In This Issue
Commitment Issues
Kahini Mehta 3
Blueno the Transfer Student
Hanna Rashidi 2 Moe Sattar 4
"Perfectly Innocent" Allie Cavallaro 5
BYOB: Build Your Own Booze Kia Caiting 5
Sing a Strong Song
postCover by Rémy Poisson
MAR 22
VOL 23 —
ISSUE 20
FEATURE
Blueno the Transfer Student Reflections on "Untitled (Lamp / Bear)" and the Transfer Student Experience By Hanna Rashidi Illustrated by Hanna Rashidi
A
s a result of my upbringing, I’m fairly fond of bears. Being a native Californian and a former UCLA Bruin, it’s almost part of the job description. My childhood was marked by the grizzly proudly flying on the California flag and speckled with several frightening encounters with the real thing at Yosemite. However, there is little today that could overshadow my affection for one particular bear. This bear happens to be 23 feet tall and an admittedly alarming shade of blue. I
speak, of course, of the sculpture officially known as "Untitled (Lamp/Bear)" but perhaps best known as Blueno. However, I must confess that Blueno hasn’t always occupied a warm place in my heart. I couldn’t understand why anyone would think it was a good idea to disrupt the tranquility of the surrounding colonial architecture with such a loud and assertive figure. It was only until I spent some time on this campus that I came to understand how Blueno’s journey, in some symbolic way, mirrors
my own as a mid-year transfer student at Brown. No previous affinity for bears could have prepared me for the sky blue monstrosity that confronted me the first time I stepped onto Brown’s campus this past summer. I applied to transfer to Brown without ever visiting the school in person, and although I had heard tales of the azure member of the Ursidae family currently residing on an otherwise well-composed campus, I was still thoroughly taken aback when faced with dear ol’
Spring Break Activities on Campus
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Wow. Okay. So this is my first editor's note for post- (I have publication anxiety). This started out as an uninspired editor’s note. I went through the whole process of looking through previous editor’s notes and reviewing this week's issue—the Feature is dedicated to Blueno, Narrative has a piece about my tragic commitment issues, and Arts & Culture has a piece about cocktails!—before I asked myself what I really wanted to say. And with spring break coming up and flowers in fresh bloom, I realized I wanted to acknowledge the importance of new beginnings. New beginnings, new projects, and new alliances—like the post-/Blog merge.
2 post–
I want to acknowledge the amazing work the post- staff does and how much they have helped the Bloggers make the transition from a group of four comedians with a penchant for puns to a large team of dedicated, inspired writers. So here’s to new beginnings—and to Bost. (They told me not to say that, but I can never resist a good pun.) I hope that you, our readers, are as excited about the changes coming your way as we are.
Yours,
Kahini
Lifestyle Managing Editor
1. Listen to the entire Spring Weekend discography 2. Procrastinate work due April 1st (or don’t turn it in and call it an April Fools’ joke) 3. Mess up your sleep schedule even more by sleeping for at least 15 hours 4. Stare longingly at the Ratty because you (rightfully) refused to pay for the spring break meal plan 5. Finally confront the emails that have been pressuring you to declare 6. Watch Spring Breakers on repeat until you feel even worse than you did before 7. Write an ode to the last patch of ice you see melting 8. Start planning your housing lottery strategy 9. Finally get a Shake Shack concrete while everyone else is out of town 10. Spend all week in the SciLi because your professors had the audacity to schedule exams after break
Blueno in person. The sun shone on the bright grass with a peaceful breeze winding its way through picturesque brick buildings, yet there stood this bizarre and disturbing colossus. The more I looked, the more his details unsettled me. From his blank expression to the lamp protruding through his spine hanging ominously over me, everything about Blueno was disconcerting. My shocked and confused frame of mind soon gave way to exasperation, which was quickly replaced by irritation. I found Blueno disruptive, distracting, and generally in poor taste. Blueno stood in contrast to the cohesion of the rest of the buildings, so different from their history and maturity. I remember standing in the stifling humidity of the Rhode Island summer, staring into those chipped unseeing black button eyes and thinking that this ridiculous sculpture belonged on Brown’s campus about as much as I did. My anxious mind conjured up all sorts of scenarios about how I would stick out in this prestigious place just as much as this nonsensical sculpture. Blueno has been dealing with these reactions since he came to campus and indeed since he was built. Constructed by the Swiss artist Urs Fischer in 2005 and installed on Brown’s campus in 2016, he experienced a mixed reception. Some students were bemused while others thoroughly disapproved of his rather conspicuous presence. A 2016 Blognonian poll found that students thought Blueno was uglier than the SciLi (and that’s really saying something). The debate over Blueno is not exclusive to the Brown University campus. Blueno is not the only one of his kind—he has several siblings installed around the world. These include one in the the Hamad International Airport in Qatar and one which simply sits next to an art collector's home overlooking the ocean. Blueno’s relatives are distinct from him only in their color, which is a bright yellow that’s perhaps even more perplexing to me than Blueno’s color first was. No matter where these bears are placed or what color they come in, the only unified reaction they seem to garner is opposition. Reportedly, children in the airport in Qatar refuse to go near Blueno’s canary yellow sibling due to its “creepiness,” according to Piran Cafe writer Bob Ramsak. Art collector Adam Lindemann, the owner of one of Blueno’s siblings, used the bear as retaliation against his neighbor who threatened to build a windmill shaped house. Lindemann expressed concern that the bear would be rejected by the community. According to him, the only reason this hasn’t occurred is because there isn't public access to the sculpture. In all these instances, I think it is safe to say that "Untitled (Lamp/Bear)" tends to be considered as somewhat of an outsider. Even if people aren’t directly put off by him, he never exactly blends in with his surroundings. He will always be, at his core, entirely out of place. This experience of dislocation is one I am sure many of my fellow transfer students have felt on campus. We are new and unfamiliar, and there are times when I feel as out of place and conspicuous as a 20-ton blue teddy bear. We aren’t like the Penone tree with its deceptively lifelike exterior (even
with its gravity-defying rock). Visitors on tour at Brown often have to be informed that the tree is a sculpture or else their eyes will simply glide past it. This is not the case for dear Blueno or the transfer students at Brown. We don’t meld seamlessly into our surroundings as if we were always meant to be here. We laugh at jokes we don’t understand and stumble our way through the lingo of the school. The first time I went to Andrews I froze when asked “Credit or points?” because I had no idea what a credit was. During transfer orientation, an advisor assured us that we wouldn’t be walking around like characters from The Scarlet Letter with bright red T’s identifying us. While we may not have scarlet letters on our jackets (or rather, our industrialstrength winter coats), there are days when we might as well be the same bright shade as Blueno as we walk around campus looking cluelessly at unfamiliar buildings, unwilling to ask directions and admit that we don’t have any idea where we’re going and that we’re going to be late to class. We spent our first few days at Brown trying to learn the five different names every entity here seems to have (our transfer advisors eventually sent a helpful pdf ) and the acronyms that go along with all of them. I still rely entirely on Google Maps to navigate around campus. My transfer class has been on campus for over a month now, reaching the point where we’ve learned not to call Jo’s “Josiah's.” However, there are still times when we are unmistakably “other.” This is not to say that other students react negatively to us—it is simply that it is too easy to feel as though we are imposters hidden among the real Brown students. I’ve heard many of my friends express confusion at how they’ve managed to “sneak past” the admissions office to get here. The first words out of my mouth when I saw my acceptance were “I’m not worthy.” Most of us seem to be in a drawn-out state of suspicion and disbelief. Some transfers choose not to introduce themselves as such while others, like me, still do so in order to prepare people for some of the faux pas that we will inevitably make—any “first-year” mistakes gaps in our knowledge. Who is Gail? What is Dear Blueno? Why is there a Beekeeping Society without any bees? It’s hard to feel deserving of this place, and sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not just a visitor surrounded by infinitely more qualified people. I’ve come to realize, however, that this feeling is not at all unique to transfers but is rather an inevitable piece of growing up. Everyone has something that they feel makes them incongruous, whether it be their background, some physical feature, or just a bad case of imposter syndrome. The hope, of course, is that this is not a permanent state. At this point, Blueno has been thoroughly accepted into the Brown community. Bluenothemed Facebook pages seem to be everywhere, and students have even created Blueno Spring Weekend tank tops and laptop stickers. I think many (if not all) will be sad to see him go when he is moved in 2021—coincidentally, the same year I graduate. It is this acceptance that I, and I’m sure many others, hope to eventually feel at Brown. I hope that by
the end of my time here, I can say “I go to Brown” without hesitation or incredulity and that soon, when I talk about this community, I will be able to say “we” instead of “they.” When speaking on the overall philosophy of his work during a lecture on campus in October 2016, Fischer said that “Art is more of a question than an answer.” The time a student spends in college is the same. Coming to Brown wasn’t the answer to finding what we were supposed to do, it was just the place that would provide the environment for us to work on that answer. We might not ever find it, honestly, but that doesn’t mean that we’ve failed in any way. This is just another step in a very long process that will probably never end. We’re not supposed to feel like we know exactly what we’re doing or like we fit here seamlessly. Blueno certainly didn’t—and honestly I think he still doesn’t—but nevertheless he is part of this campus. He is exasperating, perplexing, and altogether ridiculous, but those are the very things that have made him part of campus culture. He’s strange and out of place, and so is every student when they arrive here. But if Blueno in all his bright blue glory can be welcomed so wholeheartedly, then I think our chances are pretty good.
Commitment Issues
The Other Side of Heartbreak by Kahini Mehta Illustrated by Rémy Poisson By the time I was 12, I’d been dubbed a late bloomer. And it was true: I was late to my birth, late to shedding 60 pounds of “puppy fat,” and certainly late to most events before 9 a.m. But in the age of Tinder, Bumble, and countless other apps, which all my friends had joined months ago, I was—and as a 20-year-old, still am—also late to experiencing love. I won’t say I’m “incapable of love.” I’m too young to make judgments like that. I do know, however, that I am bad at love. And, as a general rule, I don’t like doing things that I am bad at. I came to this realization when I first started dating. I’d met him when I was just 15. Our story was something out of a Disney movie: We met at a mutual friend’s New Year’s party, hit it off, became best friends, and then started dating. And I was excited to have my first boyfriend. Really. I saw him as a rite of passage, my path to womanhood. I could finally join my friends as they grumbled about their boyfriends through hangovers from the many drinks they’d downed to forget them. Only it didn’t work out that way. My boyfriend gave me little to grumble about. He was the type of boy who makes every other guy look bad. He wrote me songs. He held my hand. And when I told him Valentine’s Day made me nauseous and that I didn’t expect any gifts, he gave me a Friday the 13th present the night before. It was a maneuver so clever that I didn’t have the
"Eighty percent of Greek mythology started with someone being attracted to a cow." “Seating at Shiru is basically Game of Thrones.” march 22, 2019 3
NARRATIVE heart to decline the stuffed teddy bear he handed me. So yes, nothing to grumble about. Or so I thought. But around a month into the relationship—which lasted, astonishingly, an entire 15 months—I began to reconsider. Was he really what I wanted? Did I even like him?
These thoughts scared me. As a person who’d always been so certain of herself, it was terrifying to feel unsure about such a central aspect of my life. I mean, the boy was friends with all of my friends. If I broke up with him, he’d take most of my social circle with him, because if I was the one to break up with him, I'd be the bad guy. That was just the way high-school politics worked where I lived. So I swallowed my feelings for months, trying to ignore the growing pit in my stomach every time he leaned in. I’d grown up hearing unique truisms like “Love is a fart; if you force it, it’s probably going to be shit”—but I was stubborn (or stupid) enough to try anyway. Over time, though, I began to question exactly how much of our relationship had been fueled by peer pressure. I came to realize that the answer exceeded an acceptable amount. My mother had always told me I was one of those people who was born to be alone. This statement used to offend me. But the deeper into my relationship I got, the more the truth began to strike me. For me, my first boyfriend had been just that: my first boyfriend. A coming-of-age landmark, a social checkmark in my list of things to accomplish. More than anything, his love had felt like an obligation to me: a shop full of china so fragile it could hardly help crumbling under my bulls’ horns. While we were dating, no one of the opposite sex even seemed to exist to my boyfriend, but my eyes strayed frequently. Of course, I never acted on those impulses; the sheer principle of the matter forbade me from doing so. And when he wanted to hold my hand during movies, I could only focus on how clammy his felt. In fact, when he told me he loved me, I sometimes felt like crying. I spent months unable to look my reflection in the eye. “If you don’t like him, then stop leading him on,” my friends told me. If only it were that simple. They were in love with their boyfriends, despite their grumbling. They couldn’t possibly understand. I couldn’t just look my boyfriend in the eyes and utter the magic words that would set myself free. It took me 15 months to work up the courage I needed. And when I did, I was on the wrong side of the breakup—socially, at least. Emotionally, he was a wreck. And sure, my friends outright stopped inviting me to places, but at least I didn’t cry myself to bed like I did while I was dating him. “He deserved better,” my best friend told me before ending our friendship. And what could I do but shrug? She wasn’t wrong. When I saw him with another girl soon after, I wanted to feel jealousy, rage—anything in the spectrum of emotions 4 post–
that would be considered “normal” for a teenage girl in my shoes. Instead, I was happy for him: He deserved the world. More than anything, I struggled with my feelings of apathy. I didn’t want to feel apathetic. I wanted to feel pain, I wanted a love so consuming that it would set my soul on fire just like it did in those old Hollywood movies my parents liked to watch. I’d never thought the most painful part of my first relationship would be my guilt. That relationship weighed on me in so many ways. But none of his friends knew any of that. All they saw were the tear stains on his cheeks, and that was enough to earn me the title of “heartbreaker.” Looking at the experiences I’ve had since then, I’d say I’m pretty bad at love. And, like I said before, I don’t like doing things I’m bad at, so until I figure it out, love is pretty much off the table. It's just not a priority right now, and probably won't be for some time. Despite the social pressure to date that I face from my friends and family, I don’t think I need to date to be happy with myself. Until further notice, I'm fine with having "commitment issues."
"Perfectly Innocent"
A Woman's Experience on Public Transit By Moe Sattar Illustrated by Gaby Trevino I ran across the street, splashing through the cold slush of melting snow to catch the RIPTA before it left me waiting 20 minutes for the next one. Safely on the line, I pulled out my Brown ID and readied to swipe—hoping that I was holding the card correctly to avoid fumbling and causing an awkward holdup. The possibility of slightly inconveniencing anyone, as well as my incessant need for validation, leads me to live day-to-day constantly worrying about being in the way. I heard the beep of a successful swipe and let out a little sigh of relief. Putting my card back in my jacket pocket as the bus started to roll forward, I scanned the seating area to find it mostly empty—not usually the case. I stumbled toward the middle, sat down, and put my earbuds in. Opening up Spotify, I decided that this was a King Princess kind of day and settled into the ease of just listening to my music, taking care to not
make awkward eye contact with the two other people on the bus. I didn't notice the middle-aged man who boarded at the next stop until he took the seat directly next to mine. Even though the bus was virtually empty. Slightly uncomfortable, to say the least, I made a point of pretending to be busy reading emails on my phone. I crossed my legs, angling away from him, but somehow this was misconstrued as a signal for him to move in and take up the room I had left. I tried ignoring his general existence, but King Princess had faded and was replaced by an internal argument in my head. You’re just reading into this too much, like you do with everything else. But why didn’t he take one of the seats closer to the front of the bus? Why sit directly next to me? Don’t be a narcissist; this is probably perfectly innocent. But also don’t turn your head to the right or make eye contact. Can you move any closer to the window? The world doesn’t revolve around you. I’m so uncomfortable. You grew up taking the subway; this is nothing. But was it “nothing”? I realize taking public transportation means having to forgo certain luxuries, including personal space. I’ve been part of the sardine pack during morning rush hour on the E train many a time. But these experiences didn't make me any less uncomfortable on the RIPTA. In fact, I felt even more of an invasion of privacy and space on this empty bus. As a young woman, I have certain safety concerns that the average male doesn’t typically need to think about—concerns I have been conditioned to know how to protect myself from. Harassment of women on public transport is a common occurrence that often goes under-reported; it’s something women fear is possible anytime they decide to take a public bus or train. Unfortunately, it just as often feels as though nothing can be done. Was it really an “accident”? Who would you tell? How could you stop it from happening again, to yourself or to someone else? Of course, harassment on public transport isn’t limited to women—this feeling of vulnerability spans across all genders and ages. However, over time, this has become an issue that women have had to deal with so frequently that we’ve just come to expect it as the status quo. And yet, I still often find myself wondering what defines harassment, what I should brush off, and what I can allow myself to mull over without feeling guilty of “overreacting.” The #MeToo era has brought to light the idea that
ARTS&CULTURE women should not simply have to accept invasions of their personal space. We now have a movement that expressly recognizes the daily occurrences women must deal with, or be aware of, in order to manufacture a safer environment for themselves. People are finally recognizing how unfair it is that women have always had to carry this burden. My first thought is that living during such a time of increased awareness is a privilege—but really, it is a right. As soon as I saw my stop approaching, I excused myself and darted off the bus, saying a quick thank you to the driver and making a mental note to move on. It was just another day, and odds were I would never see this man again. But there will inevitably be another man; perhaps again on the RIPTA, perhaps on the MTA. It will happen to me, to others. Although we are becoming a culture that increasingly brings these issues to light and tries to remedy them, harassment is so widespread that it’s difficult to find a solution that creates a safer environment for everyone. This can lead to a defeatist attitude in which the easiest, safest, and sometimes only choice we have is, seemingly, to just move on. But “moving on” normalizes and perpetuates the problem, so maybe this time I actually will—and should—keep thinking about it.
BYOB: Build Your Own Booze A Handy Guide to Cocktail Craftsmanship By Allie Cavallaro Illustrated by Caroline Hu
to mask the taste of bathtub gin, cheap alcohol from plastic bottles (we in the business call it “swill”) will go unnoticed. To this day, most cocktails rely on the same intertwined flavors as these original creations: sour and sweet. The sour portion usually comes from lemons or limes, and while I always prefer fresh-squeezed, many find hand-juicing both emotionally and physically taxing. If you have to use the presqueezed stuff, the little plastic lime-y and lemon-y boys in the fruit section of the supermarket (not those radioactive green ones you see in the juice
bougie, or making a f*ck-ton of cocktails for friends
aisle) make a good substitute.
who you want to impress, go to Eastside Mini Mart
If you want something citrus-y other than lemon
and buy a bag of ice for two dollars. While you’re
or lime, grapefruit juice pairs nicely with tequila.
there, throw in some limes so you can hit the five-
Add a bit of simple syrup, a tiny bit of lime juice, and
dollar card minimum—and have some sour on hand
top it off with sparkling water—you have a Paloma.
for later, when you realize I’m right about gimlets.
Now, you’re super classy, sipping something Ernest
Once your shaker is full of ice, add the
Hemingway probably nursed while writing The Sun
ingredients carefully: one cocktail at a time. Don’t
Also Rises, all because you swiped some grapefruits
get overzealous and spill sticky stuff on your desk,
from the V-Dub.
leaving your MacBook syrupy for months. Shake
The best way to achieve sweetness, the other
carefully. Alternative shakers can sometimes be
essential cocktail component, is by adding a liqueur
surprising and tricky bastards. After shaking for
(like triple sec and peach schnapps) or syrup. Triple
long enough that you start feeling cool, pour the
sec, a cheap orange liqueur, sweetens up a mixed
Good Stuff into your red solo cup and hold back the
drink while still adding more booze. It goes well with
ice (chill your cup in an ice bath if you want to make
most juices and liquors, so play around with it. If you
me laugh). Wow, you did it, you made a daiquiri!
don’t want to pay money for things—or you want to
And there you have it. Just like that, you’re
pay less—simple syrup makes another great add-on.
ready to be a bartender at your next frat party…
All you have to do is pour some white sugar into a
and all the dummies who didn’t read this will think
mason jar, add an equal amount of heated water
you’re an absolute god for making something that’s
from your kettle (aka: Jo’s microwave), put on the
not straight Svedka.
lid and shake it like a polaroid picture. Huzzah! You made a thing. It’s called simple syrup and lasts in the fridge for about four days. You can add this to pretty much anything you want to make sweeter. I put a bit
My darling friends, there are so many more ways
of simple syrup in my gimlets (gin, lime juice, simple
to get plastered than by drinking vodka straight
syrup, shake with ice, pour into a coupe so you feel
out of plastic bottles. I, as an alcohol expert having
like Jay Gatsby), but you can also use it in margaritas
served as professional bartender making four dollars
instead of triple sec (two parts tequila, one part
an hour at a bowling alley, am here to tell you to class
triple sec or simple syrup, one part lime). What’s a
up your game. Believe me, I get it: Parties are gross,
part? That takes us to...
so gross I can understand why you’d think you have to drink gross alcohol to tolerate them. But did you know that you can also power through the hours with something straight-up tasty? And that you can make it yourself?
“Allie, help me! How do I measure in ounces?! Where can I find a jigger?!” Hold your horses, friendos. Let's start with
How?
chilling in their rooms, but if you have a shot glass,
Without further ado, let’s talk cocktails:
that’s a good estimate. If you’re a oddball, and you
My friends think I’m some sort of magician for
have tablespoons, a mason jar, or one of those little
being able to mix drinks. Although my bowling alley
plastic measuring cups you get with liquid cough
bartender experience may intimidate you, the truth
syrup, a shot is 1.5 oz or about 45 ml. This translates
is, I was a terrible bowling alley bartender who made
to about three tablespoons.
cocktails up because she didn’t actually know how
Let’s break down a simple cocktail together:
to make them. And they were terrible cocktails. Why
the daiquiri—a favorite of your favorite writer/
am I so skilled now? Well, I discovered the secret to
alcoholic, Hemingway (not me, I’m more of a gimlet
the great cocktail, and it is: the internet.
gal). Perhaps this is surprising; most are familiar
The internet is full of these things called
with the drink as it has been redefined by Chili’s bars
“recipes.” A recipe is a thing that you ask Google
nationwide—trashy garbage. But the classic daiquiri
about, and then Google tells you how to make things
is actually classy, dead simple, and delicious.
that aren’t sh*t. What are the parts of a recipe?
The drink consists of 2 oz light rum, ¾ oz
Generally, ingredients, quantity, and instructions. So,
fresh lime, and ¾ oz of that simple syrup we just
what’s first?
talked about. You have all the stuff. You know the Ingredients
because “Oh my god, WTF is orgeat syrup?” First, dial down your ambitions; there’s no need to start off making mai tais. Classic, fundamental cocktails
Fighting Patriarchy in Words & Music
By Kia Caiting illustrated by Rémy Poisson
Quantities
the basics. It’s true, most people don’t have jiggers
Starting out, cocktails can be intimidating
Sing a Strong Song
measurements. So, how do you make it? That brings us to our final section. Instructions “Add all the ingredients into a shaker with ice, shake until well-chilled, strain into a chilled glass.”
never require gathering obscure ingredients. There’s
That may sound scary, but it’s not. “ALLIE, I
no reason to think you need a full bar in your dorm
DON’T HAVE A SHAKER!” I know you don’t. Do you
room to make a decent cocktail.
have a jam jar? A mason jar? A travel coffee mug?
I’ve found that prohibition-era cocktails are
Yes? You do? Then you have a f*cking shaker. Take
a great place to start. They are very simple, tasty,
your shaker or shaker alternative, and stuff some ice
and often have cute names—like gimlets, and Bee’s
you stole from Jo’s in it. Don’t. Skip. The. Ice! Every
Knees. Moreover, because the flavors were invented
cocktail tastes better served cold. If you’re feeling
If I told you 'bout my sex life, you'd call me a slut When boys be talkin' about their bitches, no one's makin' a fuss (Lily Allen, "Hard Out Here") It’s no secret: The patriarchy exists to screw women over. From the workforce to the schoolyard, systems ingrained with sexism lie in wait, ready to steal our agency and put us down. But what’s horrific about institutionalized sexism—its true paradox— is how alone it makes us feel. I’ve been ignored and shamed, told to be quiet, that I’m too big or too small, that my feelings are irrational. Some days, I feel like I’m the only girl in the world, and I might always, if it were not for Spotify. Female artists like Jorja Smith, The Spice Girls, Miss Lauryn Hill, Demi Lovato, and Aretha Franklin make me feel less alone; I know from their songs that they have endured everything I have. In a world that has taught us to hate ourselves, they have instead dared to love themselves (and other women) and celebrate their vulnerabilities, sexualities, and frustrations. With their music, they have created a sonic space for anger alongside love, a space to undermine the very messages that have shaped their lives. These women are just a small sample of the artists I’ve included in my carefully vetted “f*ckthepatriarchy” playlist on Spotify. It is six hours and 20 minutes of strength and vulnerability; sex and frustration; life-loving, ass-shaking exuberance; profound, dignified suffering. There’s `90s R&B, `60s Soul, and even a Dixie Chicks song for good measure (let’s all be honest, “Wide Open Spaces” is kind of a march 22, 2019 5
ARTS&CULTURE bop). No matter their personal takes on feminism, no song or artist on this playlist can be called apolitical; they are women taking up space and refusing to apologize for doing so. Some artists relish in resisting the patriarchy through their music, while others go about it in a more understated way (and might not even claim to be doing so). Aretha Franklin demands respect, Maggie Rogers celebrates her independence, and the members of Salt-N-Pepa just want us to know that they are getting it and will not apologize. It is my most musically incoherent playlist, and yet all its different sounds are tied together in my mind by three words with which I have a complicated relationship: “I hate men.” Of course, I don’t actually hate all men, nor do these artists—nor should anyone. But a pop song isn’t real life; it’s a space for exaggerated emotions, melodramatic narratives, and screaming to the sky. When I put this music on, each new song reinforcing the last, it feels okay to let my emotions get a little carried away as well; it seems okay to hate men. I see how such a playlist (and the incredible amount of time I spend listening to it) might come off as kind of problematic—and full disclosure, there is, indeed, a song entitled “I Hate Men (I Hate All Men).” In my defense, it happens to be a certifiable banger, and you should check it out. Besides, what do I need to defend? Frankly, I have done enough of that in my life and am tired of it. The truth is the playlist allows me, if only for a short time, to be man-hatey, and its creation was prompted by the realization that I needed to allow myself the space to feel all the pain, anger, and disappointment that comes with being female. What better way to do this than by celebrating the women who have dedicated their professional lives to documenting emotional truths? The playlist has been the soundtrack for my own personal feminist awakening as I’ve grappled with its central question: Is there value in symbolically hating men? Mama said, you're a pretty girl What's in your head, it doesn't matter (Beyonce, "Pretty Hurts") Indeed, the idea of hating anything makes me uncomfortable. Growing up, I was programmed to believe that anger was not a part of my emotional toolkit. Sure, boys would be boys—wild, impulsive, and brash—but girls? Girls could be maternal, nurturing, and collaborative, not to mention catty, calculating, and backstabbing. What girls could never be was angry… at least according to TV shows, commercials, movies, and the gender dynamics I internalized on the playground. Anger was for boys. Lacking any means of expressing anger, however, left me and many other girls with few options when we were excluded from playing with the boys at recess, when we began hearing snide comments having to
do with the contours of our pubescent bodies, when we heard older men call us “sweetie” and “honey” on street corners, and when we realized that we couldn’t safely attend parties without deploying the age-old buddy system because there could be drugs in our drinks. Instead of getting mad, many of us internalized sexism and accepted it as part of our everyday existence. Hating men (or, rather, the roles and behaviors into which men are generally pigeonholed), the natural response to these woes wasn’t a possibility. Or so I thought. Even if it makes others uncomfortable I wanna love who I am Even if it makes others uncomfortable I will love who I am (Janelle Monae, "Q.U.E.E.N.") My discovery of these songs, these women, changed that. What began as an effort to diversify my playlist (i.e. stop listening solely to white-boy indie) transformed into a discovery of a sonic space in which it was okay to scream, to yell, to cry, and to blame men—condemn them, even. It was not a space dominated by reason or moderation, but by unadulterated, unabashed, exaggerated emotions that were beautiful for the very reason that they were at the same time real and larger than life. Christina Aguilera has a son, whom she presumably loves very much. She also has an incredible song entitled “I Hate Boys.” When I got sick of male friends not even trying to understand my daily fears and frustrations, I was empowered by Lily Allen agreeing that it is “hard out here for a b*tch.” None of them apologized, ever, and so maybe I didn’t have to either. Without judgment, I could love men, hate them, and say I hated them
“Renell’s work reminds us that if we want to consume art in Berlin from a smorgasbord of international artists, we need to understand the way that events like Berlin Art Week erase the continual harm done to communities across the globe.” Tal Frieden, “Cyborgs, Not Goddesses” 3.23.18
“Giant Robot and Same Difference evoke truths that are often erased by the model minority myth: a defiant and disobedient Asian America.” Pia Ceres, “Asian American Slacker” 3.23.17
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whenever my feelings told me it was true. But when I’d try the words out, there was still one more roadblock: How could I say I hated men when not all men are bad, and, hell, some of them are even pretty great? And, because I so genuinely cared about the well-being of the men and boys in my life, how could I say I hated them in such general terms? That’s just plain ol’ reverse sexism, right? But I quickly realized that wasn’t the point. The phrase was intentionally hyperbolic; it had nothing to do with individual people or qualities. Rather, it was a symbolic tool, a tiny verbal Band Aid to heal a festering wound of subordination and inequality, as old as written history. Few things are quite as satisfying as staring into the eyes of a beloved female friend, knowingly nodding your head, and saying those oh-so-familiar words: “I hate men.” Sometimes, when the mood is light and sardonic, we’ll say the words jokingly, and other times they’ll come out when we are genuinely ready to punch a wall. The phrase is multivalent and full of hermeneutic possibility; it is at once a moment of catharsis, a declaration of war, a sob, a celebration, and an acknowledgement of the bullsh*t we all put up with. Fair? Maybe not. The epitome of rational discourse we love to venerate? Definitely not. But isn’t that the genius of music? It is a vehicle to express all that is raw, irrational, and complex. We all need a space just to be human, and this phrase and its playlist are mine. The world is still imperfect, but when I speak those words, and jam out to “Truth Hurts” by Lizzo, I suddenly feel as though I’m sticking it to every boy and every man who ever made me feel less-than, and that is a powerful thing.
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