post- 9/21/18

Issue

In This

Cooking in Dorms

Abbie Hui 3

The False Dichotomy

Caroline Ribet 2

Listen to the Coyote Danielle Emerson 5

Notes from the Noodle Nook Naomi Kim 4 Julian Towers 5

a Future

Thank God I Have

postCover by Katya Labowe Stoll

SEPT 21

VOL 22 —

ISSUE 2

FEATURES

The False Dichotomy

An American Precedent for the Radical Outsider

By Caroline Ribet Illustrated by Rémy Poisson

O

Letter from the Editor

n October 31, 2017, a person drove a pickup truck onto a bike path in downtown New York City, killing eight people and injuring 11. The driver had come from Uzbekistan in 2010 and was a legal permanent resident of the United States. Segments of the media immediately connected this tragic event with “radical Islam.” Fox News’s Ned Ryun asked the members of American society to “use common sense to protect ourselves from radical Islamic terrorists.” Ryun explained, “Radical Islam is evil; it is full of hatred and seeks to destroy our way of life. Our way of life and our system of government, [sic] is anathema to radical Islam—like oil and water, they will never mix.”

The narrative that links “radicals” and Islam is familiar to us—it has been intermittently present in mainstream media and political discourse since the attacks of 9/11. But the idea that radical Islam is responsible for many troubles in America is less a reality than an idea, a myth that serves to unify Americans against a perceived common enemy. In 2018 so far, 10,391 people in the United States have died from gunshot wounds. Zero have died from terrorist attacks.

In a narrow sense, Americans’ fear of “radical Islam” may seem recent, but it is an example of a broader phenomenon that has been around for a long time: the "radical" outsider. Fear of radical

I stop reading the news whenever I come

anarchists was widespread in the early 1900s, as Americans worried that immigrants were stealing jobs, degrading society, and bringing less civilized ways of life to the United States.

Although the late 19th century saw several violent events that the media connected (in some cases fairly, in others wrongly) to radical anarchist immigrants as well, it was not until the assassination of President William McKinley in 1901 by a Polish American with anarchist leanings that widespread xenophobia became a real political project. In an address to the nation in 1901, Theodore Roosevelt described anarchy as “a crime against the whole human race.” Social and political fear of anarchists reached a zenith during the Red Scare, a pervasive American paranoia about immigrants and rebels who embraced socialist, communist, and anarchist ideologies. Realizing that American politics has evoked similar rhetoric and legislation regarding different groups of outsiders in the past can help us to take the broad view on our own political moment.

A 1901 Washington Post article argued that the United States could protect itself from radical outsiders in its “barring of gates of this country against the sort of human vermin who bring into it from other lands the lawless ideas.” Indeed, the idea of using legislation to keep borders closed to “lawless” radical immigrants was as

every once in a while. Reading the articles

hear about events via word of mouth, they have

in this issue have helped me to reset and

no impact and slip easily in and out of your

reconnect, and as we come to the end of this

mind. Just this week, I heard and forgot about Hurricane Florence at least three consecutive times. Each time, I felt a pang of guilt; I had

remember everyday injustices, tune in to the

been stranded in Houston during Hurricane Harvey just last year, and it was hard to believe

1.

The season

week, I hope our writers can remind you of

2.

Niagara

the need to cherish legacies, listen to stories,

3.

Of Man

people around you as well as your body’s needs,

4.

Of Rome

metabolic or otherwise.

5.

Of the House of Usher

6.

Free

7.

In love

8.

First snow

9.

Jennifer Lawrence’s at the 2013 Oscars

how distant and disconnected that memory seems from my present reality.

Sincerely, As I learned last year, a hurricane forces

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Top Ten Falls

to reflect and empathize. This is necessary

back to campus. It’s a horrible habit—when you

you to slow down, giving you nothing but time

popular in the early 20th century as it is today.

Congress passed the Anarchist Exclusion Act in 1903 and the Immigration Act in 1918. Both laws were designed to keep the U.S. safe from “dangerous” immigrants. The first prevented the entry of anarchists. The second allowed the government to deport them. In 1919, 249 alien radicals were deported. The vast majority of these deportees had no history of terrorist activities or criminal records. It was their belief in theoretical anarchism that made them subject to deportation.

President Donald Trump’s own travel ban (which was recently—and in my view, wrongly— upheld by the Supreme Court) is entitled “Protecting the Nation from Foreign Terrorist Entry into the United States.” Even its name is propaganda that employs myths about safety to perpetuate dangerous and unfounded racist paranoia. After signing his first travel ban into law, Trump boasted, "I am establishing new vetting measures to keep radical Islamic terrorists out of the United States of America.”

Contrasting traditional Western values against the values of radical others in a false dichotomy of good and evil is a political tactic that unites politicians across time. It has been applied to Muslims at least since the attacks of 9/11. President George Bush said in a speech in 2002 about Islam,

Jennifer editor - in - chief of post -

10.

Of my GPA

NARRATIVE “Our war is a war against evil. This is clearly a case of good versus evil, and make no mistake about it— good will prevail.” On his first international trip as president, Trump also described his mission as a “battle between good and evil,” claiming that Muslims who are perceived to be radical are “barbaric criminals who seek to obliterate human life and decent people, all in the name of religion."

The First Red Scare helps us evaluate this rhetoric more objectively, because it helps us see that ideas connecting radical outsiders with danger are bolstered by politicians and the media, rather than evidence. It is not difficult to see the link between the articles published in the early 1900s and the rhetoric that now populates our own political discourse. If one were to take articles from the early 20th century and replace words like “anarchist” and “red” with words like “Muslim” or “immigrant,” these articles would not seem out of place in some mainstream news sources today.

While targeted legal actions like the travel ban and early 20th-century immigration laws make some people feel safer, they do not make anyone safer. After the ban was announced, The Atlantic ran an article entitled “Trump’s Immigration Order Is a Propaganda Victory for ISIS.” It was authored

by Charlie Winter, a researcher at the International Centre for the Study of Radicalism. In it, he explains that the ban “will go far to symbolically aid and abet the very terrorists that the president says he wants to keep out, popularizing and reinforcing their binary worldview.” Rhetoric that employs false dichotomies of good and evil to juxtapose American values with those mythical and inherently violent ideologies that are often attributed to radical Islam bolsters the terrorist groups that perpetuate violence around the world.

The travel ban is also damaging in the most personal ways, seriously affecting people with connections to Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria, and Yemen—the countries that are targeted by the travel ban. I spoke to a family friend, an Iranian immigrant and an American citizen who requested to remain anonymous for this story.

Though he commented that “there are more unfortunate cases,” and that “the travel ban has affected me almost indirectly, and luckily not so badly,” he has to fly across the world when he wants to see his parents, who are residents of Tehran.

“Before the travel ban issue,” he explained, “I had applied for my parents to get a green card. Because in the U.S. there is no long-term visa for some nationalities including Iranians. The only way that people from Iran can visit relatives in the U.S. is a green card.” Even though his parents are green card holders, making them lawful residents of the United States, an immigration lawyer warned that “because of Trump’s new travel ban, they will not be allowed to enter the country.” His parents would be turned around at the airport.

Though my friend is able to see his own good fortune relative to others', he faces what some would consider extreme obstacles to see his family.

Because he did not complete his military service in Tehran, he cannot go see his parents either. Instead, they have to meet in places like Istanbul.

When we see terrifying stories in the news like the 2017 New York City pickup truck incident, we can ask ourselves what might motivate a person to commit such an attack. In fact, our country’s tendency to portray the ideologies of outsiders as fundamentally at odds with American ideals might serve as confirmation for those groups of outsiders who believe the same: that we are poisonous to them. By having inclusive attitudes and policies for individuals of all belief systems, backgrounds, and cultures, the United States can limit the appeal of these terrorist organizations.

One 2016 NPR story explained, “Organizations like ISIS take advantage of people who, because of racism or religious or political discrimination, have been pushed to the margins of society.” Instead of pushing people to the margins, the United States has the opportunity to welcome individuals of all backgrounds. The travel ban legislation—which is barely veiled racism—and the Supreme Court decision that upheld it legitimize racism and justify fears of an imaginary radical “other.” We do not have to give into the fear of the radical outsider that was so pervasive a century ago.

The relationship between the government and the people is not always easy to parse. It is not clear if it is culture that informs politics or if laws and legislation inform culture. In this case, I believe that the official position of the federal government and President Trump’s executive order legitimize those strains of American culture that give into fear of the radical outsider. As individuals and as a community, we can use our culture to fight back.

There is no recipe for doing this, but in my liberal hometown, signs depicting a woman wearing a hijab captioned,“Everyone is Welcome Here,” are ubiquitous. This seems like a pretty good start.

Cooking in Dorms

How to Feed Yourself

T

By Abbie Hui illustrated by Rémy Poisson

he thought of college food brings absolute excitement to some, but a dull headache to others. I remember fretting over the regular vs.

Flex meal plans the summer before my freshman year and finally choosing the latter. I chose to embrace the freedom of Flex, as I assumed I would eat out on Thayer Street. I also kept an open mind about the possibility of working on my undeveloped culinary skills in a dorm kitchen.

With this mindset, I arrived on campus as a brighteyed, eager freshman, ready to tackle my studies and nutritional goals.

After I had begun several loving relationships with Ratty oatmeal and omelettes, Andrews poké bowls, and Blue Room muffins, the appeal of university food choices eventually diminished.

Meanwhile, I explored Thayer’s eateries with my new friends, who would describe me as a voracious eater. by CHLOE.’s Pesto Pasta and La Creperie’s

Catherine crepe satiated my cravings. However, the expense of eating out for many meals was not sustainable on my student budget.

Ultimately, I turned to the Keeney kitchen.

Oven, check. Stove, check. Sink, check. I was ready to start cooking. Thankfully, I had purchased some basic cooking utensils when I first moved in, so all I needed to cook were some ingredients.

Organizing a Whole Foods trip with my friends, I happily went grocery shopping and purchased eggs, stir-fry beef, prepackaged frozen tuna, and vegetables. I managed to make two edible, albeit slightly overcooked, dishes the next morning.

After these initial attempts at adulting, I established a schedule where I would cook every other weekend. One of my favorite dishes is the egg muffin, which is inspired by the Blue Room’s breakfast egg sandwiches. This is a foolproof recipe: simply preheat the oven to 375° F, coat the muffin tray with oil, add your choice of protein and vegetables into each of the muffin tins, fill them with a beaten egg and milk mixture, and then bake

them for 15-20 minutes.

Over the course of my first year, I grew and adapted my culinary knowledge from a few basic recipes and ingredients to some truly delectable dishes. This school year, I’m employing the skills I gained from last year’s experience to cook in my sophomore dorm’s kitchen. As with many other skills, one’s cooking ability will improve with time, but these useful tips helped me to cook better in dorm kitchens: have basic cooking utensils, be creative with kitchen gadgets, use a few basic spices and recipes, and cook in bulk.

Dorm kitchens are not always well-stocked, so check that yours has the essential tools or get your own. Cooking will be easier when you have access to a knife, cutting board, can opener, stainless steel omelette pan, saucepan with a lid, sheet pan, and spatula. Designate a box to carry your cookware as well as other important kitchen supplies like oven mitts, food storage containers, aluminum foil, towels, heavy sponges, and dish soap.

Secondly, look beyond your basic cooking utensils and be creative with your kitchen gadgets.

Having the right tools and knowing many ways to use them make cooking much easier and so much more fun. Let’s take muffin tins as an example.

Other than making those delicious egg muffins, muffin tins can be used for brownie baking, mini sweet or savory pie making, and more. Another versatile tool is the mug. When you crave something more substantial than a beverage, try following an easy recipe for mug cakes, cookies, quiches, or even spaghetti. Adhere to the saying “quality over

“That’s my favorite joke about friction.”

“If at first you don’t succeed… dig a hole and cry… because you’ll never be good enough.”

“I think I like Trident gum, but I’ll always be a Hubba Bubba Boi.” SEPTEMBER 21, 2018 3

NARRATIVE quantity,” and purchase high-quality multipurpose items so that you have cookware that will last you throughout your college career. The 20% off coupons at Bed Bath & Beyond are one way to make purchasing such kitchen utensils a good deal and investment.

After your Bed Bath & Beyond shopping trip, make a trip to the grocery store. Don’t forget to grab a few spices that can be added to virtually any recipe. Some of my favorites are teriyaki sauce and garlic powder—they make for a perfect marinade sauce and seasoning. Soak your choice of greens, chicken, pork, shrimp, or beef in teriyaki sauce for at least an hour before cooking to add a subtle, sweet flavor to the dish. With some garlic powder, you can garnish your pasta, seafood, or garlic bread for a wholesome, low-sodium meal. Ground dehydrated garlic is also a great addition to popcorn and nuts.

Keeping a few easy recipes on hand to practice will also make cooking simpler. Clear instructions and easy-to-source ingredients will make your cooking effortless. When you stick to recipes, you will also have an easy-to-follow routine that you can always count on.

With your simple recipes, you might overestimate the amount of ingredients you need and make a larger portion than intended when you’re first learning how to cook, but this is beneficial because you will have leftover food.

When you have these cooked meals stored for the next day or two, you gain the security of not having to worry about what to eat, which is especially helpful during busy times.

College is an exciting phase of life, but be mindful of what your body needs. Everybody’s metabolism is different, so practice your dorm cooking and tailor it to feed your body healthy and nutritious meals. I am ready to tackle my second round of dorm cooking, so let’s embark together on this fun journey of food for both the body and the mind.

Notes from the Noodle Nook

Four Types of Pho Customers

I

by Naomi Kim Illustrated By Cricket McNally

’m sweaty. It’s only been 20 minutes since my shift started, but I’ve already somehow managed to pour steaming hot broth onto my gloved hand instead of into the bowl. But now there’s no one to serve, and time seems to slow down in here, inching along at an unbearable pace. I sigh and gather stray bits of carrot and scallion into my hand, and I toss them into the trash can along with my too-big glove in one practiced motion.

And then: a customer! A girl in a Brown hoodie and tattered, wide-legged trousers stands waiting on the other side of the glass. This is Andrews on a Thursday afternoon, and I am somewhere between melting to death and going mad with boredom. I toss a bundle of noodles into the water, crank up the heat to boiling, and throw in a handful of bean sprouts.

Through all my shifts at Andrews on the pho side of the eatery, I’ve had the chance to observe the students who come to get pho. In between random spikes of busyness and interminable dull stretches, in between requests for extra mushrooms and the occasional, apologetic “Could I get one with no bean sprouts?”, I’ve had ample time to sort these

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customers into four broad categories.

The first category of customer is the distracted or disengaged one. Distraction mainly results from phones and sometimes friends. Occasionally there are students who, even at the front of the line, have their heads bent over their screens as they scroll through Facebook events or Instagram or Canvas.

I have to get their attention with a loud, “Hi! How can I help you?”

While many students generally put their phones away while requesting their toppings, there are always those who say, “Scallions,” and go right back to scrolling. Then they glance up to say, “Uh, is that parsley?” about the cilantro. Other customers aren’t necessarily looking at their phones; they’ve got an earbud in and are talking to someone, which invariably leads to moments like, “Hang on, Mom— could I get beef?—Yeah, so, anyway…”

The second category is made up of people who aren’t distracted, aren’t disengaged, but talk so quietly I can barely hear them through the glass.

The mumblers. Some of them hardly seem to be moving their lips at all.

I wonder, though, if I’ve ever been guilty of the same. Before I began working at Andrews, I didn’t understand why workers were always straining to hear when I, as a customer, could hear them perfectly well. But the world on the other side of the glass is entirely different. The unexpectedly loud sound of boiling water, some pan clanging in the kitchen, chefs joking around, music blasting overhead—the constant roaring noise leaves me trying to read mumblers’ lips. I shout, “Extra jalapeños?” and am met with frantic head shaking.

No jalapeños. That’s a big difference. Mumblers, however, don’t seem to realize that they are virtually indecipherable to anyone but themselves.

Sometimes they supplement their inaudible requests with vague gestures, and pho becomes a guessing game.

The third category of customer is the standard sort. The kind I have no complaints about. These are the people who speak loudly enough or use obvious, more effective gestures. Sometimes they’re chatting with other people, but they are paying enough attention that the line moves quickly

enough. No one is exceptionally memorable in this category.

The fourth and final type of Andrews pho customer is the friendly, personable sort. These people are friendlier and kinder than mere politeness or courtesy calls for. They greet me like an old friend even though I don’t know a single one of them. They are the ones most likely to ask, “How are you?” and to make small talk about the terrors of exam season, the long weekend, the eternal rain. Sometimes they mention what they’re concentrating in or where they’re from.

Pho can be very dull, very repetitive, and very hot. It’s the friendly small-talkers who break up the monotony and cheer me up.

Although these exchanges are essentially basic conversations between strangers, they have come to mean something to me. Pho can be very dull, very repetitive, and very hot. It’s the friendly smalltalkers who break up the monotony and cheer me up. As I watch them walk away to the register, I realize they probably have no idea what kind of effect they’ve just had. Next week when they’re back, they probably won’t even recognize me, but often, I recall their faces, their personal tidbits.

Small talk it may be, but it turns out that it can have bigger impacts than expected.

When my shift is over at last, I rip off my gloves and toss them into the trash can without a backwards glance. Good riddance! My hands can at last breathe a little. On my way to swipe out, I say goodbye to co-workers and try not to slip on the wet floor by the dishwasher. I walk back to my dorm to tackle all the readings awaiting me—but hours later, I’m suddenly yanked back into the world of Andrews when I catch a whiff of curry broth still lingering on my hands. I vow to never be a mumbler in the pho line.

ARTS&CULTURE LIFESTYLE

Listen to the Coyote

Audiobooks and the Navajo Tradition

by Danielle Emerson Illustrated By Ella Rosenblatt

M

y grandmother loved to reminisce on her days herding sheep. She’d share old farm tales, when animals roamed and angry geese poked at their backsides. We’d all gather around her cast-iron stove, breathing in the heavenly scent of burning cedar, intrigued by these stories of her past and of our history.

These were the nights I looked forward to. During the day, I scrambled around in the dirt, collected rocks, and ran through the cornfield with my band of cousins and siblings on the Navajo reservation. But as soon as the sun set, we all clambered inside and bundled up in our favorite worn blankets, hanging on my grandmother’s every word. These stories—each reflecting on various aspects of the Navajo (Diné) culture—stick with me to this day.

When I mention storytelling, many of us might imagine our beloved grandmothers pulling out a book full of beautiful illustrations with script along the margins. This was not the case in my grandmother’s home, a hogan—the customary dwelling of the Navajo people. My grandparents relied on traditional Navajo storytelling, which was passed down orally.

In fact, the Navajo language didn’t have a formal written component until missionaries and settlers arrived in the Southwest. In the early 20th century, the first Navajo alphabet set was finally published, but it was rarely used by native speakers. Despite the contemporary obstacles, our culture of oral storytelling remains intact to this day.

We listen. We reflect. We respond. Our practice is a social activity. In those moments, we’re all present.

During the winter season, my grandmother told stories of Coyote and the animals. I remember how she looked each of my siblings in the eye and said, “You can’t tell these stories after the first thunder.” She explained how these tales were only for winter because that’s when the animals are hibernating and can’t hear us recount their history. Though most of these stories can now be found in books, growing up, I experienced them by ear.

Each of my grandmother’s words took on a lyrical sound, rhythm drawing me in and out with each recollection. “Coyote was a trickster.” I nudged my brother’s side, snickering. He nudged me back, indignant. “The Holy People came together to organize the stars.” I leaned forward; this was my favorite story.

“They created the constellations, placing Náhookos Bika’ii (The Big Dipper) and Náhookos Biko’ (Polaris) in the north.” I watched my grandmother’s hands, enchanted. “Once the constellations were finished, they had stars left over. One wanted to arrange them into a circle. Another wanted a diamond.” I bit my lips, listening. “But Coyote was nearby, spying from the bushes. He was angry the Holy People didn’t invite him to the meeting.” I smiled, waiting. “The Holy People had the stars laid out on a buckskin blanket. While they consulted and argued, Coyote jumped out of the bushes, took the blanket in his hands, and tossed the stars into the night sky.” I felt her words rush over me, like I too was on that blanket, hurled into the sky. My brother sat up, “And then what? Did he get in trouble?” I remember my grandmother smiling, “Hush, shiyazh (a term of endearment). Listen.” This was storytelling in its finest form.

Entering preschool, I learned the public school

system favored a different medium. To soften the transition, my father curled up with me on our frayed couch and read aloud, my stubby index finger tracing the text. With no other printed texts readily available, we’d often read tattered car manuals. On my own, I attempted to recreate those moments of revelation with my grandmother. But the text always fell flat.

Reading with my father became a daily activity—at least he did voices. As a young Native girl entering elementary school, I assimilated myself into print culture. I read school library books and forced myself to take notes. The common argument for print books among my teachers was the ability to interact directly with the text via Post-it notes, highlighters, etc. Naively, I took their words as gospel and forced silent reading.

But storytelling was never silent at home. Near the start of middle school, I began reading books aloud to myself. I played with the language. I acted out the voices, felt the rhythm. Sure, I might’ve looked a little crazy, sitting alone in a corner reading the dialogue aloud, but it felt familiar. Visits to my grandmother’s hogan became less and less frequent as the years went by. This separation intensified my relationship with print books. I threw all caution to the wind and read viciously, trying to reclaim that same rhythm. It wasn’t until my final year of middle school that I managed to complete an entire series. I always lost interest around the second book, if I could get through the first. I felt extremely out of place, watching my peers judge me for being below grade level.

Suddenly a solution hit me: audiobooks. Though I couldn’t access them outside of YouTube and the occasional library rental, they became my preferred source of literature. After school, I could plug in my headphones and walk home in reflective peace. I felt connected with the text. Memories of my grandmother and her stories returned. Tales of Changing Women and the Holy People, of Father Sky and Mother Earth, and of the Four Worlds. Audiobooks brought me back to my roots.

But I soon learned audiobooks were also the bane of public schools. Almost by default, I was deemed academically inadequate by teachers and peers alike.

Audiobooks are not branded with the prestigious reputation of print. Many discredit their undeniable value: “Oh that’s not real reading,” or, “You’re not really learning anything.” Dozens of studies, such as “Using Audiobooks to Meet the Needs of Adolescent Readers”

by Gene Wolfson, prove audiobooks are just as intellectually enriching as printed books. The belief that audiobooks carry no real significance enforces another dangerous idea—that specific forms of knowledge are inherently superior to others. To say audiobooks are not as challenging as print books is to imply that the oral history of other cultures is not as enriching as the

dominating medium.

The Diné culture carries tradition proudly. My grandparents are respected elders within my family.

Whenever they share their stories—full of lived experiences, childish mistakes, and learned wisdom— the room goes quiet. But outside of this circle, their words are ignored. It’s ironic that Native American cultures are generally known for their oral storytelling, and yet our voices remain unheard. Welcoming diverse experiences, rather than labeling them insignificant, opens various pockets of understanding. Audiobooks, just like the traditions of my grandparents and those before them, should be respected as a valued source of knowledge. All knowledge, no matter its origin or form, can enrich your perspective of the world.

It’s been eight years, and whenever I look up at the night sky, I still remember the story of Coyote and the Holy People. During these soft moments of reflection, no matter where they occur, my grandmother’s words come back to me: “Hush, shiyazh. Listen.”

Thank God I Have a Future Reflecting on Reflecting on Rapper Mac Miller’s death

By Julian Towers illustrated by Monika Hedman

T

he first thing you’re supposed to do is place yourself relative to the death. And since you asked, I remember exactly where I was. Exactly.

The collapse of Mac Miller’s body from toxic chemical overdose occurred in precise symmetry with a downward step, as I dropped through the doors of CVS into the sunny afternoon blue. I know this to be true because, sometime before landing, I felt the text in my pocket.

With the vibration, my eyes fluttered downward. Returning to center, they refocused on a scowling jogger, heaving his weight closer each instant. Middle-aged, nearing burnout, the man had signaled his approach a beat earlier, but had clearly made substantial progress since then. How absurd that I, a 20-year-old—so young, virile, and valuable—should be in his way. Pulling graciously out of the jogger’s path but feeling hateful for having had my movement interrupted, I leaned forward and blew a sarcastic little “whoa!” into his passing ear. It was good to be alive, to move my body however I cared, and to assert these as facts.

Smirking, I pulled out my cell phone and let it lead SEPTEMBER 21, 2018 5

ARTS&CULTURE me in a stiff idiot’s shuffle down Thayer Street.

When the runner looked back, I wanted him to see me sacrificing my strength and health to instant gratification. I wanted him to associate my incivility, my shallowness, and my cruelty with my age. In absolute truth, I wanted his anger. I wanted him to feel me wasting my youth while he fought to slow his own decline. But this was all over in an instant. The lessons of his dying body disappeared in my phone’s short, electronic light.

Squinting down, the text I read was simple, “Mac Miller died of overdose.” It came from the same friend who, in June, had alerted me with the equally spare “XXXtentacion is dead.” As then, the news wasn’t anything less than horrible. Yet today, my first instinct was to smile. Here was my friend—among life’s many small duties, he clearly considered it key to update Julian Towers on dead rappers. I wondered why he felt the need. Had the shock of the news rendered its truth dreamlike and vulnerable to doubt, demanding he confirm it through another? My reply of “Holy shit!” proving, yes, this was real—a 26-year-old lay dead in California?

Honestly, probably not. It had been years since I’d cared much about Miller, and the same was probably true of my friend. Sharing his death had been reflexive, an act of pure lizard-brain function.

It contained no more inherent significance than had he linked to the day’s other big news story: “I Love It (ft Lil Pump).” The text even read bland, like a terse internet headline. It signified nothing, except that together, we occupied the same generational pocket, and that our continued and diligent attention to culture was very important.

I almost asked why, but quickly stopped myself.

This was too much thinking at 10 a.m. Googling to verify, I bookmarked a couple sad-faced social media reactions to read over lunch, and pocketed my phone.

At a friend’s dorm that evening, in the glassyeyed haze before a night out, order dictated it was my turn for Spotify privileges. Nobody looks forward to this; I have zero room-read, and tend to forward hipster esoterica in place of music people actually care about. Still, this wasn’t my worst showing: Astroworld left to play undisturbed several tracks at a time, plus plenty of Lil Uzi. Nevertheless, I grew restless and, after some tossing back and forth, snuck Mac Miller into the queue. Fingers tapping anxiously, I played at being casual while speaking with my friends, all the while knowing that right after this, the very next song, I’d be letting a ghost in. But “Matches” came and went without incident, and I realized I had been melodramatic. Miller’s flow, always a laconic drawl, was no match for the gathered revelry.

Everyone probably thought “Sicko Mode” was still playing.

Kicking off a bad, pompous line of thought, I began to wonder if their ignorance was somehow symbolic, the party a closed-room, miniature recreation of the cultural conditions that preceded Miller’s death. His tenure as a party-rocking, 19-year-old YouTube superstar—Easy Mac with the cheesy raps—left a scrim of humor and levity on his name, a distance that hung around, even as the music grew explicitly desperate (“To everyone who sell me drugs / Don’t mix it with that bullshit / I’m hoping not to join the 27 club,” he rapped in 2015).

That night, that screaming-but-silent dichotomy was damn near physicalized. Especially when

“There is crime and there are grumpy people because the city is not a utopia where everyone holds hands and sings folk songs around a glowing campfire.”

—Chantal Maruta, From Brandenburg to Currywurst, 9.21.17

“But somehow, it leaves you feeling a little bit dirty.”

—Yidi Wu, Editor’s Note, 9.22.16

viewed alongside the death of XXXtentacion, the criminally aggressive, attention-seeking “Look at Me” rapper whose violent death had been greeted as a sort of form-meets-content, the ultimate and final art of his short life. By contrast, there was little about Mac that suggested overdose would be his destiny, even though, frankly, near everything did. It would be as though, tomorrow, Stephen King came out as a serial killer; all the signs are there, but, like, c’mon dude.

Not caring to contain it longer, the truth tumbled out, something like, “Yo, my friends, my fools. Mac Miller.” This, finally, provoked the protests of concern and discomfort I had anticipated, something like, “Dude…why?” Beyond sheer ghoulishness, playing Miller’s music at such a debauched moment seemed almost spiritually unwise, a heedless act of provocation. The song would likely have been shut off if I hadn’t reminded my friends that this was probably an important generational moment. The queue grew longer.

Old favorites like “Party on Fifth Avenue” and “Frick Park Market” were requested, bracketed by curious discovery of his “new material”— for most people, a designation that stretched back to 2013.

People tried to sing along, but the words were misshapen.

In an instant, I saw what had made Miller’s death such a strange, affecting moment. Ensnared and finally drowned in the bubbles of their own zeitgeist, the recent deaths of Lil Peep and XXXtentacion were certainly tragic, but didn’t seem to stand outside the narratives we’d been eagerly following. By contrast, Miller had already had his moment, and his distance from mass relevance was made possible by how intense the glow of his early career was. I’m happy Miller met my generation when he did, somewhere between the first Bar Mitzvah Party and freshman dance.

I know many precocious, former teen-wonders emboldened by his DIY spirit to reach further, to be better in their own fields. You’ll find few people our age that don’t recall playing video games to the beat of “Kool-Aid & Frozen Pizza,” finding solace in lines like, “Yeah, I live a life pretty similar to yours / Used to go to school, hang with friends, and play sports.” You’ll find even less who still listen to Mac. His evolution, from youngest frat boy in New York to West Coast abstract searcher, garnered critical acclaim as well as respect from music nerds like me, but cost him the zeitgeist.

That this was how he died, outside our collective Spotify playlists, made for an uncomfortable sort of guilt; how long can we remain attentive to the culture that once cradled us? With age, will we shut out everything that doesn't hold our interest, only tuning in when it is too late for Mac Miller, for culture, for us? I didn’t sleep that night, equally anxious about dying young and growing old. If nothing else, I’d apologize to the jogger.

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