, Dat Ass by Earl Sweatshirt

Life Round Here James Blake

I

’ll apologize preemptively, but my love for James Blake is dependent on how much his current music is like his CMYK EP. It is a terrible and unfair bias, but I don’t care. The CMYK EP is wonderful and Blake’s choice to become electronic music’s Bon Iver has probably been the worst decision for a hyped artist to make in years. Blake has always had the strong ability to tell a story purely through electronic instrumentation. He can create musical tension that wraps the listener up so tightly that when he finally brings out the drop within the last minute of a song, I want to light a cigarette and ask my speakers if they liked it too. While Blake’s newest album is a very on/off affair, Life Round Here is a definite highlight, channeling Blake’s original sound along with his desire to put his vocals over every track. The opening synth line immediate establishes a beautiful night sound with a neon glow and the snaps of the drums remind me of all of my late night driving excursions. The song keeps a rather unexciting pace for the first two minutes but after that second minute, the track bottoms out and the synths become ominous. Everything sounds like it is about to fall into some bass shaking hell but it is only tease. The drop doesn’t come and the synths repeat their falling out pattern while the listener is now salivating for a musical explosion. Finally, the drop arrives and Blake sounds like he did on his best of electronic tracks.

He knows when to make music sound like a payoff and Life Round Here proves he still has a few tricks left in his synthesizer.

You would also enjoy: Tick of the Clock (Visione’s The Stroke of Midnight Remix) by Chromatics, Nightmares (Hackman Remix) by Eli & Fur, NY is Killing Me by Jamie xx and Gil Scott-Heron

Get Lucky Daft Punk feat.

Pharrell and Nile Rogers

A

lright, I’m just going to keep this one short. We have all heard it. It sounds nice. Nile Rogers made a riff that I did not mind playing for hours at a time when websites looped the tunes first 15 second preview infinitely and Daft Punk promptly returned to their Discoveryesque sound and atmosphere. The only real issue of this track is that its hype eclipsed its modest goodness. Get Lucky was sold as the definitive song to purify modern dance music, and while it is a great track, selling music as perfection usually doesn’t create perfect music and this is no example. I really wish this song dropped quietly and was allowed to grow on audiences like it deserved to. Here’s to hoping that Random Access Memories won’t suffer the same fate.

You would also enjoy: Suit & Tie (Julio Bashmore Remix) by Justin Timberlake, Gucci Dough by Kixnare

Other relevant songs: Do you... (Cashmere Cat Remix) by Miguel, Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe (Remix) feat. Jay-Z by Kendrick Lamar, Q.U.E.E.N. feat Erykah Badu by Janelle Monáe, A Message for Austin/Praise the Lord/Enter the Void by Thundercat, Track 2 by Jai Paul, TERROR.DOME by SZA, Strictly Reserved for You by Charles Bradley, Body Party by Ciara

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

(Caffeine doesn’t mix well with Zoloft) Annalee Kwochka

Yesterday in biology we learned osmosis, and today fluorescent light in cracked ceiling shivers, mirage-like. Boiling bathwater fills every cell in my body. I am bursting, pruny fingers saturated, veins clogged, liver flooded.

I drain the bathtub. Lurch, tilt, back to bed. The floor is a slide.

My feet are rootless. The walls swing. Look, I will tell the professor, I am practiced in endocytosis. I have brought the entire world into my pores. Only plants, she will say, are gifted with cellulose strong enough to hold shape under pressure.

The telephone rings. Bells, calling the faithful to prayer or the dead to that ever-sunny meadow. I do not answer. Instead, lurch, tilt, back to bed.

My mind is a slide. My hands are rootless. I never learned the art of exocytosis.

Consider the science, dear professor: Slip me under a microscope and see— nothing escapes me. I cannot sleep. Bells press on the back of my eyelids, the insides of my spleen. I cannot sleep. I can only think of osmosis, hope to find the drain, pull the plug, wish for balance.

It Is Barely Winter

Alba

It is barely winter at Walden Pond, Smooth snow spooning spools of the clearest blue Unwinding waves soundless across the shore.

Do not say dawn, for heaven is breaking open like a blue robin’s egg bleeding yellow yolk. Listen instead for the sudden gasp of air just before a swollen newborn cries out or the dark, hushed anticipation a moment before the thick theatre curtain rises.

This is it: the second’s second when time freezes or water comes to a boil, angry spirits racing to the top of spotted copper pots.

It is a breath, life’s enjambment, Dickinson’s dash – a moment unclaimed. The sun is skimming the curved edges of earth. Rise and seize this sliver of the sliver of day.

I tread on swampy leaves between evergreens And bald-headed sentinels awaiting spring, Each foot an echo, each step an answer— Here was where he once lived, here was the view He woke and looked out on a winter day, The same and different for more than two years, And thought the world beckoned him, forward!

I stood and wished to be as brave as he To abandon society and build One of his own creation amidst the suns.

Yuxi Lin

Corinne Hester

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THE DIRT

Jack Murphy

“There is something to be said about seeds. A small seeds takes root in the bowels of the earth and conquers it with webs of roots and fibers. Organic chemistry. There is something to be said about sowing seeds, mastering the species that have mastered the soil. There is something to be said about the relationship between the sower and the plant. Between the synapses and tendrils. Between the chlorophyll and soul. Leafs and wise hands unite to create symbiotic relationships and meaning. Crops put their trust in gardeners. When crops succumb to the soil, they leave us with their children; they hope we nurse their seeds. In exchange, they give us life; plants feed nations. And so it goes. We nurse the plants; they produce seeds and nutrients. We harvest the seeds; store them for another year in order to make more seeds. It is romantic.”

Feeling misplaced and thumbing through my leather-­bound journal one evening, I found this entry. I did not remember penning it, yet the words struck me. Gardening inspires me: it is the growth, the millions of years of evolution that are entrusted in the hands of man. Crops rely on us and we on them. Gardening grounds me, but it has not always made me feel this way. Gardening has brought me pain, highlighted flaws within me. I feel like a mistake. *** The Seed – Late February The sky has only just begun to brighten with a hint of morning light as subtle as the taste of citrus in my cup of coffee. Mornings in Louisiana are warm, even in February.

Most regions are in the dead of winter right now, but as I walk outside, I can feel spring. It is rising in the phloem of the trees, it lives in the dormant buds of their branches.

Last year, my garden failed. I knew nothing; I could not tell you the difference between a titmouse and a wren, a tendril and vine, a winter squash and summer squash. I did not know what it meant to deadhead or prick out and I had not heard of Howard Dill, breeder of the Atlantic Giant Pumpkin, a man whose life work manifested in a seed the size of my thumbnail.

Like the seed, I too hold information. Over the past year, I read books about plants, gardens, and the pursuit of happiness. These books rest confidently within me. Collectively, they outline the nature of crops. They have taught me how to influence nature. They have given me tools and language to speak and guide the earth in new ways. But these books have aroused more questions than answers. *** Today I am planting. I hold the genetic code of my Atlantic Giant Pumpkins in my pocket. I have only three seeds. They are rare. All three are the descendants of a fifteen-­hundred pound pumpkin.

As the pumpkin grew, she spent weeks coding her genetics into the seeds I now hold. Like humans, pumpkins reproduce sexually. Hungry insects collect pollen from male flowers and inseminate the female pumpkin. Upon this, her pedals fall and she begins to expand in size, growing hundreds of seeds.

Each seed encapsulates the flowers, foliage, vine, stem, roots, and fruit of my pumpkin to be. They package information, but also energy and nutrients for the plant’s survival. As mother, the pumpkin focused her energies into seed production. Her purpose is to create them. These seeds embody a future generation, a mother’s sacrifice.

This investment has driven evolution for a number of years unfathomable to my brain. It represents millions of years of sacrifice, of natural order, of nature investing in the future. I hold millions of years and three fifteen-­ hundred pound pumpkins in my hand. I bury them and pick up the watering can I filled with a black hose heated by the morning sun.

When moistened with water, the thirsty seeds awake and growth begins. Like their mother, these seeds will create seeds. They will grow, and they too will invest their energies in a future generation.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

As I look down at my seeds, now covered beneath a blanket of wet earth, I ponder the significance and the complexities of seeds. This growth starts with the cotyledons, or the tiny leaves that nestle tightly within the seed’s dark womb. Like a lunch packaged in a paper bag, the mother pumpkin has given seeds food for their journey through the soil to the sun. It is a gift.

This prepackaged meal fuels the seed’s growth, but also the world. Roughly seventy percent of human food energies come from seed consumption. Like an army of martyrs seeds live only to sacrifice. They are created only by sacrifice. Seeds have sustained all great societies. They fed the great Roman armies that conquered the Mediterranean. They sustained the Roman Empire.

The Roman Empire? My thoughts wander; a thought surfaces: the Roman word for seed is semen. This brings a pang of sadness, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I throw the thought away; I don’t want to think about it.

The Cotyledons – Early March I think I watered too much. In wet soil, seeds often rot.

I am sure my seeds are rotting. I drowned them. Seeds require a complex ratio of moisture, temperature, energy, genetics, and atmospheric respiration (amongst hundreds of other factors) to germinate successfully. I worry my well intentioned yet impatient hands destroyed this delicate balance with, of all things, too much water. As I scan the soil for signs of my seedlings, I know it teems with life. Soil represents species from every kingdom: plants, animals, fungi, protozoa, and bacteria. But to me, in my water-­induced angst, it looks lifeless.

Plants have mastered the fine line between stability and chaos. Within their carbonic chemical bonds and leafy fingers they hold a stability found nowhere else in the universe. Plants epitomize nature’s balance, her perfect order. I feel like I epitomize her flaws. I go against natural order. My well-­meaning actions disrupt stability. My internal desires oppose her plans; I can’t help it. I have evolved from evolution. My thirsts will destroy the world that has birthed me. I distract myself; I hate this. I think of something else.

Tendrils – March My cotyledons have surfaced today. My pumpkins live. I feel reassured, less like a disturber of nature and more like a mother to it. I love my three seedlings; they possess me. I feel a connection; they have no nervous system, but I know they are alive. I feel their presence. I see it; they move with the sun, following its cosmic trajectory; they sprout new leaves, all which are a shade of green so rich that within them I see the history of evolution, the millions of years

of mothering and sacrifice. I want to be their mother; I want to sacrifice for them; I want to protect them.

Their tendrils excite me most. As the seedlings grow skyward, they give to their own weight and fall back to earth. The vines quickly send out tendrils that grab the earth; they do not want to detach. They grow fast; I can track their growth— almost as my mother does when she marks my and my sibling’s height on the door by the pantry.

But unlink my mother I cannot love all of by plants.

I have to kill two. They will compete and strangle one another if not. Savage. I have to pick the most vigorous plant. I am uncomfortable with this; I am playing God. I do it anyway; I have no choice.

Again, my mind wanders; I think of my mother and the love she has for her children. I think of my parents and the sex that accompanied my conception. I think of my father’s ejaculate. Like the seeds in my garden, only one sperm lived to create me. The rest died between my mother’s ureteral walls. This is natural; God chose the one seed that created me. But who am I to play God; who am I to pick the seed that lives? And out of all the sperm in my father’s semen, why was I picked?

I lose control of my thoughts; that words brings back the familiar pang. I cannot ignore it this time: semen. The word carries with it my ignored desires, abandoned yearnings. My mind is drowning in thoughts. I think of my nature. I think of the love I do not desire. I think of the desires I ignore. My stomach churns. Make it stop.

Flowers – June My pumpkin vine is big. It is really big. I have provided for it, listened to its whispers. It grows daily, and like a mother, I am proud. I want to be a mother. I pretend it feels my presence; I pretend it knows that I chose it over the others. My vine is beautiful. It is starting to flower.

Its flowers grow big, there are many; they hide their fully matured reproductive organs until the mornings, and upon sunrise open in a moment of ecstasy. These delicate flowers unfold to the sky and expose their orange loins to the pollinators they will seduce.

I look at them almost guiltily, like a mother interrupting an adolescent’s first kiss. But I intrude on a sexual act that I will never experience. My pumpkin puts all of its energy into sexual reproduction. It spends hours forming the orange pigments that will attract its pollinators, coding its genes into its pollen, and encasing its chromosomes in membranes more durable than industrial polymers.

I think of myself. What is my purpose if my seed will never create a future generation? I will bear no fruit; I will

thanks, rejon at openclipart.org

never pack a lunch in brown paper bag for my child whose eyes and flesh resemble mine.

I think of the flesh I so strongly desire. I feel right when I kiss his warm chest or make awkward love between the sheets of his bed. I do not feel wrong when I rest within his arms, listening to the natural rhythm created between his heart and breath. It completes me; I feel right.

But they say I am wrong; they hate me; they say I am broken; they say I am going to hell; they belittle me; they say I am worthless.

I think about Mother Nature; I think about how violently my actions oppose her order; she probably hates me as well. I pretend don’t care; maybe I’m starting to hate her too.

Fruit – July I desire the natural world. In my garden I am guiding an order that I will never be apart of. But I am a romantic; I lie to myself. When I am outdoors, when I feel the calming air and I listen to the cicadas hum a melody to the sunset, I close my eyes and pretend I am a link in their chain. I pretend I am normal; I pretend I am a cicada; I am part of nature’s order. I lie to myself.

My vine has fruited. On it grows a pumpkin. It grows daily, and I watch its progress. Sometimes I bring my kitchen scale outside. It adds a pound a day. I watch it for hours; I am its mother.

At this point, the vine is putting all of its energy into its child. The pumpkin will house hundreds of seeds, each one a child to my vine; I love her.

The larger my pumpkin becomes, the more I acknowledge the value nature puts on reproduction. My giant pumpkin is nature’s wholehearted, focused sacrifice. From germination, my plant’s efforts have centered on this reproductive endeavor. It sacrifices its energy, in hopes to create a new generation, one that it will never live to see.

And when it dies, it will entrust me with its young. Me? How can nature trust me? I’m inherently flawed; my desires are inverted; I am nature’s mistake; my longings unravel the processes that account for my and my pumpkin’s very existence. Why don’t I desire to make the same sacrifices pumpkin plants make for seeds, or the same sacrifices my parents made for me? I try to force myself this desire; I fail; I am selfish; I will probably fail my pumpkin as well.

Death – October Like generations produce generations, my pumpkins trust me to sow their lineage. My parents put trust in me—for they live in me and in the kids I will never have. I doubt if they should.

My pumpkin is dead. A vine boring grub cut it from the vine; I didn’t see it; my pumpkin died at 55 pounds.

I am sorry; I am sorry.

I bring my pumpkin inside; it is white, like a premature baby starved of nutrients; I place it near my window, allowing it to peer through the glass; allowing it to see the earth it was once a part of. Like me, nature betrayed it; we are misfits; we do not deserve to live. *** The Seed – Late October I notice something strange; my pumpkin is ripening. I access my mind’s bookshelf; I have no answers; I am surprised. It looks healthy. It is changing colors. It looks less like a hypoxic fetus; it looks orange. It feels orange. I did not know pumpkins could mature after vine detachment; it was not in my books. There are a lot of things I do not know.

My pumpkin lives; it is as if it finds energy from the flickers of morning light that trickle through my doublepaned windows. Maybe it’s a gift from the earth; maybe the morning light carries with it pity— compassion.

As a gardener, I feel satisfied. This is unsuspected. I nurtured a pumpkin. I loved it for nine months. It was my baby. I brought it life. I gave it everything I could; I was its mother and the earth my womb.

As a man I still feel tormented. I don’t know my purpose. Why do I lust for the unnatural? I don’t want to be like this. I can’t live this way—can I? The time has come; I cut through the thick protective ribs of my pumpkin. Within the pumpkin I see seeds; they are beautiful. Nature and I worked together.

The Dirt – January I have been thinking about monks; they have been in my dreams. I have been thinking about reproduction, about celibacy, about God, about sex, about companionship, about happiness; I think about the wife I will never marry.

I think about the birds as they begin their journey home and their search for a mate; do they love each other?

I think about rebirth, about the cicadas that will emerge from the ground in nine months, about the bees whose hums will fill the air; do they love the flowers? I think of the speckled eggs I will find in pine needle nests. I think of the pines. I think of their pollen that will take flight in the spring air; will the trees watch their children grow?

I think of my desires to protect them; I want to be their mother; I want to pack them lunches in brown paper bags; I want to sacrifice for them; I want them to love me. I want to protect them, I will. I want to love them, I will. I think of the pumpkins. I feel a pang; it comforts me; I let it

take hold.

When I bury a seed, I know what will sprout: flowers, foliage, vine, stem, roots, fruit and seeds. I am not that simple; my purpose is not solidified. I am not the pumpkin who births seeds; I am not the bird who lays eggs; I am not the tree who scatters acorns across the ground. I am the caretaker; I foster the natural world.

I will never be a cicada, but like life from every kingdom— plants, animals, fungi, protozoa, and bacteria— I am birthed from dirt. But I have a purpose more complex than reproduction. I foster life; I mold the dirt; I build the soil.

I dance the divide between nature and the mind, the known and unknown, the predicable and the unpredictable. I am a human; I am a gardener. I am thankful.

As a gardener I dance on soil. I provide for plants as they walk the line between stability and chaos. I nurture nature, and in return it nurtures me. This makes me human; this makes me happy. This makes me a gardener.

I love more than just an evolutionarily compatible companion; I accept what I love; I accept what my heart chooses. My heart loves many things.

Unlike many creatures, I will not invest in reproduction.

But as a gardener, I invest in nature. I put my love into soil.

I wake up early and make it lunch. I package it in a brown paper bag. It is for the pumpkin; it is for the earth. It is my gift, my sacrifice. *** A more recent journal entry -­ Man is an anomaly of nature. We have grown out of nature and have thrust ourselves from the soil that birthed us. We have come far—so far, in fact—that we understand and can manipulate the forces that guide us. And often forget the wild we left behind.

But it is our duty to shepherd that land, watch it, protect it, use it frugally, and never allow our actions to destroy the circles that rule our planet. We make our destiny. We have sentience, and more importantly a conscious. We are not bound solely to nature.

In our condition, whatever that is, we have been given power. It is important that we recognize it, positively channel it.

As gardeners, this is our responsibility. We cultivate the soil; foster its creations. We improve upon it; we reap great surplus from its soils. As a gardener I do not limit nature’s possibilities. I give to it. I will do this even in death, when I return my body to the soil and fertilize the earth.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

7

8

Davidson College was recently hailed by BuzzFeed.com as the college to root for in the NCAA tourney if you would wear khaki shorts on a date. Four years of work and play at this small, southern college has thus left me what one might call a shorts connoisseur. I can attest to the transformative power of the Chubbies. My weekends are spent surrounded by beer and thighs. Four years ago, they were just spent surrounded by beers. I have Chubbies to thank for the difference. Boomshakalaka.

If you hear a young, be-shorted male at Davidson make the sound “enfff,” fear not. He is not making some sort of primal mating call (yet). He is simply pointing out some weak fashion. “NF,” or “not frat,” entered the vernacular last year. The number one offender on the NF list? Cargo shorts. I once broke up with a guy because he had a pair of cargo shorts. He claimed they were left over from high school, but I couldn’t take that risk. I shudder to think of the weak chins our children might have had. Fraternities may be bastions of the patriarchy, but you have to hand it to them that they know how to show a good thigh.

I knew Chubbies had made it to the big time, however, not when the young Forrest L. Frattington IIIs embraced them, but when my F.I.T. educated gay best friend texted me about these new shorts that were his “leg porno.” I hooked him up with our campus Chubbies rep (SO to Collin Dennis) and now he’s pumped to buy the American flag rerelease. That’s the beauty of Chubbies. Bringing frat bros and fashion gurus together.

I’d be a good Chubster because I know both markets. I know what shorts my frat besties would drool over and I know which of those my gay bestie would coopt. I’m graduating Davidson with over a 3.6 because I can work my ass off, and I’m graduating with an intimate knowledge of men’s shorts because I can appreciate ass, too. I can use Excel and the Microsoft Office suite and all that. I’ve had a job all four years of college and so I can time manage like a boss, but follow directions like a freshman. I’ve got a web content marketing internship, so I’m used to promotion, SEM, and the nitty gritty professional things. I can manage a major paper, Kafka, work study, writing copy, Excel spreadsheets, AND making it to Christmas Cocktails. I’m ready to bring that kind of dedication to Chubbies.

CHUBSTER

FROM AN ASPIRING

Dear Sirs and Madam,

I’d be honored to join your team and can’t wait to hear from you.

LIBERTAS, V o l. 18, No. 3

Sincerely,

Hannah Foltz

(THIS IS REAL)

Fellow Autumnalphiles,

In this dark time, the executive board of the FCC has decided we should join together in remembrance of autumns past and celebration of those yet to come, so we would like to announce our 1st annual Fall Nostalgia Spring Formal. Ben’s uncle has graciously offered us the use of his meat freezer, which he will turn to a crisp, but comforting 55 degrees. We will have hand-pressed hard apple cider, fresh from Vermont, to drown your printemps sorrows, and Zyrtec-laced, Halloween-themed sugar cookies to relieve the unparalleled misery of pollen-induced allergies. In addition, we have acquired a dozen paintball guns and biologically-accurate carotene paintballs in a range from russet red to deep yellow hues, and invite you to join us in returning the canopy to its proper splendor, just as soon as we burn the Easter bunny in effigy.

The dress code is pea coats and loosely draped shawls; please bring any artisanal squash you might have on hand. Find a date—there will be hot chocolate flavored dental dams provided free of charge.

DRESSING

THE SEASON

As you all know, this time of year is a difficult one for the members of the Fall Celebration Club, Davidson’s premier organization for the appreciation of the months of September through November (Students for the Advancement of Autumn be damned, those second rate wintersympathizers). With the coming of spring, we are at the farthest point from our beloved sensations: the goosebump-inducing kiss of the brisk air, the rustle of warm-palleted leaves underfoot, a pumpkin spice latte on the table as we wrap our wool scarf a little tighter against the cold, contemplating the summer’s torrid affairs with the cool remove only possible on a late September afternoon as the glazed light streams through the enlivened canopy….Sorry, I get carried away sometimes.

As Eliot said, “April is the cruelest month, so let’s get drunk and dream of mid-October,”

Carl Ressers

Corresponding Secretary for the Fall Celebration Club (THIS IS NOT)

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

9

What the Wind Knows Molly Dolinger

I

t was the limp that first caught my attention, this barely noticeable way she had of locking up her right hip as she swayed across the lawn, or the cafeteria, or the parking lot where the buses bumped up together, butt to front.

It was as if whoever had carved her perfect figure out of wood had spent hours chiseling the gasping shoulder blades and tight little crabapple cheek bones, shaving off curls of wood until everything was just so, and then gotten so flustered by how beautiful it all was that when he got on to the business of breathing life into it, he forgot a few bits on the right.

I often wondered if others noticed the limp, or if it was just me. I hoped they didn’t, because I wanted to claim I knew her best, on a silent plane of mutual understanding that operated somewhat like telepathy. I hadn’t quite worked out all the details yet. In seventh grade, I was severely disappointed to learn this was not the case the day we were all sent to the track for the annual timed mile. As we were trudging along to the track, me kind of tripping along behind everybody, tugging at my gray gym shirt and carrying a hand towel to wipe up the sweat that always formed on my back, Thurston Moore rolled up and started aping along behind her, pushing his pelvis forward and dipping his right hip with each step, looking like some hairy mother orangutan. He wasn’t trying to be sexual – that was only an added bonus – but when all the other kids started snickering, I knew they knew. I threw down my hand towel and stomped off to the water cooler, furious and overheated.

That’s the only time I’ve ever seen anyone be mean to her.

Most of the time they’re too in love with her to bother.

In middle school, whenever she talked (not to me, of course), she would say things like, “Oh, the sweet, poor dear,” “Look at that darling little creature,” or “Did you see her shirt? Somebody should really hire her a stylist, poor dear,” and everyone would throng around her – she pooring and dearing and clutching her hands to her fragile breast – and we would all pray, hoping that some day she would poor and dear us too. In ninth grade, she dropped the “dear” act, opting instead for “sweetie” and “babe,” but I will always be “dear Jeremy” to her in my dreams.

There’s this reoccurring one I have that we are walking through the field, hand in hand, and she turns and spits in my face. She says, “I’m sorry, Jeremy, but your cheeks were all dirty.” Then she extracts a white, silk handkerchief from some inexplicable nook in her bosom and lovingly strokes them clean. “Dear, dear,” she purrs, looking me right in the eye.

You know what she did that day when Thurston Moore made fun of her? She turned around and said she was sorry, but she had injured her toe earlier that week and was having trouble walking, and if the others were being held up by her handicap, they could by all means pass her, though could the teacher kindly excuse her from running the mile today?

Then later, when everyone had been sent inside to get changed and I had stayed behind to scrape the gravel out of my sneakers, I looked up to see her still sitting on the edge of the bleachers. She was hunched over with her face in her hands, her birdlike shoulders shaking so hard I thought they might come unhinged. So I turned and walked around the bleachers the long way, picking up my hand towel and making it inside right as the bell rang for seventh period.

You, Aurora Springfield, are beautiful, I say aloud each morning. You are perfect and sad and breakable, and, if you were mine, I would never, ever break you. I say this in the mirror, and take my comb and dip it into a bottle of gel, parting my hair on the right side as always. My mother 10

LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

once told me I was like a girl, spending so much time looking at myself in the mirror. (Jeremy, why in God’s name do you spend so much time preening in that mirror? You got boys you trying to impress?) But who is she to say what a girl is like? She has wiry black hairs sprouting from all over her chin, and always mixes up the gender pronouns when she sings around the house.

Aurora has cheated on me five times in my imagination, the first time with Evan Rutler and again the fifth. The third time was with Thurston Moore, who has definitely had the hots for her ever since elementary school. I would say he was my principal competition, but that would be admitting that he has any redeeming qualities whatsoever, such as a brain. The fact that she has cheated on me so many times means we have dated for one long, continuous chunk since the seventh grade, during which time I have repeatedly forgiven her for her errant ways.

But I think that might all be over now.

Last week, on Wednesday, I had study hall last period.

So does Aurora; she sits two seats in front of me and to my left, allowing me the perfect angle from which to admire her sloping jaw line. Whenever we have study hall last period, we can leave school early, so I had taken my pan flute and gone out into the woods – the pansy contraption being the biggest social death wish my mother has ever laid upon my shoulders. I take it out into the woods sometimes to practice, but I always carry a pack of cigarettes so I can ditch it and act like I’m smoking if somebody comes up. That day, I had been trying to work some jazz riffs into Lennon’s “Imagine,” when all of a sudden I thought I heard footsteps. I shoved the pan flute behind a tree and scrambled up, jamming an unlit cigarette in my mouth and trying my best to look nonchalant. I leaned against another tree and crossed my legs, then uncrossed them.

When she emerged from the thicket of forsythia, I thought I might combust. I had played her the pan flute on several occasions in our nightly trysts, and on those occasions we had made love on top of the mushrooms and rotting bark and soft, pungent moss, and she had gasped my name and scraped her fingernails in trails down my back.

But there was zero chance it would go over so well in the flesh. Nothing in real life was ever that verdant or sweaty or saturated with color.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey,” I muttered.

Here she paused, waiting for me to play the next card.

When I didn’t, she continued.

“Got another cigarette?”

“Sure. Here.”

Another pause.

“Do you have a lighter?”

“No.” At this, she giggled, a beautiful tinkling bird laugh that I imagined must rustle chimes as she breezed past.

“Then what are you doing out here in the woods with a pack of cigarettes, love?”

“I, uh, forgot it,” I mumbled, staring at the delicate curve of her anklebone. “You walked up right as I – ” “It’s okay,” she hushed. “There are other things to do in the woods besides smoking cigarettes.”

I wanted more than anything to ask her what she meant by that and what in the hell she was doing wandering the woods without a lighter, talking to me as if it were as unimpressive as apple pie, or hair gel, or Thurston Moore’s milquetoast mustache, but instead I said, “Mm.” Then she looked at me and smiled. “We could go for a

walk.”

I didn’t say anything, just nodded.

She reached for my hand and led me off towards a scrawl of oak trees, letting go as soon as it became clear that I was following. Two steps later, however, she stopped. I followed her gaze to the ground, and my heart sunk. There lay my once darling pan flute, now pathetically exposed under a handful of small leaves. I briefly thought about how Adam and Eve must have felt standing before God in their fig leaf G-strings.

“Fuck.”

“What is that?” Aurora crooned, obviously relishing that fact that she could be a part of my ultimate ruin. If she could drive the last stake in, she would win – like she always does in real life and rarely in my dreams, because I rescue her first – and, I suppose, I would die on the verge of happiness.

I didn’t look at her. I think I literally covered my face with my hands, probably the worst decision I could have made at the time, but the words eeked out through the gaps in my fingers: “A pan flute.”

There was that laugh again, and this time it tinkled so hard that birds fluttered out of their nests and worms poked their heads out of the ground to witness my demise.

“Play me something,” she said, plopping herself down on the moss.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Look, if you just want to make fun of me, you’ve already got enough fodder for a good story. Jesus, Aurora.”

She looked taken aback, though she couldn’t have been more so than I, then the corners of her dainty mouth turned up into a smile.

“You know my name?”

“Are you a moron?”

“Did you just say that out loud?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“You want to take that back?”

“No, not particularly. Aurora Springfield. Come on, are you serious? We’ve gone to school together for twelve years.”

I had never, ever, been this brazen before in my life, and, yes, she was serious, very serious about everything. My heart was throbbing with adrenaline.

“So? You’ve never asked me my name. It’s rude to call somebody by their name if you’ve never asked them, even if you do know it.”

I sincerely hope I rolled my eyes in response to this, as that’s what my cooler self does when I replay the conversation in my head. I would never, ever in a million years admit that she was self-absorbed, though she was quickly proving herself to be so. “Do you know my name?”

“Jeremy Middlebum,” she said pertly.

“Middlebaum.”

“Oh, sorry. That’s what…” Her voice softened.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Whatever.”

“Well, I guess you don’t have to play for me, if you don’t want.”

“Thank you,” I responded. “I’d prefer not to.”

“Okay, fine. What are we going to talk about then?”

It struck me as funny that she was putting this on me, as if I somehow were a wealth of interesting anecdotes and pithy one-liners.

“I don’t know, Aurora. Sorry.” In my head, there is a strong note of exasperation in my voice by this point.

“How about college? I’m going to Cal State this Fall. It’s

pretty terrifying, really – all those darling little California girls in their flowy white skirts and flower chains. But I do want to go because I like the sunshine, and, as you know, college is the surest way to a respectable future. I can’t decide if I should major in English Literature or something businessy, but everyone keeps telling me Cal State has a great business program…” She looked at me expectantly.

“Are you going to college?”

Yes. I was going to go live a very lonely, pariah-like existence in the dorms of MIT, where there would be no Aurora Springfield and no mother, and I would have to start over, scraping out a rocky niche in the same cold, harsh terrain it had taken me twelve years to realize I could never master. Aurora was the type of person to glide in and out of cracks and crevices. I fell into ravines.

“I don’t know,” I said, and muttered something about sorting out a few last details.

She fixed me with her cloudy blue eyes.

“Jeremy,” she asked, making a point of saying my name.

“Why do you think I’m too good for you?”

I balked. Was she insane? I didn’t strike me until much later that she had said “I’m too good for you” and not “you’re not good enough for me.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Yes, you do.”

I looked at her tiny, pursed lips and perfectly carved nose, with its tiny nick across the bridge, and realized, with my heart breaking, that she was indeed insane. For the first time, I looked her straight in the eyes.

“Fine. But you already know the answer. You walk

around with your hips twitching and your face stealing all the sunshine, and you and your fucking adorable cardboard limp get vaulted over puddles by whatever two people happen to be closest at the time, and you don’t even realize it. Don’t give me that look, I’m speaking metaphorically.

Some people – other people – they’re the ones that follow along behind and get splashed by the puddle, and they’re just happy that it’s your puddle water all over their face. So excuse me, but I’m going to go practice my pan flute.”

I got up and walked away. I didn’t even remember to grab the pan flute. My legs felt like fire, and all I wanted to do was turn around, run back to her, and swoop her tiny figure into my arms. But I couldn’t. I kept walking. When I reached the edge of the forest, I vomited into an azalea bush and walked the rest of the mile and a half home.

Cancelling a Subscription Jocelyn Boyarizo I was six.

I remember sitting on the speckled linoleum floor of our tiny kitchen, picking at the molding’s cracked paint. My mother was on the phone in her bedroom and I could hear the jumbled inflections of her voice echo along the hallway without any clear words. She walked heavily and I could hear the familiar heft of her tread as she came down the hall.

“Uh-huh. Sure, we should be fine to make it out there…right. right. I know. How is he doing?

That’s not too bad then. Mhmm, we’ll talk soon.

I’ll call you back later.”

I stared at her grass stained lawn-mowing sneakers. She’d been out in the yard that morning. I followed her ankles up to her shins with their shaven prickles of hair, and the hem of her shorts with their streaks of soil. She had been planting rows of pansies; she loved pansies.

My mother crouched down in front of me, leveling our sightlines. Her eyes were red, her lashes clumped by crying and the bags beneath her sockets shiny from residual tears. She sucked in air through her nose and I could hear the turbulence of runny snot. She reached for my hand, and I focused on the dirt caked beneath her fingernails. She never used gardening gloves, instead, always feeling the earth.

“Your Grandmamma died, hon.” Grandmamma is what we called pawpaw’s mom. She was really old.

The first thing I thought was that I wouldn’t be getting Zoo books anymore. She had always subscribed, and her death for me was equated with a loss of regularly arriving magazines. I was devastated and this connection made me cry.

My mother offered me a grilled cheese.

The last magazine came rolled up in our mailbox that May. LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

11

Insufficient Support: The Future of Division I at Davidson Vincent Weir

Y

esterday’s trustee-endorsed decision to uproot Davidson from the Southern Conference reminds me of the recent Forbes Rankings that announced us the “3rd Best Southern College”—ahead of Vanderbilt (4), Virginia (5) and Georgetown (7) but behind Duke (2) and Washington & Lee (1). Tomany, our competition on either side seems unusual. Most of us remember andresent the fact that until last year we outranked W&L, at least according to the algorithms of U.S. News. At the same time, our positioning ahead of these other name brand institutions might puzzle those of us (disclosure: me) who tend to assume that more prestigious schools with better acceptance rates and better endowments are better. On either side the results disorient us. Where do we really stand on this issue?

Can such thought experiments be meaningful?

Last May, our editors tried to answer that question by looking outward. We asked our readers to power rank the top-50 U.S. schools and announced that eighty something student ballots placed Davidson at #25. This year that discussion frames our inward glance. As we consider the Davidson brand and its value, we examine its relationship to our strongest institutional ties.

Though seemingly unrelated, Davidson’s religious connection and athletic conference each arise from yonder days to pressure on our programs in the present. And both take the spotlight today. Despite a definitive vote from the Trustees last month, our Presbyterian heritage sustains attack.

Student reactions across social media seek to amend the constitutional bylaw requiring “at least 80% of all elected Trustees [to be] active members of a Christian church.”

Meanwhile, those same Trustees just approved another influential decision: the future of nineteen athletic teams.

With Charleston, Georgia Southern, Appalachian State, and perhaps Chattanooga leaving the Southern Conference, we seemingly had no choice but to follow. But did we make the right move? Or can we imagine a break with our athletic heritage as radical as our proposed break with religion?

Davidson’s athletic identity is, at least from a historical perspective, a tradition as anachronistic as our Presbyterianism. Just as our church affiliation dates back to an age when most private colleges were Christian, so our athletic teams arose in a time when most schools competed at the same nameless level. “Division I” became distinct from Divisions II and III in 1973, following the greatest decade in Davidson basketball ever (seven 20+ win seasons and Elite 8 Appearances in 1968 and 1969). The Board of Trustees, appealing to the recent decade of power in this important sport, chose then to keep us at the highest level when other schools our size jumped down. For whatever reason, we’ve persisted and asked all our other teams to follow basketball—to sustain a tradition that belongs to a few.

The argument is this: if we turn against Presbyterianism, that storied tradition of our college that now belongs to a minority, why not rethink Division I—a commitment we’ve designed mostly around a single sport? In reciting this argument so far, I’ve heard three good responses. The first rightly claims that Davidson basketball is a tradition open to all: it brings our community together and separates us from other liberal arts schools. I strongly agree, but wonder how different that sounds from a Presbyterian tradition open to 12

LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

students and staff from all faiths—one that separates us from the top liberal arts schools and requires only that a top few decision makers share that tradition. Imagine me, a 5’11’’ agnostic, complaining that since I never have a chance to play Davidson basketball, Coach McKillop should relax his recruiting standards.

What if we replaced our Division I basketball community with an even more inclusive one? At Washington and Lee, for instance, 83% of the school goes Greek. Do that many students go to games?

But community and openness aside, what about the money? Surely we make more of it in Division I, if not from ticket sales, then at least from alumni who would rather pay to support us at the highest level. But money isn’t our best argument either. As things stand, all the athletic revenue we make plus millions of endowment dollars pour back into sustaining the scholarships, fees, and travel associated with Division I. If we make money at all it comes from

alumni donors. And how much is that alumni money really helping us compete with schools like Pomona, Middlebury, and Washington & Lee? W&L’s Division III endowment is more than twice our size, while their acceptance rate (18%) is threatening to cut ours (28%) in half. Pomona (14%, $1.6B) and Middlebury (17%, $.908B) are even more competitive. I’m not saying that we would definitely make more money or accept better students if we didn’t recruit and spend for Division I. But W&L does offer a nearby glimpse of that other world.

If cash and community aren’t the right ways to defend Davidson basketball then perhaps reputation isn’t either.

Although our school appears on millions of brackets each magical March, does madness help our profile in reality?

Why hasn’t it helped us surpass the Division III schools ahead of us in the rankings—W&L, Middlebury, Pomona, etc.? Even if it provides some sort of reputation boost, do

we enjoy the spoils of Division I, or do we think ourselves short-sold when Davidson reduces to “that place Steph Curry went?” And are we risking even our March glory by moving to the A10?

As we return to Forbes list, we realize that part of our disease in seeing brand name universities behind us is that our school isn’t built to compete them in most sports.

When we beat, say, Kansas, in basketball, it’s an upset and a national headline. When we beat them with other teams, it’s practically a miracle. Indeed, most of our athletes struggle to compete in the top 4th of the Southern Conference— easily one of the least competitive in the NCAA. Wrestling, baseball, tennis, and soccer for instance. Even our recentsuccesses highlight unimpressive trends. Golf, for instance, just finished second in the SoCon—their highest finish in 40 years. Women’s basketball just won their first postseason game ever, and it happened in the NIT. Baseball just snapped a 22-game losing streak away from home, and my cross country/track team, who may send two athletes to the NCAA postseason for the first time ever, has still never won a SoCon championship. In many ways you can’t blame us.

Almost none of our teams receive funding that compares to our rivals. My track team, for instance, does what we do on 0.3 athletic scholarships. But even this funding trend exposes our practically Division III mindset as it relates to the twenty other sports? Is this our comprehensive commitment to excellence?

As a final counterargument, and in full, ironic, disclosure I remember that I chose Davidson precisely because it was Division I. More academically competitive Division III schools like Swarthmore and UChicago recruited me—and I imagine many other athletes here—but the allure wasn’t the same. Something about Division I liberal arts drew me in, and I recognize that ideal still.

But now that I’ve experienced the reality I understand why no other top-10 liberal arts college has accepted the D-I challenge. Ittakes stadiums, budgets, and student bodies much bigger than ours to make teams compete at the top of Division I. Every time we fall short of the top—every time we end a sub-par season in the SoCon—we challenge our commitment to excellence.

What if all that changed? Would competing at the highest level of Division III compare psychologically to the middle of Division I? Would our athletes—and therefore 24% of our students—be happier? Would they be smarter?

Would our school have a more consistent commitment to excellence? Could we find a better source of community?

Certainly no one wants to detract from our basketball team’s heritage and talent, but with so many athletes at our school and so many schools our size competing at a different level perhaps we need to ask these questions.

Just like our religious heritage, our athletic division will likely remains static—at least until we graduate. We respect ourtraditions too much. We’re too fearful of dramatic changes to our identity, however nebulous that identity might be. But at the very least I hope to suggest that both these trepidations are too conservative. Ideally we’d be the best at everything, of course. But as we look back bewildered at the Forbes list, perhaps its time for more sufficient support.

L o t u s a raw morning: fingers slicing thin skin, pink lips buried glaciers. out of shattered ice glass flowers rise kiss surface, then retreat you bring my body out of hiding pollen surfacing in streams of consciousness; what if we’re all just hibernating bears? on a raw morning, the lotus holds us closer raw and reticent to the beams we feast upon. you and I no longer behind panes of glass longing to break the frozen pond. we wake thawed beneath blankets at sunrise.

Gay-Lussac’s Law …And so you see, ladies and gentlemen, taking the square of the radius of the lunar sphere minus the square of the radius of the earth, and multiplying by four pi over the average global temperature in Kelvins, we arrive at the conclusion that every man, woman, dog, fish, and protozoa on planet earth is completely and utterly fucked. Gentlemen, I assure you as a Christian and as a scientist: this fracture that NASA discovered last week is no act of divine wrath, but the simple physical upshot of generations of waste and carelessness. We’ve known for decades that the emission of large quantities of methane and carbon dioxide produce what we call a “greenhouse effect” due to these gasses’ tendency to absorb reflected infrared radiation and reemit them towards the earth’s surface, thus dramatically raising the average temperature of the planet. Naturally, this temperature increase has lead to a proportional pressure increase. Yes, the representative from Illinois?

Yes, sir, I am aware that NASA has approved all recent emission regulations, and no, we did not miscalculate.

Until the recent fracture, we had no way to measure the tensile strength of the lunar sphere, and we overestimated it by orders of magnitude. Yes, the senator from Maine?

Yes, ma’am, we could, in theory, drill a whole in the sphere to vent the pressure, but this is exactly the consequence we want to avoid. Assuming a vacuum between the lunar and mercurial spheres, this could eventually reduce atmospheric pressure by 65%, making the earth unlivable. Additionally, the resulting uneven stress would create more fractures, thus killing us faster. Yes, in the back?

Tim Rauen

Elizabeth Welliver

Tuesday Mornings At 8 am I taxi you to the hospital down the street in my pajamas.

“We’re lucky,” you tell me, “this one is so close.” I switch the radio to 105.1 where pop songs crawl across the scanner.

The weather is too warm and my thighs stick like fly paper to the seats.

The light yellows and I slow to a stop across the street from the grocery store where I do the shopping now.

I peel my skin from the leather, wipe away the moisture with my hands, glance sideways.

The peach crayon color has dribbled from your face, tired gray strands strung across your scalp.

Your hands tremor slightly, bright blue veins mapped across your wax paper skin. I push my sunglasses up my nose as impatience boils in my sweat. The signal is green.

I turn left, then left again, and pull up to the curb in front of the extra wide sliding doors.

“At least you don’t have to wheel me in, too,” you joke, your laugh catches in that place where your top right lung used to be.

You rise slowly from the car, navy lunchbox in hand.

“I love you, Dad,” I say through pinched lips. The car door closes softly and you totter towards the entrance like your first day at Kindergarten.

But I never go inside with you.

Katherine Blackburn

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

13

W

The Wackness (2008), Starring Josh Peck (you know you know who that is), Ben Kingsley, Olivia Thirlby, and MK Olsen

In 1994, mental health care in New York City was so expensive that 17-year-old Luke Shapiro had to resort to trading marijuana for therapy from his psychiatrist, Dr. Squires. Mental health care is still pretty fucking expensive, but this film is relevant for more reasons than that.

When to watch: After you’ve spent hours stalking your friends’ instagrams and realized they forgot to invite you to their beach hangout. Or if you’re in a teenage angsty mood and want to indulge in some 90s nostalgia (even though you were probably only about 3 at the time, so don’t feel embarrassed to google A Tribe Called Quest when you hear it on the soundtrack) (See the last Libertas issue of the 2012 Spring Semester for more info on the music of “our generation”). (What are mixtapes? How did people sext in 1994?)

Spring Breakers (2013), Starring James Franco, Selena Gomez, Ashley Benson, and Vanessa Hudgens. (Disclaimer: This is NOT a Disney Chanel Original Movie)

Vaguely inspired by Cindy Lauper’s 1979 hit single “Girls just wanna wear bikinis and be badasses and rob convenience stores in pink ski masks and do cocaine with hiphop stars and grind with guys they have no real interest in sleeping with and shoot people with machine guns and have fun. They just wanna. They just wanna.” The movie might be about girls, if only in the same way the show GIRLS is about girls, but really it’s about anyone who has fun at court parties or loves Grand Theft Auto on Friday nights.

When to watch: On a day you actually have plans to go out/ after you made the mistake of watching a High School Musical marathon with the kids you babysit/ you don’t have an internship so you might as well pack up your shit and drive to Miami.

Who is Selena Gomez? Is it true that Vanessa Hudgens forces James Franco to blow himself? Are fanny packs happening again, non-ironically?

Christopher McCandless graduates from a prestigious college in the South, then says “Fuck this shit” and, instead of aimlessly searching Craigslist, takes off into the wild. Unfortunately, twitter wasn’t a thing back then so his only means of documenting his solipsistic existence was to keep a diary. This is a true story.

When to watch: On the day before you go camping/ lead an Odyssey trip/ if you’re a fan of Jack London stories/ if you find yourself stuck in the city on a hot summer day, staring at the grass in between the cracks of the sidewalk, thinking about how beautiful nature is until it kills you.

(Did this guy go to Davidson?)

“Mr. Franz I think internships careers are a 20th century invention and I don’t want one.” ~ Christopher McCandless

The Inbetweeners Movie (2011), Starring Simon Bird and James Buckley

I recommend you watch the 3 seasons of The Inbetweeners on Netflix before you watch the movie, but I understand you probably don’t have enough time since Arrested Development season 4 is about to come out. But unlike AD, the plot of this film is incredibly original: it’s about 4 high school boys trying to lose their virginity before college but stuff keeps getting in the way. It’s like a funnier, classier American Pie, with more British accents and less attractive actors.

Fun fact: when The Inbetweeners aired on American television, a subtle 2/3 of the dialogue was bleeped out.

When to watch: On a dark rainy day when you’re contemplating the future repercussions of being in a state of internshiplessness, regretting not filling out a job application at six-flags, while in the meantime regretting spending $20 on food at six-flags, as you begin to tear open your third Klondike choco taco, in need of some consolation that there are people in the world, like characters in The Inbetweeners, who are much, much worse off than you are (except they have British accents).

(Is it like Skins? Does six-flags do background checks?)

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) (1972), Starring Woody Allen, John Carradine Think of this as an opportunity to introduce Woody Allen’s early work into your cultural awareness. And despite your extensive hook-up experiences on the

RUNNERS UP The Internship (2013), Starring Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (recommended by Career Services) Storytelling (2001), Starring Selma Blair, Leo Fitzpatrick, Robert Wisdom (recommended for internshipless English majors/aspiring writers/ all 3 of Davidson’s studio art majors) Before Sunrise (1995), Before Sunset (2004), Before Midnight (2013), Starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy (recommended for a classic “movie marathon first date”) Wet Hot American Summer (2001), Starring Paul Rudd and Amy Poehler and a very young Bradley Cooper (recommended for those who got an “internship” as camp counselors) My Girl (1991), Starring still cute, not bizarre Macalay Culkin and Anna Chlumnsky (recommended for people with lots of feelings/ people who think about death during Sunday brunch) The Trip (2010), Starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon (Recommended by Jamie DyBuncio) Addams FamilyValues (1993), Starring Anjelica Huston and Christina Ricci (recommended for people with tumblrs and people with values) Transformers 4 (2014), Starring Not Shia LaBeouf and a Victoria Secret’s model who is probably dating Leo DiCaprio “Is this entertaining. is this new media. i dont understand my feet” ~Shia LaBeouf on acid tweets about Transformers Nymphomaniac (2013), Starring naked Shia LaBeouf and Charlotte Gainesbourg “yr gonna see me in yr dream cause i dont know where to live anymore” ~Shia LaBeouf on acid tweets about finding summer housing If you’ve seen all the films on this list, please contact me.

We can discuss them over making out.

!

EVA K4 REA

LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

Edie Nicolaou-Griffin

B NG

Man versus the thaw of Winter (see other sections for more info on “thawing”). The movie’s premise:

summer internships

court, this is also a great opportunity to learn everything you have always wanted to know about sex but were afraid to ask/( what is sodomy?)

When to watch: Anytime, anywhere as long as you like comedy/ on a fourth date. *Caution* this isn’t a documentary nor a substitute for professional advice.You might want to direct your questions to a Davidson Health advisor; they won’t judge/ (but seriously, what is sodomy?)

RI SP

Into the Wild (2007), Starring Emile Hurch, Vince Vaughn, Kristen Stewart

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Top movies for people who didn’t get

hether you’re recovering from missing Frolics, looking for more procrastination a study-break, planning your lonely nights after the long days online at your internship/research lab /volunteer project/spiritual journey to India or just don’t read books really enjoy the art of cinema, here are some ideas for summertime streaming.

Reclaiming Frolics We frolic. Vodka-smooched young women in red rompers, prancing. Shoes off. Hands empty. Except for the chug-a-jugs.

And the fingers. That flirt.

Or fondle. Or fly free – Did you just say southern decency?

Would you send up a prayer for me?

To the Trustees, because did you know – they replaced God? Inclusion sits beneath their hoity-toity, corporate, sanctimonious butts. And it writhes. Sends out hollow shrieks. Can our voices breathe? Alenda lux ubi orta libertas.

I’ll lend a – helping hand?

A light to dim diversity? Minds where liberty sits caged in the jargon of tradition? Minds free, hands bound?

Will our learning bring us back here, to Davidson? Or will it say that ninety percent of Davidsonians just aren’t true – could never be – president of the college they attend?

(And yet, ninety-five percent of us, US citizens, could become president of the United States?) United debate – but let’s create – inclusion.

We frolic. We praise the sky, praise Krishna, praise Allah, praise Buddha, praise God. We send up prayers and imagine the Trustees (They say, trust me, me, Trustee) snatching at the air. (Did you know even prayers come at a price?

Are they Presbyterian? Did you think twice?)

We frolic.

We faint. The ambulance rushes in.

The medic, the minister, the Trustee.

We refuse to be saved.

And for now, we frolic.

Because – fuck politics.

Jessie Li

The winner of life is the one who destroys beautiful things who breaks apart stones who burns down forests who separates mother and child who steps on a crack who dams up the river who prevents the spring who captures reality And when all that’s left is shattered glass, he will be laughing as people make a game of trying and failing and trying and failing to put it all back together.

Dave Benusa

Sexton says even our hands get lonely for the touch of another hand.

My sister told me the first time a boy made his palm a bed for hers, she was in his car and the radio played, come on, come on, now touch me babe.

It was hard to watch my sister make a god out of a man.

I had to wrap her in a towel after her first break up.

She was barnacled to the white tile of our bathroom floor, steam still rising from her flushed, wet skin.

I squeezed the water from her hair and her rigid body softened like clay under a sculptor’s hand.

Whitman says sometimes the touch of another is more than he can stand.

TOUCH

We frolic. Statement-smooched, students bound in red lies (Diverse Davidson? Or divert Davidson – convert Davidson?), prancing, shoes off. Hands empty. Except for the diplomas.

And the questions. And the hopes –

Schopenhauer was Right

Corinne Hester

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

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Boris and Arkady Strugatsky Translated by Kelsey Wilson “What are you writing now, Father Gur?” Rumata asked under his breath.

Gur flinched.

“Writing? Me? I don’t know… Plenty of things.”

“Poetry?”

“Sure, poetry…”

“Your poetry is revolting, Father Gur.” Gur looked at him strangely. “You heard me right.

You’re no poet.”

“Not a poet… Sometimes I wonder, who am I really? And what am I afraid of ? I don’t know.”

“Look down at your plate and continue eating. I’ll tell you who you are. You’re a brilliant author, the discoverer of the newest, most fruitful direction in literature.” The color slowly rose on Gur’s cheeks. “In a hundred years, maybe even earlier, scores of writers will follow in your footsteps.”

“God save them,” Gur muttered.

“Now I’ll tell you what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Darkness?”

“That too. In darkness we’re in the power of ghosts. But more than anything I fear the dark, for in the dark everyone becomes equally grey.”

“Well said, Father Gur. Is it still possible to get a hold of your work?”

“I don’t know. Nor do I want to know.”

“Just in case, know this: one copy exists in the capitol, in the Imperial Library. Another is held in the Museum of Rarities in Soan. I have a third.”

With a trembling hand Gur set down a spoonful of jelly.

“I… I don’t know…” In despair he looked at Rumata with wide, sunken eyes. “I would like to read it… read it again.”

“I will gladly lend it to you.”

“And then?”

“And then you’ll return it.”

“Then they’ll return it to you!” Gur said sharply.

Rumata shook his head.

“Don Reba has frightened you very much, Father Gur.” “Frightened me… Tell me, have you ever had to bur n your own children? What could you possibly know of fear, my noble lord?”

“I bow my head before all you have had to endure, Father Gur. But from the depths of my soul I condemn you for giving in.”

Gur the Bard suddenly began to whisper so quietly that Rumata barely heard him through the chomping and droning of voices.

“But what’s the point of all this? What is truth, anyway? Prince Khaar really did love beautiful, dark-skinned Yanevnivora. They

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 18, No. 3

had children together. I know their grandson.

They really did poison her - but they told me that’s a lie. They told me that the truth is that which benefits the king. Everything else is lies and criminal offense. All my life I have written lies, and only now do I write the truth…”

He suddenly stood and declaimed loudly, in a sing-song cadence:

Great and glorious, immortality,

Our King, whose name is Generosity!

And infinity retreated,

And birthright defeated!

The King stopped chewing and stared blankly at him. The guests lowered their heads and hunched their shoulders. Only Don Reba smiled and quietly applauded. The King spit a bone onto the tablecloth and said, “Immortality? Very good. Defeated indeed… I commend you. You may continue.”

The chomping and conversations resumed.

Gur sat.

“How delightful and easy it is to speak truth before the King,” he said hoarsely.

Rumata was silent for a moment.

“I’ll send you a copy of your book, Father Gur,” he said. “But on one condition: you must immediately begin writing your next.”

“No,” Gur said. “It’s too late. Let Kiun write. I’ve been poisoned. And all this has no interest for me anymore. Now I want only one thing – to lear n to drink. But I can’t even do that. It hurts my stomach.”

Another defeat, thought Rumata. Too late.

NOITALSNART NI

HardtobeaGod

IN TRANSLATION

Priapea

Stiff Warning

Matronae procul hinc abite castae: turpe est vos legere impudica verba…

Prudes—get away, far away—thou sinless, it is degrading for you all to read these shameless words…

Praedictum tibi ne negare possis: si fur veneris, impudicus exis Hoc sceptrum, quod ab arbore est recisum, nulla iam poterit virere fronde, sceptrum, quod pathicae petunt puellae, quod quidam cupiunt tenere reges, cui dant oscula nobiles cinaedi, intra viscera furis ibit usque ad pubem capulumque coleorum.

Pedicabere, fur, semel; sed idem si deprensus eris bis, irrumabo. quod si tertia furta molieris, ut poenam patiare et hanc et illam, pedicaberis irrumaberisque. …non assis faciunt euntque recta: nimirum sapiunt videntque magnam matronae quoque mentulam libenter.

Unknown

I’m telling you now, so you can’t blame me later, if you come as a thief, a-sodomized, you will go.

This royal rod— Though no longer verdant with foliage once was riven from a tree; this regal rail— which slutty girls seek and attack, which certain kings yearn to grasp, and to which libertine lechers bestow kisses— it will pierce any thief ’s innards, all the way up to, the pubes and the hilt of the balls.

Thief !

Caught once:

the plugging’s on you

And if caught twice:

the face-fucking’s on me,

But if you should make tricks thrice,

and endure this penetry:

then you shall be both,

bent over and

bent down, doubly. …Yet they don’t seem to give a damn, and here they come directly.

Evidently, these prudes are wise, as they consider this magnum cock avec un certain…plaisir.

Charlotte Michaud

thanks, Shmunmun at Wikimedia Commons!

Here I have presented you a sampling of poems—four to be precise. They are all selections from the Carmina Priapea—a collection of bastard poems, written in Latin, from the early imperial period of Rome. These poems are all dedicated to Priapus, the well-endowed Roman patron god of gardens. Many of the Priapea feature a personified statue of the deity threatening off thieves with his forceful—words—these statues would have been common fixtures of Roman homes and gardens.

Translating anonymously authored pieces was extremely liberating. There was absolutely no original author to whom I had to defer. While I attempt to maintain a fair degree of “faithfulness” to the original text, I certainly

extrapolate and interpret the sense in my own manner.

This is evident in my treatment of tricky vulgarities.

The Latin language has charming words such as pedicare and irrumare to describe specifically explicit acts. I had to search quite a bit harder in English to find similarly evocative terminology, and so I occasionally lost the original force of the term or have had to manipulate the sentence structure.

My own hand is seen at its heaviest in the structuring of the poem, particularly the stanzas: the first and last stanza are a split of one poem, Carmen 7, while the three interior stanzas are each an individual poem (Carmen 59, 35, and 35 respectively). I have put these poems together to hopefully enhance Priapus’ character.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 8 , N o . 3

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LI TAS last word

welcome to the new regime