Spaces/Places by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS v ol . 23, n o. 5

SPACES / PLACES

SATREBIL EDITORIAL EDITORS IN CHIEF Alyssa Glover Samantha Gowing CREATIVE DIRECTOR Hannah Fuller ART EDITORS Elisabeth Anthony Maddy Page WRITING EDITORS Claire Heartfield Cordelia Wilks Mila Loneman Thomas Waddill Quinn Massengill

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

LIBERTAS Febr uar y 2017 Cover Art

Rebecca Pempek

Letter from the Editor

Alyssa Glover

On Death Double-torqued ellipse Art

Kathryn LeBey

Take a Girl to the Bridge When You’re There Art

Henry Stockwell Rebecca Pempek

One to Two Cat-in-the-Hat Photograph

Elijah O. Midgette Yasemin Tekurler

Ethos Over My Head

Julie Bennett Rebecca Pempek

#catrecipe Photograph Tribute to Mapplethorpe

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Hannah Sommerlad Yasemin Tekgurler Quinn Massengill

Interview with Vita Dadoo Lomeli

Claire Heartfield

A Puff of Cigarette Smoke Art

Grace Woodward Yasemin Terkgurler

Roadtrip Playlist Competition Photograph

Davidson Students Judson Womack

Oscar Pre-dick-tions

Cordelia Wilks

Last Word

Judson Womack

Hannah Fuller

visit us online @ https://issuu.com/libertasmag friend us on facebook: search “davidson libertas”

Letter from the Editor: Dedicated to my Fellow Survivors Content warning: sexual assault Writing leaves little room for egos. You know that everything you write will be subpar to something somewhere, and you also know that in a few days you’ll realize that you were wrong. Your tenses were inconsistent, you ignored an aspect of an argument, or your conclusion didn’t really follow. In a way, we can write to see what we’re wrong about. Only when I verbalize thoughts do I realize if they’re complete bullshit or not. As I wrote this, I realized that 1) I think pretty highly of myself, 2) I could never be an accomplished writer and 3) Even though there’s a chance that I’m wrong, this is important so I’m going to write it anyway. On a campus where the average consider themselves to be the elite and the truly extraordinary are often undervalued, taking action can be difficult. For the past few weeks, I’ve watched an amazing group of women create a petition, set up meetings, and do so much heavy lifting, all while making sure the people they worked to support felt safe. There was no need to contact news stations or write articles because their goal was pure. It was not focused on one man, it was focused on justice for a peer and sustainable systematic change. Many of these unnamed women – your friends and peers – have worked tirelessly, drained themselves emotionally, missed classes and reopened wounds to create a safer campus for all of us. And while this process is never easy, I have watched them do this every day. So, what do you do when peers you try so hard to protect do not accept the help you’re offering? How do you support diverse strategies for activism while awknowledging that some of those strategies can be harmful to other’s saftey? How do you walk across campus knowing that some anonymous faces think you should “be ashamed” and “suspended for libel”? How can you trust your allies when even a person that is fighting for a similar goal repeatedly calls you a “victim”? How do you create a safe space when you yourself never feel safe? Davidson students tend to hide behind our surface-level purposes. We go to meetings, sign petitions, and read the Facebook comments, but we use these as excuses. We expect our fellow students to show their commitments through attendance at rallies and talkbacks. Although civic participation is important and physically showing support to communities can be invaluable, this is not all that’s needed. Lately, there has been a movement towards taking tangible action steps: calling your senator, refusing to support certain companies, and even sitting in the bleachers. When we focus on those doing this kind of work, many people forget about the more silent allies. The few that have the tough conversations - that operate within a triggering space that is not safe for them but has the potential to do the most good. We forget about the people who put their own needs and health aside in order to help everyone – even those that don’t know they need it yet. I’m not saying that there is only room for one type of protest. However, many social justice advocates hold the belief that it doesn’t matter whether people agree with them or not. They throw their sometimes carefully-picked words out into the world and welcome discussion. For progress to happen, however, there needs to be someone that is willing to compromise and get others to listen – the person that is big enough to make friends with someone they most likely once viewed as an enemy for the sake of progress. Davidson is known for being a school of leaders. Unfortunately, the word leader is often equated to loud and/or radical. I challenge you to take a step back. To remember that having this education and platform is a privilege. And not to abuse it. The last thing I’ll ask is that you don’t have a typical response to this article. Don’t read it and write a criticism of my views on respectability politics. Don’t comment that there is more than one way to protest and that anger and action are necessary for some. And please, please don’t write a responsive perspective piece without even attempting to have an exchange of ideas with me. Go deeper. It’s ok to react, but then it’s our responsibility to thoughtfully respond. When you have a strong feeling, follow it. Figure out where it comes from and why it’s important. Then, if you have the energy, do something about it. Lastly, if there’s something you want me to know, tell me. Even if I’ve never met you and you think this letter is complete garbage, write a better one and submit it to us.

Alyssa Glover alglover@davidson.edu

LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

Art by Judson Womack

death Venice is sinking. bitbybit, Dark water eats at stone. One day, The stately Buildings Will lie submerged entirely: silent.

Poems by Kathryn LeBey

double-torqued

e ipse

We’re congruent. Your rounded edge slips into mine, Elastic, And Warm. We move together, slowly And my head feels like a thousand little Glass marbles reverberating off one another. When you withdraw, You leave behind a paint-splatter of memory, Symmetric, And fading. *Based on the painting “D.T.E.” by Richard Serra

LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

Henry Stockwell

Girl

Take a to the Bridge When You’re

There

Take a girl to the bridge when you’re there, she says to you. In Prague, she continues. You said you’re going to Prague, right? Next fall? For school? You nod your head and sip your beer, gulp it down, lean in so her shoulder brushes your chest and whisper, Yeah, Prague, for school. She turns to you, looks you in the eyes. What? And smiles, sways a little, like she’s giggling or drunk or drunkenly giggling. The music—what did you say? She says. The music is too loud. It sounds good that way. For school, Prague. Much louder this time. Prague, the bridge, the lights, you should see—here, look at my phone let me—she huddles against you and begins typing “Prague, the bridge, the lights,” hits a button and sways into you. And you hold firm, barely. And she stays. You wouldn’t be able to tell, she’s standing straight, but she stays there, leaning, hitting buttons. The bridge, the lights, I’m telling you. The music is loud, swirling, unsteadying in the exact way you want it to be. Your hand reaches out, your fingertips landing loudly on her back. The Charles Bridge, I knew it, fuck. I… She tucks her phone into her waistband, and looks up, looks at you, eyes wide for that moment, a moment that we forget has anything to do with everything else, that you can close your eyes and see again and you wonder, Is this what it was like. You have to. It’s beautiful, it’s… You go up there, and you’re

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walking slowly, close next to someone. Holding hands, maybe, but I wasn’t, hands were in my pockets. And his were too. Shoulders held up against your cheeks, it’s the middle of the night, wind off the river, you glance over and catch his eyes and it shoots you into the pavement in front of you. You take a hand out of your pocket but you shove it back in and say instead it’s cold as fuck, and giggle. You sip your beer, gulp it. She says, let me get you a real beer, and turns, hair flicking, of to the refrigerator. You pour your beer on the ground and she laughs loudly across the music--a good, loud laugh--and comes back with a bottle you hit against the nearest table so the top pops off. Not a twist. A real beer. You get to the top of the bridge—you can tell ‘cause it gets flat and then you can see it starts going down. You find a place to lean against the edge. It’s cloudy, so you can’t see the moon, but it glows and matches the glow of the streetlights glowing through the mist. And when he breathed the breath went out like crystals in zero gravity and he looked at you, and breathed more crystals, and closed his mouth. And you hold his eyes, the mist, and lean towards him, and he leans towards you, and you bury your cheek in his shoulder and you grab him and look at the river and breathe crystals too. You need to take a girl up there and kiss her, she says to you. Fucking kiss her. The bridge, the lights, kiss her.

Art by Rebecca Pempek

There is a sadness in the shine Of gold, of God. It’s time to

O W AT T -H TO HE E N N-T O -I AT

Lay down and sleep. It’s time to lay down cause Rain to come. I have memories Of my mother taking me to meadows And water treatment plants, Loud siren coming through the Trees in the forest; You forget You’re on trail. It’s in key, But a metal one that had remained Unplayed until an engine and machine Did it. Spit it out. ‘How much ket and dirt is in your Bladder?’ I’ve had a dream every Night where I meet people that I know. They’re saying: The spirit beneath divinity is sick And lacks strength. The buildings In the cities are larger than   Northumbrian castles.

Poem by Elijah O. Midgette Photograph by Yasemin Tekgurler LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

Down the history corridor the halls, the walls echo with the voices of students unchanged. Unfamiliar and unavailable but understood. I listen for my voice among them, but the whisper is muffled by the pillowy silence that cushions my footsteps. I was here once, wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I? I lived and breathed and ached within these dormitories these classrooms, these courtyards, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I? They were my confines, my prison cell. The shackles to a successful future. Where I spent every second of every day dodging the crippling burdens of adolescence, hanging like noose necked bodies from the crumbling ceilings. I listen closer for any remnant of my pain. But my shudders and screams have vanished, forgotten amidst the present shrieks of despair founded in the trials of a new generation with different but equally empty dreams.

over my head 7

LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

rebecca pempek

ethos julie bennett

Little do they know: This is as good as it gets. Mutilation, destruction, and unsatisfying accomplishments supplemented by the deception of close relationships, communal dignity, and self-purpose. An ethos so satisfyingly indistinct, it keeps each and every tortured voice gasping towards a future just out of earshot. For a fleeting four years these hollow promises make the pain a bearable reminder of the price we all must pay for “success.” Because fifty thousand dollars a year just isn’t enough. The numb complacency of a tactile yet empty goal. Believing with what we have left of ourselves that it will all be worth it someday. Not today and not tomorrow and most definitely not the day after, but someday. Someday came and someday went and I received that coveted

ribbon-bound piece of paper. Just a god-forsaken scrap of bark from a god-forsaken tree like any other in this god-forsaken world tinged by the unalterable hues of bleakness that I thought would disappear outside these stone cold gray corridors. I listen just once more for the frail, fragmented echo of my fervent, foolish cries. I was here once, wasn’t I? I thought maybe here, at least, the pain may have meant something. Perhaps the irretrievable pieces of self I sacrificed would still be lurking in the shadowy corners where the unchanged students curl up to cry. I thought that maybe I could find the last remaining painfully purposeful part of myself and reattach it to my suffering soul, restoring the illusion that the world could somehow be more than what it is. But I am forgotten. Just another voice among the cacophony of the unheard. Amidst the unfamiliar and the unavailable, but the understood.

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#catrecipe by Hannah Sommerlad

This was fine. He could improvise. He was a cool, stable, flexible dude. He didn’t need the “a” key on his keyboard. A’s were overrated. O’s and i’s and e’s were about to receive all the attention. For so long they had been neglected because the letter “a” just so happened to be in almost every word, just so happened to be a letter in the word “mozzarella,” which he had been trying to type. “Mozzarella” has no synonyms. “Clumpy, wet, white cheese” just doesn’t have the same zing as “mozzarella,” not to mention there were probably an infinite number of clumpy, wet, white kinds of cheese. Phil didn’t know. He wasn’t even a real recipe writer. He wrote under the pseudonym of Mary the Schaumberg housewife. No one would want to get recipes from Phil the Sheridan Park guy. The “a” key still wasn’t working. Really, he should just quit. Give up this job at Healthy Eating U where all his coworkers were fifty-year-old women on their “second chance” career, post kids, post husbands, post thirty years of cooking experience. In theory, the food at Healthy Eating U’s weekly staff meetings should have been outstanding. But Phil’s (well, Mary’s) coworkers were into superfoods that disappointed taste buds. Phil always bought sugar cookies with blue frosting to these “meetings”—which were actually weekly conference calls. So every Thursday at one o’clock Phil sat down to eat all those cookies on his own, dropping crumbs into the keys of the keyboard, listening to housewives chatter about kale and teff.

Next, insert 2 cups of Mozz(first letter of the lphbet) rell(first letter of the lphbet) and continue to stir. The mixture should begin to thicken. “I should quit.” Phil tried out the words floating through his head. Bill glared at Phil. “What are you looking at?” said Phil. Bill let out a yawn and curled back into a ball at his spot on the couch, eyes fixed on Phil. Phil swallowed. Bill must know that a good portion of the money Phil earned was spent on medicine for Bill-the-cat-that-refused-todie. Come to think of it, if Phil quit, he couldn’t afford the meds. The damn cat would die. Problem solved. Phil stood up to sneer down at the cat, only to see that he was asleep. Phil checked its breathing. You could never be sure with the old ones. Boots on and mittens in hand, Phil gave Bill a sarcastic farewell salute and began his trek to the North Avenue Apple Store to get his keyboard fixed. He needed to submit this recipe by midnight. Phil decided Apple-Store-John was too smart and should be fired. “Did you consider copying and pasting the letter “a” into the document?” said Apple-Store-John. No, he hadn’t. “Sometimes small things fall in between the keys, which could also be the problem,” said Apple-Store-John. Phil didn’t respond. He thought of his Thursday sugar cookies. “Here, it looks like the “a” key is working again. You’re all set.

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LIBERTAS LIBERTAS VOL. VOL. 23 NO. 5

Photograph by Yasemin Tekgurler

Tribute to Mapplethorpe by Quinn Massengill

I’ll be right back with the Bill.” Bill? Why, why did everything seem to circle back to Billwho-refused-to-die. Could he really just quit a well-paying (well, decently-paying) job and in doing so not-so-inadvertently kill Bill? As Phil walked down the steps of the red line and onto the “L” platform, possibilities of a world without Bill’s medicine or his job streamed through his head at each trainstop. Fullerton. He could leave Chicago. Belmont. He could go back to grad school. Addison. He could buy a condo. Sheridan. He could write a novel. Plots for a novel began taking root in his mind and he bounded up the tired stairs to his third-story apartment. “Bill,” Phil said. “Bill, I’ve got it all figured out.” He kicked off his boots by the door, ignoring the scuff marks on the wall that assured him he would not be getting his security deposit back. “We’re gonna go back to Ann Arbor.” His still-damp coat slipped off the coat rack and fell in a heap next to the slush-covered boots. “We can stay in Aunt Susan’s basement again—you liked chasing all those mice around.” Bill lay curled up on his corner of the sofa. “Bill?” Bill wasn’t moving. Phil stared unblinkingly at Bill’s chest, waiting for it to move. His frozen feet gently stepped closer to the couch. The blonde patch of Bill’s chest that had long ago become white was still. They never told Phil what he was supposed with the cat when it died. His vet should have handed out tri-fold brochures with instructions. Maybe without pictures. Definitely without pictures. Instead, in typical millennial fashion, Phil Googled “what to do with your dead cat.” The “a” key came in handy. Phil (Mary) started his next blog post: “What to do with that dead cat in your freezer.” It was satirical. It was raw. It went viral. Preparing the Carcass: 1. Remember to defrost the cat ahead of time; you don’t want to have to throw the meat in the microwave before cooking. 2. When the cat reaches room temperature, skin it, being careful not to damage too much meat. 3. Remove the meat from all the leg bones, and place in a plastic bag. Using a mallet, gently beat the plastic bag to tenderize the meat. (For some extra flavor, add a dash of pineapple juice.) Mary-the-Schaumberg-housewife began getting interview requests. Animals Have Hearts! (AHH!) began a petition to boycott Healthy Eating U that had received ten thousand signatures in three hours. #catrecipe was trending on Twitter, and at least three people had emailed Mary with recommendations on the best types of carving knives to be used on cats. Healthy Eating U had requested an emergency conference call. Phil wondered if he should put on his Mary voice when he got fired over the phone, or

just give in and answer it in his normal voice. Phil dialed the Healthy Eating U conference number. “Mary?” said Sharon. “Yes, that’s her number,” said Sheila “Can you hear us, Mary?” said Christine. “This is absolutely ludicrous,” came from either Talia or Samantha. “Sssshhhhh, ladies,” said the big-boss-lady Pamela. “Mary, how’re you doing today, sweetheart?” Muffled snickers came through the other lines. “Just fine, thanks,” Phil said in Mary’s voice. “Mmmhhmmm,” Pamela said. “Well, I think you know why I called.” Yes, he knew why he was talking to Pamela, though he didn’t understand why the entire writing staff was also on the line to witness his termination. He turned to Bill to make a comment, but then recoiled and focused back on the phone. “I think I do,” Phil (Mary) mumbled. “You, my friend, are bringing in the big bucks,” Pamela said. “This is the kind of thing I want to see from all of my writers. Mary’s had more hits on her recipe today than all the rest of you have had the entire year.” Silence. “That’s right. This young lady is pulling in the money from all the advertising traffic. Let’s give a round of clicks for her ingenuity.” (Healthy Eating U had long ago discovered that it was difficult to clap while holding a phone in one hand, so they had adopted the practice of clicking their tongues instead. It had always freaked Phil out.) A series of intermittent clicks emitted from Phil’s speaker. “Aw, come on now ladies. I am putting some of the money Phil has drummed up for us back into the food-trial budget, so you can afford to burn some calories putting your tongue to your gums!” A fuller, cicada-esque series of clicks could be heard. Phil dropped his head onto his keyboard and let his still-chirping phone fall on the desk. On the screen in front of him, an endless stream of “a” began to fill an empty Word document.

LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

vita dadoo lomeli on borders, identity, and refusing to compromise

“something there is that doesn’t love a wall...” * As I sit down with Vita over our first cups of coffee in the morning, both of us outfitted in rumpled bathrobes, I’m reminded of how natural this conversation feels - we have ones like it all of the time. We taste a bit of deja vu in our coffee. I know how many of our readers out there probably won’t have the opportunity to speak like this to Vita about her status as a Mexican immigrant during this particularly tumultuous moment in United States history. So, the following is a transcription of what it’s like to be Mexican in a U.S. governed by bigotry and racism, all while navigating the through distribution requirements of Davidson life: job-hunting, academia, and identity, to name a few. I think it’s important.

C: How often is this feeling with you? Do you feel unwanted constantly? Or does the feeling come and go?

Claire: So, please say your full name and where you’re from.

V: It depends. Sometimes I’ll have really full days, so it’s like when I finally get a minute to sit down and just, yeah, just sit, that’s when I start really feeling weighed down. I start to feel an ideological duty to be with my home country. I feel a bit rebellious, like yeah if the US doesn’t want me I don’t want it either. I don’t want to beg anyone to accept my cultural differences. That feels like giving the nation a blow job, like massaging the nation’s phallus, you know?

Vita: Full full name?

C: (laughing) I guess, I guess.

C: (laughs) Yeah, the long one.

V: Yeah, so, I felt myself starting to change. I always kind of wanted to assimilate to US culture and be accepted, but after all of this I just found that I don’t want to fit the sensibilities of all of these

V: Okay, my name is Vita Dadoo Lomeli. So, well, I was born Mexico City. I actually have a Polish passport as well, from my mom’s heritage. My dad was born in Argentina and he’s Indian. C: Great, so could you describe in one short statement your relationship to your home country, to Mexico? V: Hm, I would actually pick a word instead. Can I do that? Okay yeah. The word I would choose would be “affective.” If I have to articulate something that is really true to me, I have to articulate in Spanish. I think it’s less artificial than English, so whenever I think of Mexico I conjure images of language and color and anything that makes you feel good inside. C: So then, what was your relationship to the United States like when you were growing up in Mexico? V: I think I had an aspirational relationship to the US. Once again, for me, this is manifested through language. I have always wanted to study, live, and work in the US. It’s pinned as the land of opportunity, and it’s kind of understood in Mexico that if you’re a hard-working intellectual or businessperson, you’ve got to work in the US. So, in order to achieve this end I’ve always felt like I’ve had to rid myself of any accent. C: Oh, accent? V: Yeah, any kind of accent that could point to where I’m from. I feel like there’s always this marker of difference when you hear an accent. Opportunities are closed off in the US if you have an accent, or else you’re exoticized and categorized as an “other.” I never wanted my nationality to be a point of association or an obstacle. C: So, let’s get into Trump’s idea to build a wall between Mexico and the US. What were your parents’ or friends’ concerns directly after the election? V: Interestingly enough, I was in India during the election, and I was with a bunch of American kids who would actually be pretty unaffected by the situation, but who still produced a really strong reaction to this. Everyone was very disheartened, and actually apol11

ogetic to me. It’s just a horrible feeling to feel unwanted in a country where you’re trying to make a life.

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“I don’t want to beg anyone to accept my cultural differences. That feels like giving the nation a blow job, like massaging the nation’s phallus, you know?” other people. Being a little different is an asset and I’m not going to compromise anymore. C: Okay, this is so interesting. I would have assumed that having a guy like Trump as president would have made you more afraid of demonstrating your identity, not the other way around. V: Yeah, and I mean I’m white, like I have white skin. I don’t have that much of an accent. I could “pass,” but it’s really not about assimilation or passing at all. No one should ever have to do that, because I tried and it was miserable. C: Yeah, well it makes me really happy to hear that. V: For me to not be afraid of what’s happening right now is important not just for me as an individual, but for this collective of immigrants who feel like we’re on the periphery. C: Ugh, we’re running out of time, anything else to add? V: Oh! Yes. Add in that poem by Robert Frost . . . The way I view politics is that they are inseparable from identity. National politics are identity politics, because not much is more formative than culture and nationality. I want to be careful of verging on the effusive, but in my opinion, Vita has proven her identity as informed and rational, as she has handled offenses towards her race and nationality with composure.

Claire Heartfield * “from “Mending Wall” by Robert Frost

Puff of

Cigarette

Smoke Jacket zipped, hood up. I’m mentally prepared for the cold, but my body is never quite ready for the brisk wind that hits my face. I step out my front door and deeply inhale in the morning air. I catch a puff of cigarette smoke blown unknowingly into my face. Instantly I’m taken back to my North Carolina college town - to a dive bar with plywood walls where I used to make a pilgrimage every Thursday night. Religiously I would prepare myself to match the picture on the piece of plastic which claimed that I was 23 years old and from Florida. I would parade into this magical place where Miller High Lifes and cheap cigarettes were all I could ever want. I was really living. I’d wake up on Friday mornings smelling of stale cigarettes and stumble to class with last night’s makeup still on as a badge of pride. But then I got sick - really sick. The doctors all said I wouldn’t be able to drink anymore. Every drink was destroying my body from the inside out. Not willing to miss my weekly adventure, I vowed to go sober once I felt healthy again. I wanted to feel alive. I paraded in, like

Grace Woodward

always, on a classic Thursday night. The Miller High Lifes and cheap cigarettes were in abundance, but the floors were sticky. The boys were sweaty. Someone blew cigarette smoke right in my face and it hit me that this place was not at all what I thought. People slung pitchers of cheap beer. They slurred their words and danced horrendously. They were all too desperate with that cute guy in their math class. Only months ago that was me. I feel a snowflake land on my nose. I breathe deeply. The street I walk down is filled with Christmas lights, and my nose catches freshly baking cinnamon rolls. In the past four months I have lived on my own in a foreign city. I have eaten crepes on the side of the street in Paris, and lain on the beach in Spain. I have discussed politics with a Swedish military officer and baked gingerbread cookies with a Swedish family who have warmly welcomed me into their world. I never smell of stale cigarettes, and my memories are all crystal clear. This is what it feels like to really live.

Art by Yasemin Tekgurler LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

Roadtrip Playlist Competition We asked the student body what 10 songs they would listen to on repeat on a road trip from Davidson to Toronto, Canada. Here are our submissions!

Photograph by Judson Womack

Winning Playlist by: Will Thurston

Adam Green

Perth -- Bon Iver See Her Out -- Francis and the Lights The Wild Hunt -- The Tallest Man On Earth White Ferrari -- Frank Ocean Shift (Alternate Version) -- Grizzly Bear Train Song -- Vashti Bunyan Twenty Miles -- Deer Tick Blonde on Blonde -- Nada Surf Alpenglow -- S. Carey The Ripe Tide -- Beirut

The Waters --Anderson .Paak feat. BJ the Chicago Kid 8 (circle) -- Bon Iver Get Away -- The Internet Diddy Bop -- Noname feat. Raury and Cam O’bi Used to Love U -- John Legend Identikit -- Radiohead Wat’s Wrong -- Isaiah Rashad feat. Zacari and Kendrick Lamar After the Fall -- Norah Jones The Less I Know the Better --- Tame Impala Summer Friends -- Chance the Rapper feat. Jeremih and Francis the Lights

Tom DeMarzo

Stefan DeShazo

All Star -- Smash Mouth All Star -- Smash Mouth Faith -- George Michael All Star -- Smash Mouth Dreams -- Fleetwood Mac Kiss from a Rose -- Seal All Star -- Smash Mouth All Star -- Smash Mouth The Power of Love -- Huey Lewis and the News All Star -- Smash Mouth

All I Want (Diplo Remix) -- Dawn Golden Final Song -- MØ Stranger -- Peking Duk, Elliphant Light -- San Holo Playground -- Møme Foolish -- Tourist The Mack -- Nevada, Mark Morrison, Fetty Wap 3 Strikes -- Terror Jr Devastated -- Joey Bada$$ Motley Crue (Whiiite Remix) -- THEY.

Kenzie Bell

Madi Driscoll and Colin Vaida

Just One Day -- Mighty Oaks Lost in My Mind -- The Head and the Heart Seaside -- The Kooks Way back When -- Kodaline Sleep On The Floor -- The Lumineers Carolina Calling -- Mispo The Great Unknown -- Jukebox The Ghost Home -- Johnnyswim Nowhere With You -- Joel Plaskett Emergency All Day All Night -- Moon Taxi

Raspberry Beret -- Prince Sister Golden Hair -- America Shining Star -- Earth Wind and Fire First Taste -- Fiona Apple We’ve Got The Jazz -- A Tribe Called Quest Born to Run -- Springsteen La Tortura -- Shakira Shape of You -- Ed Sheeran Ghetto Gospel --Tupac and Elton John Sunday Morning -- Maroon 5

LIBERTAS VOL. 23 NO. 5

listen @ play. spotify.com/user/ libertasdavidson

OSCAR PRE-DICK-TIONS What would be picked if they were picked by a dick! BEST PICTURE

BEST ACTOR

Manchester By the Sea

casey affleck

“Moonlight? I don’t know about that. I haven’t seen it. What movie is that? I haven’t seen that. I’ll look into that.”

“And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

BEST DIRECTOR

BEST ACTRESS

Mel Gibson

Emma Stone

“Any negative polls are fake news, just like the CNN, ABC, NBC polls in the election. Sorry, people want Mel Gibson to win.”

SUPPORTING ACTRESS

“Yes Emma Stone did a really bad job in Amazing Spider Man and even worse in La La Land...but at least she tried hard!”

BEST SONG

Nicole Kidman “Nicole Kidman has been treated so unfairly by the FAKE NEWS MEDIA. She is a great person -- always pushing me to do the right thing! Terrible!”

Can’t Stop the Feeling “Don’t believe the main stream (fake news) media. The Academy is running VERY WELL.”

SUPPORTING ACTOR

Lucas Hedges “I know Jeff Bridges well. He backed me big-time but I wasn’t interested in taking any of his calls. He’s not smart enough to win an Oscar!”

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A. Broken plug in the libraryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fishbowl B. Bulletin board in Chambers stairwell C. Chambers bathroom mirror D. Pillar in front of Chambers E. Doorway to stairwell in Smith Gallery F. Lamp post down the hill G. Homage to Rodin in sculpture garden H. Molding next to pool table in the Union

H. Identify these spaces/places on zoom.

How well do you know your campus?

LIBERTAS last word