Roots by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS v ol . 22, n o. 4

the r oi sos ue ts

SATREBIL EDITORIAL EDITORS IN CHIEF Alyssa Glover & Samantha Gowing

EDITORS Madison Santos Mila Loneman Cordelia Wilks Claire Heartfield Quinn Massengill

CONTRIBUTORS Tony SolĂs, Bridget Wack, Alyssa Glover, Quinn Massengill, Kalie Slawson, Vita Dadoo, Jeneshia Hughes, Shuyu Cao, Eleanor Yarboro, Sarah Gompper, Elizabeth Welliver, Meredith Foulke, Samantha Gowing, Eirini Souroulidi, Kenny Xu, Grace Falken, Madison Santos Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College. Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu

special thanks to... Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: 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 visit us online: issuu.com/libertasmag

LIBERTAS D e ce m b e r 2 0 1 5 Tony Solís

Speaking Through My Struggles: An Undocumented Story

Bridget Wack Alyssa Glover

Changing the Subject Art

Quinn Massengill Kalie Slawson

Fake Flowers Bow

Vita Dadoo

How to Be a White Brown Girl

Jeneshia Hughes

Are Black Names “Weird,” or are You Just a Racist?

Shuyu Cao Eleanor Yarbaro Sarah Gompper

Slave The Atlantic & I Art

Elizabeth Welliver Meradith Foulke

My Body, Sweet Potato Halvesies

Samantha Gowing

Fly Away

Eirini Souroulidi Kenny Xu

A Desolate Discovery Song of Solomon

Sarah Gomper Grace Falken

Scenes From 7/11 Lonely Bank

Various

Sh*t My Family Said Over Thanksgiving

Madison Santos

Easy Listening Easy Reading Pick

Libertas Archives

Last Word

Featured Cover Artist: Sarah Gompper

Sarah is a sophomore Political Science major from Fall Church, Virginia. She enjoys art, cheerleading, and hanging out with her big in Turner.

Speaking Through My Struggles: An Undocumented Story

I grew up thinking I had a superpower. I thought the world was limitless. I grew up thinking that my greatest possession was the power to choose, to always make my own choice. Unfortunately, that isn’t always true. I know it seems impossible, but sometimes we are blinded by all the opportunities we do have that we forget about the ones we don’t. With that lack of knowledge, sometimes we forget about where we come from. And by forgetting that, sometimes we are surprised to find ourselves alone…In a strange place labeled “home.” I felt like an outsider ever since the start of this adventure. At age six I was forced to start over; all the words I’d learned were just foreign sounds to my teachers and classmates. I felt like I didn’t belong, but that never meant giving up. I learned English fairly quickly, and in no time, I was out having fun in the playground with the other kids. It was unbelievable that I felt a part of this place when, not long ago, their words had been foreign to me. As a child, everyone is happy to have friends, and that’s exactly what I was feeling until I came across another barbed wire. I always wanted to carry my friendships further instead of leaving them behind on the playground each day. I wanted to invite people over, but I didn’t want to show them my undecorated room; I thought they wouldn’t like that my parents couldn’t speak English. Asking people to come over felt like I’d only be left out again. I didn’t want to be seen as any different than I already was, so I never invited anyone over. Life as a kid didn’t seem so simple to me; it had its twists and turns. But I wanted the complete sense of comfort everyone else seemed to have. I didn’t know how to find that. I thought that maybe everyone was right, that maybe the grass was greener on the other side—but maybe that greener side was somewhere I could never go. I could never be a part of one single identity because it felt like I lived at the intersection of two lives. It seems like difficulty is my destiny. It feels like even adventure will be difficult. I have to be careful with what I do because I feel like my safety isn’t guaranteed. Some things as simple as study abroad experiences that many Davidson students have require exact calculations. For me, study abroad isn’t easy. It is a risky adventure that has to be taken seriously, not just a good time away from home. Trust me, I wish it were, but I don’t want to start again from square one, trapped on the other side of a barbed wire fence. There are many things that seem so little and so simple. I challenge you to ask if they are really simple, or if they are simple for you. Ask those around you who may seem to be just like you. Ask them why life sometimes feels like a walk through a fiery desert. This isn’t the case for everyone. We all have our own struggles and our own privileges, but I challenge you to learn about those of others and become more aware of your own. It isn’t easy to have this conversation but it has to happen. I will start with my confession. I have done something illegal…I have broken the law. But the law broke me in return. It took me and shredded me to pieces; it has deprived me of an identity, forced me to build a new one. It has taken away my pride and it is currently jabbing at my soul. And it hurts. Share your story. No matter who you are. ♦

by Tony

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

Solís

Changing the Subject

I am six years old with twitchy legs and missing teeth and I love my orange PJs with the flowered shorts and I have two sisters and one brother. My sisters are fighting, again: screeching, pulling hair. I am six and I am Paralyzed -

And I am twenty-one and I am

I sit on the floor in between them and squeeze my eyes shut so tight that black spots appear on the inside of my eyelids and make me dizzy; I put my head between my knees trying to escape and beg them: “Can we please just change the subject?”

ParalyzedToday all I want to do is close my eyes cover my ears put my head between my knees and change the subject because I am lost and confused and tired of disappointing myself.

That line is a running joke in my family Confrontation has never been my strong suit.

But in my heart I know the subject cannot be changed because the subject is Naomi’s world and Isaiah’s life and our salvation

But now I am twenty-one years old with stronger legs and grown-up teeth and I don’t wear PJs anymore and I have three sisters and two brothers. My little sister and brother don’t live with us anymore – they went back to their other mom in the city and last week the grocery store near their building was robbed at gunpoint. And I know Naomi’s heart, she is sweet and honest and goofy but she carries a weight, it is sunken deep, etched like a tattoo into her brown skin; it is codified in our segregated neighorhoods, for-profit prisons unjust laws and unequal lives. And her school, her brother, her mother, her world is labeled broken & falling because they cannot fix what we have done to them.

and there must be conflict and there must be change and I cannot be paralyzed anymore because last week the grocery store near their building was robbed at gunpoint and Naomi told me she wants to go to Davidson “just like you” she says so I must seek out conflict, I will embrace change and speak out and up and all around and lean into confrontation even when every part of me is screaming in discomfort because Naomi is twelve and Isaiah is nine and they love Poptarts and Madden and deserve more than what they’ve been given. art by alyssa glover

- Bridget Wack

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

Fake Flowers

Quinn by Massengill

Gaudy hues of pinks and purples Line the shelves of supermarkets. Cloth petals litter the floor, Smushed and caked by dirt From weary shoppers’ off-brand sneakers. In May, a lush green meadow, Sprouts behind Grandmother’s house. Flowers abound, lavender and gold, Nestled amid a sea of emerald blades. In August, sun beats the earth, Raging like an alcoholic husband, Drying the ground like the whisky That dries my great uncle’s throat. The splendid green of the grass, Dulls to the brown of stale bread crusts. In this hellish heat, Only the hardy weeds still thrive. But the dandelions and crabgrass Are truer treasure than Tufts of synthetic color at the tips of plastic stems. After all, “Nothing gold can stay.” Half a flower’s beauty Only blooms once it fades.

Bow by Kalie Slawson

trees are like dancers if you look slowly enough they twist and reach and spin they are also young, these trees, because they still believe they can touch the sky. i saw a tree that bowed today i tasted the worship that bent him over saw his tapered fingers still twisting up behind to reach sky-light-sun-vast-God to whom he bowed. he was the oldest tree i saw the agony in each broken finger mossy wound twisted joint windtorn hair the ground was too deep for him just as the sky was much too far. i could smell the years on him, craggy wooden years that traced tear-tracks that became chasms down his lithe torso along his twisting, desperate limbs into earth-heat-deep-dark-God O whom he loved.

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

How to Be a White Brown Girl Wait until your father has kissed your cheek goodbye and whispered in your ear, “let them eat from your spoon.” Be distrustful of his advice, but let your tía wrap a red string around your wrist. “For good luck,” she says, and you smile, secretly invested on the supernatural powers bestowed on the bracelet. You’re 20 now, but you still let your bubbe feed you lox because she’ll die one day and you know you won’t be there. But you’ll cry for the rest of your life, intermittently. You’ll consider learning Hebrew, maybe Yiddish, if time allows. You’ll try to find the old house in Vilnus, but spend a longer time explaining to immigration why you have a Polish passport. Your American roommate reassures you that she’ll care for you when you, too, get dementia. Step on the plane. Your dad booked a window seat. Stare at the Mexico City sun and mope because studying in America is completely unnecessary. No one ever dances or dresses appropriately for the weather. Students take off their shoes everywhere, especially in the library and it’s disgusting. But what about all the books you read and all the American boys you haven’t kissed? You run your fingers through the beads of the blue mala your mom gave you for your seventeenth birthday. You remember that you put the clay statue of Mahakala in storage and hope the movers didn’t break it. You’re supposed to be repeating the Green Tara mantra to protect the plane and its passengers, but you can’t. You’ll think of what you will wear on the first day of school and make sure your belly shows, because you worked hard for it. You mouth words and phrases in English, just to make sure you can still speak it. You feel selfish so you repeat Om tare tuttare ture soha, until the mala runs out of beads.

her touch was Ganges, knowing that

Get back on campus. Ask how people are doing in a tone that suggests that you’re happy for their accomplishments, their internships, their trips. Call your mom. Plan to tell her how your dad ruined your summer. Hang up before she answers because you have to tell someone that you worked for a luxury tequila company and, like them, think it’s “like, totally something you would do.” You’ll get over it, because self-pity is not conducive to creativity. You read more Jhumpa Lahiri stories than you need to and think about great-auntie Krishna: how you miss her handcrafted naan, the way imprinted in every bite. You’ll tell your Indian friend how you long for that adventure in the you stole that memory from someone you wished you knew better.

Go down the hill, dance on some elevated surface, preferably a table, but a couch will do. Graciously accept the Key Stone Light and strictly adhere to Armfield etiquette. Embrace the simplicity of plastic-bottled liquor and learn the words to the song about fried chicken (your speakers have grown tired of Morrissey, anyway). Hold on to the provisional grip of someone else’s hand because it will not make you feel the same way tomorrow. Think about everything you’re about to become and the worlds you’re about to conquer. Write to your mom. Tell her you’re going to be an actress (aren’t you one already?) and let her judge how many gin and tonics you’ve guzzled. Walk up to your room and rest your head on your new Ikea pillow. Dream about Busbecq and Borges. Hope that your brother is doing all right and doesn’t cry in secret like he used to. Revel in your daze and wonder why your bed is so warm, why is the touch of your sheets so tender. Check the weekly forecast. Turn off the lights. Try closing your eyes until they’re completely shut. Tell your American roommate that you love her because you know she’ll take care of you when you get dementia. ♦

Vita Dadoo

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

Are Black Names “Weird,” or Are You Just a Racist?

I was never big on reading Reddit, but last week in an effort to procrastinate, I created an account. I learned that it isn’t just a clearinghouse for interviews, animal pictures, and crazy stories. It’s also a place where people ask questions and have discussions. I came across a post from about a year ago (yes, I spent hours on this website), and one user wondered about “black” names, posing a question to the “Black American parents of Reddit,” as he put it. “Before racism is called out, I have plenty of black friends,” he noted, raising the question of why he didn’t ask these alleged friends. “[I’m] just curious why you name your kids names like D’brickishaw, Barkevious D’quell and so on?” Setting aside the many problems with this question—for one, “Black American parents” aren’t a monolith–there’s an actual answer here. In the 1960s, Anglo-American names were common among African American children. It wasn’t until the 1970s and the rise of the Black Power movement that this shifted in the other direction. “The underlying philosophy of the Black Power movement,” writes Fryer, “was to encourage Blacks to accentuate and affirm black culture and fight the claims of black inferiority.” The adoption of “black” names is consistent with other cultural changes—like “natural hair”—prompted by the movement. African Americans wanted to distinguish themselves from whites, and naming was an easy means to the end. Of course, there are plenty of African Americans who give their kids Anglo names. The idea that they don’t—that all black parents use the same naming convention—is ridiculous. And popular culture notwithstanding, these distinctive names aren’t especially common. The most popular African American baby names—Aaliyah, Gabrielle, Kiara, Cameron, Jordan, and Nathan—are perfectly ordinary. If there is a question worth asking about race and naming, it’s not “why do black people use these names?” it’s “why do we only focus on black people in these conversations?” Indeed, there’s a whole universe of jokes premised on the assumed absurdity of so-called “ghetto” names. Derision for these names—and often, the people who have them—is culturally acceptable. But black children aren’t the only ones with unusual names. It’s not hard to find white kids with names like

Braelyn and Declyn. And while it’s tempting to chalk this up to poverty—in the Reddit thread, there was wide agreement that this was a phenomenon of poor blacks and poor whites—the wealthy are no strangers to unique names. The popular Netflix show Orange is the New Black, written by a Jenji Kohan (a white woman), was based on the experiences of a Piper Kerman (also a white woman). And in 2012’s presidential election, nearly 61 million people voted for a Willard Mitt Romney, at the same time that the current head of the Republican National Committee was (and is) a Reince Priebus. But in this society we focus on “weird” African American names in jokes and conversation, and it’s because blacks remain at the bottom of America’s racial caste system. “Hunter” is just as unusual as “Malik,” but it’s understood as “normal” because of its association with white men. It’s arbitrary, yes, but it reflects who holds power. Indeed, if the situation were reversed, odds are good there would be plenty of jokes about “dysfunctional” white people who name their children “Geoff.” It should be said that this has material consequences in the real world. Research has consistently found that job applicants with “black-sounding” names are more likely to be rejected, regardless of qualifications. If races are our castes, then this makes sense, since—in a caste system—your status is mostly a function of your position. “Latoya” could be well-qualified for the law firm she applies to, but there’s a fair chance her “black” name marks her as undesirable. Even Raven-Symoné had some questionable opinions on hiring someone with “black names”, which points to, in her case, an insufferable sense of selfloathing and anti-Black pathology. I mused with a friend on this double standard with a comment and a joke. “Seriously, I will take your ‘questions’ about ‘weird’ black names seriously when you make fun of Reince Priebus and Rand Paul,” followed by “White people giving their kids names like Saxby Chambliss and Tagg Romney is a clear sign of cultural pathology.” If names like “DeShawn” and “Shanice” are fair targets for ridicule, then the same should be true for “Saxby” and “Tagg.” ♦

Jeneshia Hughes 7

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

s l ave

I. Her Youth I was the egg that my father pang gu played house in my shell formed his roof and my yolk congealed into his soil his muscles supported me like pillars but his hands chipped me II. Her Marriage I prayed for my emperor who rotted in temptations until blood from my knees permeated cracked yellow dirt and nurtured it thick terra cotta from the image of me I molded an army of royal blood my sons accompanied me in a tomb so bewitching they dared not open they uncovered my earth like an artifact I suckled genghis with kumis from my breasts my nipples still swollen from his hunger drunk boy, promised me revenge for his father his army eroded my garden khan, slaughtered boys taller than wagon wheels

The Atlantic & I I’m tired

III. Her Motherhood I remarried my daughter zhaojun to the desert with six thousand chi of silk stitched in my command they remember a heroine not concubine I released fireworks from my face powder on her wedding day My tears fed the yellow river where I found minerals by the banks I painted rubies on her lips and sketched onyx wings above her eyes her flightless sparrows will not return this year I birthed her as a rock and carved her into jade III. Her Vices I kidnapped my nanjing sisters and dripped their menses along my journey to the west I stopped at luoyang where I secreted on a monk’s robe and rose like mountain buddha they stole my nose for their meiji king so I pleasured them with a whip laced in opium

I wake up and when I wake up I wake up I wake up tired and when I wake up I’m wake and I’m tired I’m tired wake I wake up tired

from the blood droplets budding on their behinds I made plum blossom wine I am bad.

[a snapshot of the Atlantic rolling in and over on its belly, lazy blue-green and frilly froth--the place where I nabbed crabs as a child. these are the places where exhaustion begins.]

Shuyu Cao

Eleanor Yarboro art by Sarah Gompper

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

my b ody, swe e t pot at o elizabe th we lliver My body is like a root tuber: it knows only how to soften when baked whole in the oven 450 degrees for one hour, wrapped in a tin foil blanket, punctured with the fork to gush sugar on the pan. If I ate any more, I’d become round and soft and orange, cinnamon butter spread under my peeled skin, buttered to touch. I’d slowly grow under dark soil, then rise

hal vesi es

I can’t find you when I remember summers. Maybe you were with your mom, missing out on those flat-hot Kansas days— sprinkler under the trampoline, us girls in stretched out swimsuits timing our jumps to launch each other like little sunscreen-slimy rocketships, rainbows gleaming up in the spray. You might have been inside, eating gross sun-warm tomatoes and talking to the grownups about bigkidthings,.

unexpected: sink your teeth in.

A few summers and I’d be inside too, burying myself in a book that smelled like secrets and rotten glue, our little sister’s mosquito whines (wanna play pretend?) buzzing unheeded. It was from you that I learned how to be a bad big sister.

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

m eredit h foulke

FLY

Samantha Gowing

AWAY

Rock Spring Presbyterian Church, with its gray stone walls and delicate stained-glass windows, towered over Fat Matt’s Rib Shack and the tattoo parlor across the street. In the middle of midtown Atlanta, the church stuck out like a prom queen lost at a sunflower seed spitting contest—not that any of us there had a lick enough of elegance to pass for prom queens. My church family was a small one, half of whom were over eighty and never quite seemed to understand that I had passed the age of six. Shy, new families came to the church in search of friendly faces. A few homeless folks from around the area would wander in and out over the years. And the self-righteous teenagers (myself included) would play foosball all through Bible study but show up dutifully to the sanctuary at eleven o’clock sharp, every Sunday. At the heart of my church family, though, were the hicks; or, as they called themselves, Hicks with Picks. Somewhere along the way, long before I can remember, my parents realized that among themselves and a few of their friends, they had a rhythm guitar, a mandolin, banjo, stand-up bass, and my mother’s loud, chesty voice—plenty enough to form a bluegrass gospel group. Clad in blue jeans and leather boots, they would play a set in the main hall every morning. Small groups of church-goers would linger and listen on their way to attend Bible study or to practice the morning’s anthem with the choir. In the small world of bluegrass gospel bands in mid-Atlanta, my parents were the stars and I, begrudgingly, was their groupie. We had to wake up just past dawn every Sunday, stop by the Dunkin Donuts near home (two dozen doughnuts and one dozen bagels, sliced, please), and get to church hours before most people I knew had climbed out of bed. My parents would start tuning their guitars while I slinked over to the kitchen to pile bagels on platters and, when I was old enough, brew at least four carafe-fulls of coffee. Then, after carefully selecting my own doughnut or bagel for the morning’s breakfast, I would hover near the door for a few minutes and watch. When they got to playing, my parents balanced each other well. My dad kept his steady rhythm on guitar, standing in the back of the group and providing a pulse for them all to rely on as the music got them more and more riled up. My mother, on the other hand, took center stage in that small, linoleum-tiled hall; already on her third or fourth cup of coffee by then, she would thrust her arms out with every crescendo and throw her head back as she hit the high note on “Peace in the Valley.” In the beginning—before Jeff, lead male vocalist and banjoist extraordinaire, began to write original songs for the band—their repertoire was rather limited. Think Johnny Cash’s My Mother’s Hymn Book set to bouncing, caffeinated rhythms and a nasal twang—Sunday morning after Sunday morning, for more than ten years in a row. A cosmopolitan preteen born with an affinity for melodrama can handle only so much “Sweet By and By” before she unleashes a legion of eyerolls and tragic huffs with each folksy chord she hears. In short, I couldn’t stand it. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re up here singing with us—huh, Samantha?” said Mike, the mandolin player, one morning as they were warming up. He was short and nearing sixty, and I looked down on him indignantly as I teetered unsteadily on my too-tall heels. I remember wearing this yellow, flower-print bubble skirt I had sewed for myself that week and feeling far too independent to consider joining in with my parents as they sang their hearts out and praised the Lord. I always harbored a special sort of jealousy for my friends who got to sleep in on Sundays. Even the ones from church-going families

didn’t have to be up until ten, sometimes eleven depending on the church. And my brother, three years my elder, stopped coming with us when I was in middle school. I could have used his absence as my own excuse—thrown a fit and claimed that it wasn’t fair he could sleep in while I had to get up at seven in the morning each Sunday. I fancied myself an expert in the dramatics of girlhood, and the performance would have been spectacular if I’d put my mind to it. But every Sunday morning, there I was, sitting in the back of the car as we headed into the city. If you had asked me, back then, why I never stopped going, I probably would have given credit to the doughnuts. They made a much better breakfast than my usual weekday bowl of cereal, after all, and I had developed the perfect coffee-and-hot-chocolate mixture to go with them. I might have even conceded that the bagels were good too, but my angst-ridden pride would have stopped me there. I certainly wouldn’t have admitted to taking my time slathering an inch or more of cream cheese on my bagel just to hear the second verse of “Wayfaring Stranger,” or to humming along with “I’ll Fly Away” as I wandered up the stairs to hang out with my brother’s friends. As I said, it was a small church; all the boys were a few years older than me. They graduated and left for college, and I was the only teenager still going to the church by the time I had entered sophomore year of high school. I spent many Sunday mornings lying on the bright purple couches in that lonely room, straining my ears for the steely strings of bluegrass music that bounced through the halls and echoed quietly in my lair. I joined an adult Bible study junior year to do something with my time and senior year sang with my mother and a few other old ladies (and one or two men if it was a good Sunday) in the church choir. Hicks with Picks, though, played on without me. They practiced every Thursday and performed every Sunday and even got a gig at a barbecue joint on Sunday evenings. I would hum along and help carry equipment to and fro and bring them coffee during practice and listen with a secret contentment. When I went to college, the music in the background of my life went quiet. No longer did the familiar, comforting bluegrass tunes echo in my dozing dreams and comfort the loneliness of leaving, or being left behind. One Sunday morning, I found a bluegrass playlist online and listened to it all afternoon. I started learning a few of my mother’s favorites and would sing “Angel from Montgomery” in the shower every night. Back in Atlanta for the first time since leaving for college, I slept in late and drove myself to church a while after my parents had left, catching only the last few songs of their morning’s set. Dear friends, there’ll be no sad farewell, Jeff sang as my mother harmonized. There’ll be no tear-dimmed eyes. I took a sip of coffee and smiled, letting it warm me along with the music. Where all is peace and joy and love—I ducked my head over my doughnut to avoid making eye contact with my mother—and the soul of man never dies. Home had never felt so right. ♦

Hicks with Picks, 2014

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

A Desolate Discovery

Eirini Souroulidi

I remember a place in time when I felt safe. I had just unfolded my arms that had sought a crossed safety for so long and had let the muscles of my legs relax, return to their normal shape. I had settled; I was feeling confident; I had allowed my innermost thoughts to flourish and grasp everything that could support me. I had dropped my anchor and was prepared to discover my strength, my confidence, my purpose. It was a strange feeling to have, a novel wave to push my boat. It was strange since my whole life I have been told, as a woman, to change my body, to shame my body, to despise every miniscule, insignificant “imperfection,” they called it, “flaw” they called it. It was almost impossible to let that anchor fully rest on the sand of endless possibilities and allow myself to grow while living in a world that constantly told me to shrink. And shrinking myself meant hiding the potential to be great, to be empowered, t o be admired. But I had made it. (Or at least I thought I had.) Little by little I could feel my anchor - an anchor that had been smelt with care and patience - gaining power and digging itself into the promises life had made to me But then, reality beat and tore my anchor to He: pieces. The anchor that held my boat still for Run away with me, my beloved so long, that I thought epitomized my power Down the rambling roads under lamplight glow as a woman, as a human being. I felt my boat Pray I pickpocket a kiss slowly drifting, far from the metallic weight From the blush on your face. She: that was supposed to hold it, that was supDream dreams about me, darling posed to hold me. Powerless to Of sprawling shores and hotel floors the whipping wind of Long for my winged touch pressure, of empty As you lay in bed alone. promises, of imperfecHe: tions.They say the only Spill your arms into mine, love thing you can do when In the heady night of neon brights you have fallen is to get Let the downpour spoil your skinny jeans back up again. I agree, While your hands caress my neck I really do. But it’s She: impossible when Drive down the desolate streets, my dear my anchor is gone. Where radio don’t sing and love don’t linger Leaving me to He: Call me on your cell phone at 3 drift ashore on a Why play games with me, girl? And cry when I don’t pick up. deserted island My love for you is a skyscraper of self-loathAdorned with a steeple that points ing. I won’t be Redoubtably to your heart. here for long.I She: will get back to Why kill the romance, sweetheart? my still, solid boat. ♦

K e n n y

X u

My love for you is a river cruise Returning from a distant voyage To a throng wading in wanderlust.

Let Solomon decide Whose love is more just But until then meet me at the gas station between holland road and swanson street wait for me there don’t be late.

Song of Solomon 11

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 3

scenes from 7-eleven Me at 14 Curly-haired girl outside the donut-plastered glass door Standing pigeon toed, wearing a knee brace, and picking at her nails. Sir, can you buy me a Four Loko? Mother in the parking lot scowls and warns her daughter not to spend time with that sort of kid. Lydia at 15 Duck-taped flip-flops in hand, she rolls chipped polish and a bruised big toe against cool floor About to leave on her scooter, proud and a little bit sweaty. Sir, I don’t have enough money, will you take an IOU? Her sister laughs, calls her a moron, and smacks her upside the head. Joe at 16 Slightly dumpy Nike-clad boy at the checkout counter Back pockets stuffed with Cadbury eggs and gums. Sir, can I just have my usual Cheese Burger Bite? His girlfriend pinches him and beams, exuding adrenaline and true love. sarah gompper

lonely bank Across the brook, broad elms befriend the earth, While birds who sing good thanks appear alone. These trees in solidarity show their mirth Below our muddy bank and braid as one. Perhaps these roots who flirt unseen do feel Companionship through weaving art in soil? A basket woven, fingers hold appeal Between young lover’s hands, these tendrils toil. But birds whose love unending calls amidst The arms of elms entwined, do find the boughs Enjoy the song. So all the more amongst The grove will give support and rest and homes. Good friends, I see upon our bank alone A scene, a song – romance so quiet done. grace falken

LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

njhnj

Sh*t My Family Said Over Thanksgiving... “Grab the bull by the balls - leave the horns to someone else. The balls are where you really control them anyway. Grabbing the horns will get you impaled.”

“It’s not just about the education. It’s about the lifetime friends -networking like a motherfucker.”

“Is it called Black Friday because of all the black people that go shopping? I think it is.”

“The only openly gay couple in Benton County -- you know, Mike reeks of gay. But Tim, Tim doesn’t.”

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 4

Upon telling them I only eat fish: “If you threw a turkey in the ocean, I bet it could swim.”

EasyListening

play.spotify.com/user/libertasdavidson

Madison Santos

Dealer

Carousel Jerry Paper

Foxing

fter anthemic debut LPs such as Foxing’s 2013 The Albatross, bands have to find a way to either distance themselves and evolve as artists or try to keep the gravytrain of similar songs going. Breaking from conventions that helped to solidify the genre of (I hate this term but,) emo revival. From the opening single “Weave” to the hypnotizing interludes such as “Coda”, this is a developmental sophomore effort on par with Weezer’s ‘Pinkerton’ transition from ‘The Blue Album’ or Modest Mouse’s evolving from ‘This is a Long Drive…’ to ‘The Lonesome Crowded West’, a band’s debut album will be remembered nostalgically while the follow-up should evoke some sort of timeless catharsis.

rank Sinatra meets chillwave. The product of the tradition of NYC upscale club-singers converging the electronic-scene of warehouse concerts in Brooklyn. The kind of act you’d want at your wedding, if you were doing a newwave chic one with cactuses or something everywhere.

Musique de film imagine

The Brian Jonestown Massacre

concept album of a shoegaze band scoring a stereotypical French film, following arcs in Plot, entrance music, interludes, exits. This would be the score to a silent Wes Anderson film reimagining the works of Jean LucGodard, well maybe it’d have to be a little cuter. Studymusic certified.

For Fans Of: Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie, American Football.

For Fans Of: Todd Terje, Nicolas Jaar (maybe?), Panda Bear

For Fans Of: My Bloody Valentine, Lush, Ride, The Cocteau Twins, Slowdive, Andre Desplat scores of The Grand Budapest Hotel or Moonrise Kingdom

You Might Also Like: The World is a Beautiful Place… ‘Harmlessness’, mewithoutYOU ‘Pale Horses’, Ceremony ‘The L-Shaped Man’

You Might Also Like: TOPS ‘Picture You Staring’, Alex Calder ‘Strange Dreams’

You Might Also Like: Wildhoney ‘Sleep Through It’, Whirr ‘Sway’. The Spirit of

Cow Country by Adrian Jones Pearson

the Beehive ‘You Are Arrived (but you have been cheated)’

EasyReadingPick

The perfect gift for the upcoming holidays for any academic faculty member, student, Midwesterner or even a local cow-castrater. Cow Country by the elusively pseudonymous Adrian Jones Pearson caught a lot of early attention from literary conspirators, which I’m not going to use the limited space here to plug because the book is worth more than the novelty of its own conspiracy. Set in the enigmatically unknown Midwestern location of Cow Eye Junction you’ll find a community college funded by World War-2 bullet manufacturers, upgrading from analog typewriters trying to settle its own internal politics between the harshly divided faculty including their very own orgy-loving mathematics department, no place of higher learning is complete without the above. David Zucker-type humor from the likes of Airplane! manifested in a literary style of detachment through irony, but uniquely building itself back through it’s own salt-of-the-earth type sincerity. Pearson’s possible debut novel (or maybe their 3rd?) features a lovable down on his luck special projects coordinator, moving to a new location to try to mend the brutally divided faculty by planning the most successful faculty Christmas Party in the long history of Cow Eye Community College, but more than anything Charlie is trying “to become something entirely”. A community college epic on administrational self-identity crisis mimicking young malleable Cow Eye students pondering logical fallacies or writing the first laundromat-epic. Cow Country is a novel of pure bureaucratic hilarity in the vain of Office Space, if you’ve ever spent some time in a professor’s office getting to hear about some interdepartmental gossip then you know the very fragile socio-political tensions of any institution of higher learning especially the oasis of knowledge that is a small Midwest community college. Part work satire at the center of what the American novel is, part critical ramblings on the efficacy of creative writing professorship, part philosophical diatribe on logical fallacies or calculus driven sex, Cow Country is both a product of and a reaction to American academics, pitch-perfect in tone, with deadpan comedic timing. ♦ Madison Santos LIBERTAS, V o l . 2 2 , N o . 4

LIBERTAS last word

The Davidson Bored Game was originally printed in the September 25, 1997 edition of Libertas under the editor Mark Scarbo.

Start!

Finish

Miss your Davidson 101: go back to start How to play:

1) Find some dice and pennier to use as game-pieces, 2) make some friends, 3) put the game-board on a table or something flat, 4) roll the dice, move your pennies around

PAPER DUE!!?: pull an all-nighter, lose 1 tun

Run out of meal swipes: give the person next to you $5

Objective:

Get your penny from start to finish 4 times and then just like that you graduate.

Get busted for being at Lake Campus too late: move back 1 space

One too many quesadillas at the Union: go to health center, move back 3 spaces

Package Delivery! A care-package has arrived: move ahead 3 spaces

You have Dining Dollars you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know you had: go forward 2 spaces

Business Services loses your tuition: go back to start

Party on the Court: relax for once and move ahead 2 spaces

But you get totally wasted and you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember your own name: lose 2 turns Rain Delay on the IMAC fields: you and all your friends go to Baker Sports (everyone goes back to start) Twist an ankle at Baker: all die rolls worth half

You found the best parking spot in Rich circle!: move ahead 4 spaces

Library fines you $27 for overdue books: go back 1 roll of the dice

Walk of Shame: go to your dorm (wherever that may be) and lose 1 turn

Fire Dept. called to Senior Apts: lose a turn