post- 9/28/18

Issue

In This

Childhood Wildwood

Naomi Kim 3

Another False Alarm

Andrew Liu 2 Holly Zheng 4

Interlocked by Five Rings Pia Mileaf-Patel 5

Feeling

That Chengdu Griffin Plaag 6

We Are Marshall?

postCover by Rémy Poisson and Halle Krieger

SEPT 28

VOL 22 —

ISSUE 3

FEATURES

Another False Alarm

Vaccination and Sensationalism

By Andrew Liu Illustrated by molly young

W

Letter from the Editor

hy the confusion? Even in the information era, with massive advancements in public health, there is still lingering public speculation about whether vaccines in young children might lead to autism. The measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine (MMR), which protects against three of the most fatal diseases for children, is still met with rumor and rejection by wary parents. For years, my only information on the subject came from scattered news headlines, bold tweets by prominent spokespeople, and the smug ridicule of anti-vaxxers by big media outlets, the kinds that specialize in supersizing tweets to fit entire screens. Looking back, I’m ashamed to have been part of the problem.

I took no action to support vaccines, assuming the controversy was just another “tinfoil hat” theory that would quickly be silenced. In reality, it was a delicate topic with serious implications. Vaccines hold a key to the well-being of young children—a sacred, unconditional responsibility. In defaming vaccines, one of the most effective protections against child mortality, anti-vaccination efforts I feel most homesick at this time of the

have disgraced science. Through investigating this history of vaccine delegitimization, I learned more about this very real and very harmful cultural trend.

In 1998, British doctor Andrew Wakefield and several of his colleagues published a study in The Lancet, one of the world’s most prestigious medical journals. They investigated 12 children with autism, eight of whom had developed gastrointestinal problems one month after receiving their MMR vaccines. Wakefield hypothesized that the vaccine had led to inflammation in the intestine, causing a “leaky gut.” According to his theory, peptides that are usually contained in intestine leak into the bloodstream and flow to the brain. Wakefield urged hesitation in administering the vaccine, stating that it was a “moral issue.” A frenzy arose among the media and parents of young children, and medical councils immediately convened out of fear that the greatest medical bombshell of the decade had been uncovered. Vaccination rates began declining, shrinking from almost 100 percent of U.K. toddlers in the mid-1990s to only 70 percent

five years after the Wakefield paper. Measles cases grew from just 56 in 1998 to 1,370 in 2008. In 2006, for the first time in over a decade, a child died from measles.

But the Wakefield study abounded in flaws and severely lacked scientific discipline. In the United Kingdom, around 50,000 children per month received the MMR vaccine, and Wakefield drew his hypothesis from just eight, which he eventually expanded to a still-meager 39. Furthermore, there was no control group selected for the study, which meant that no variables were isolated and the results couldn’t be compared with children that didn’t have autism. No peptides were ever detected entering the bloodstream near the brain, and even if there had been, the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine does not have intestinal inflammation as a side effect. Perhaps the ultimate fault of the study is that MMR vaccines are administered when a child is a toddler, and in the majority of cases, autism is also detected in a child’s toddler years. Thus, this makes one easy prey to the classic logical fallacy: correlation without causation.

your eyes, pretend). Just heed the advice of

year, when fall announces its presence with

our contributor for Features, and get your flu

overcast skies, chilly mornings, and an endless

shot*—the sniffles will not improve your mood.

Top Ten Duels

drizzle. It doesn’t help that the darker, shorter days coincide with the first round of papers and

*Some people believe that flu vaccines “don’t

1.

The Ratty vs. The Rodent

composition of the flu shot is selected at least six

2.

Tomato vs. To-mah-to

fridge in a chilly dorm room, I long for the

months in advance. You might think a lot changes

warmth of home and the smell of my mother’s

in your life in six months, but believe me, viruses

3.

Capitalism vs. Communism

cooking.

change a lot faster than you do. Some years, a virus

4.

Naruto vs. Sasuke

comes out of nowhere, chews up and spits out the one

5.

Brown students vs. existential despair

the same way, reminiscing about their local

the CDC picked as the biggest threat, and that’s too

communities and simpler childhood days

bad. Other years, the flu scientists are right, and less

6.

Alexander Hamilton vs. Aaron Burr

spent in the woods. A&C suggests some ways

people get sick. So go get one—it can only help you.

7.

Napoleon vs. the Russian winter

8.

Old Taylor vs. New Taylor

9.

Team Edward vs. Team Jacob

midterms—this past week, I’ve often neglected

work”; I feel obligated to tell these people that the

to feed myself. Scavenging for food in my empty

Our writers for Narrative seem to feel

to turn our dreary surroundings into a source of comfort: listen to a new band with some friends, or journey to Pawtucket for familiar foods your mother isn’t here to cook for you (of course, it won’t be the same, but close

2 post–

Love and pumpkins,

Jennifer editor - in - chief of post -

10.

Samsung vs. Apple

NARRATIVE As a result of these flaws, Wakefield’s results mobilized numerous corrective studies. The British Medical Journal published a series of articles exposing the Wakefield studies as a fraud, revealing how Wakefield and his colleagues cherrypicked facts from the data, at times even outright falsifying them. In 2002, a seven-year study by Kreeston M. and colleagues on 537,303 children who received the MMR vaccine detected no correlation to autism. Furthermore, a later study between Taylor L. and Swerdfeger A. compiled the results of 10 previous studies of over 1.25 million total children in an attempt to detect a link between the vaccine and autism—to no avail.

Wakefield’s study was eventually retracted from The Lancet and will likely go down as one of the biggest medical frauds in history.

But despite being squashed in the medical community, Wakefield’s hypothesis has not been rejected by society and still echoes in the ears of countless families today. When it comes to a parent’s will to safeguard their child, the slightest paranoia can move mountains in their decisionmaking. This is worsened by both our president’s tweets about his suspicions of vaccines as well as media outlets' propagation and subsequent immortalization of such tweets on televisions nationwide. In today’s information age, nothing can die.

disease reaching their brain, which is true of mumps and rubella as well. These are observations rooted in years of medical study with data supplied by too many tragic cases of infants who were not as lucky as children today. From 2000 to 2016, the MMR vaccine prevented an estimated 20.4 million measles cases from occuring. For Wakefield’s fraudulent anti-vaxx stance to sustain such meteoric impact, it truly speaks to how far we’ve strayed towards speculation and how much we love to stir the pot.

Nevertheless, I can understand the lingering appeal of Wakefield’s study in today’s world.

For example, I’m willing to bet that I have also fallen for the tricks of smart alecks, postulating sensational claims from limited information more times than I can count. In today’s society, we have an inexplicable fascination with connecting dots and fashioning new ones—out of thin air if we have to. We love novelty and conspiracies, milking them for all they’re worth. At times we are capable of pushing this phenomenon to nauseating heights, as the health of toddlers simply become chips on the table. The Wakefields and sensationalists of the world have no right to generate such claims, and yet so many people still consume, believe, and propagate them.

In today’s information age, people float the word “truth” everywhere, to the point where it

Vaccines hold a key to maintaining the well-being of young children—a sacred, unconditional responsibility. In defaming vaccines, one of the most effective protections against child mortality, anti-vaccination efforts have disgraced science.

It is tremendously problematic how disease can be politicized and used as fodder for sensationalism. It was not too long ago that the Ebola outbreak was on the front page of every news column. Yet within weeks, the media outlets seemed to lose their appetite and move on. The large spike in coverage of the disease heightened public concern that the United States had been infected, and it even fueled resentment against U.S. citizens on the frontlines helping to contain the disease for fear that they would bring it back.

For weeks, headlines focused on the first two infected American volunteers, who were both eventually cured by an experimental serum. But the possibility of distributing this potential cure in the quarantine region was barely mentioned.

Today, as another Ebola outbreak begins in the Congo, it seems as if the media has lost all interest in the topic.

As of August this year, a measles outbreak in the United States has reached 107 individuals, the majority of whom did not have vaccinations. The disease erupts with a fever and spreads into a rash that reaches the hands and feet. But the real danger of measles lies in what else it can lead to. With no effective antiviral treatment available, those infected must wait it out against complications such as pneumonia or brain-swelling. If a young child is infected, they are at a real risk of the

has lost meaning. Any flawed argument can be substantiated with false or misleading data; thus, it only takes stubbornness to win one. We have lost what it means to have grace, and forgotten that the ability to admit and concede is its own virtue; it is now the screamers and dogged-minded that rule the spotlight, and as a result we are a country of escalation rather than compromise.

In an era with such an extraordinary volume of conflicting information, high standards of accuracy and integrity are more necessary than ever. In order for science to remain a bastion of objectivity and dignity, flawed works like the Wakefield study should not even be considered by reputable journals. In addition, readers should be wary of dramatic headlines or exaggerated claims that lack supporting data, no matter where they are published. Journal publications and the media have enormous reach, and if used correctly, can do tremendous good. One of journalism’s most noble qualities is its ability to speak truth to power, its ability to hold people accountable to their words and monitor those who might abuse their influence. It is a frightening thing, then, to imagine who will check the journalists if their standards decline. Today, when the effects of sensationalism can impact the livelihood of children, the responsibility falls on each of us to keep a level head.

Childhood Wildwood

A World of Pure Imagination

E

By Naomi Kim illustrated by Monika Hedman

ight years old: I’m a tree climber. I wish for a storybook treehouse in a backyard, where I can keep a tin box full of interesting rocks and dried autumn leaves.

But we live in an apartment complex in East Tennessee. No real backyard, no treehouse.

Instead, I’ve got a plot of mulch with three trees where the sidewalk ends. In spring, they burst into white flowers that give way to little round fruits, warm brown and flecked with gold. The air fills with the loud chorus of cicadas. My brother and I find on the tree trunks the dried, hollow husks of the skins the cicadas have shed. We christened this place Three Tree Island, but when we pull ourselves up into the lower branches, the trees become witches’ lairs, complete with libraries.

Just as good—maybe better—than any treehouse.

We pore through imaginary spell books, climb invisible staircases, and stir unseen cauldrons.

But our world of pure imagination has no borders, and it extends far beyond these three trees.

Far off on the other side of the apartment complex, beyond the last row of apartments, is a park. Gazebo, monkey bars, swings—a regular jungle of plastic and concrete and red-colored mulch. But the playground can’t compare to the woods all around it.

My brother and I scamper down the paved path winding into the forest. The woods welcome us by letting us glimpse its secrets. It’s here that I see my first owl, my first real, wild owl, and I understand the word tawny and the feeling awe as it swivels its head around to watch us sneak by. It’s here that I see a raccoon slinking silver-colored into the shadows; a huge river rat swimming in the creek with its wet brown fur plastered close to its body; a snake lying long, black, and ominous on the sidewalk.

But it was never about what I could see that made the park the incredible place it was for me. It was about the unseen things, the things those woods could become in my imagination.

And we aren’t mere sidewalk spectators—we take off into the grass. Here, life explodes through the soil. We bound from the purple violets to the crimson snake berries, from shadows to sunlight.

Queen Anne’s lace blows gently in the wind, and

“A conductor is just a polished DJ, no?”

“Nom nom, boys!!”

“Sometime I feel like my life is a simulation.”

SEPTEMBER 28, 2018 3

NARRATIVE

Interlocked by Five Rings Remembering the 2008 Olympics

by Holly Zheng Illustrated By Stephanie Wu

A

the fragrance of honeysuckle is strong and sweet.

We stop to pluck honeysuckle blossoms from wild jumbles of leaves and vines and pull out the stamens to draw forth those drops of sweet nectar. We even dare to try what we think is wild persimmon, and the strange, tart taste of it dries up my mouth and leaves me grimacing.

By the creek, farther down the pathway, is a bramble of wild blackberries. Sometimes they’re sour and unripe, tinged red, other times fat and bursting with sweetness, a deep purple-black.

My brother and I wade in the shallow currents of the creek to splash the cold water at each other.

The creek bed is lined with pebbles of various shades of brown and amber, shiny and slick in the water. But the real secret heart of the woods is across the bridge and a sharp turn to the right.

There, my brother and I step onto a thin, near invisible ribbon of a dirt trail, which follows the ever-widening, ever-deepening creek. This dirt path, like the other hidden paths we’ve stumbled upon, has overgrown shrubs and skinny branches barring the way. Several of the wiry vines are lined with sharp thorns, and we have to be careful not to get pricked.

Down from the bank is a slanted rock jutting up out of the water. We jump down to it­—our boat—and we grab a long stick to serve as our oar. Underwater, small fish dart through darkcolored plants with feathery, furry leaves that we dubbed as "monsters." Farther down the dirt path is something of a small-scale peninsula, a paradise wrestled from a tangle of thick green moss and rich earth and strong roots that flirt with the creek, tucked away from the main sidewalk—our own world. Here, everything is magic. This is a world of wizards and witches, fairies and fauns, and so magic runs in the veins of the leaves, in the tree sap, in the creek’s current—in us, the ones who dreamed it to life. *** That was years ago. The truth is that now, this place I adored is no longer the same for me. A few years ago, when my family and I happened to be back in Tennessee, we visited our old apartment.

The three trees of Three Tree Island had been cut down, leaving behind nothing but a desolate barrenness. No white flowers, no fruit. No witches’ library, no cauldrons. As for the park, the creek was narrow, the hidden trails not so hidden or thrilling, the grass overgrown and neglected.

There is a certain sadness in finding that 4 post–

the places you loved as a child have changed. I suppose, though, that the park was always like that in reality. But it was never about what I could see that made the park the incredible place it was for me. It was about the unseen, the things those woods could become in my imagination.

As I’ve gotten older, my eyesight has gotten worse, as is expected. My glasses have gotten thicker and my vision blurrier as the real world shifts into focus. But another kind of vision has been fading away, almost unnoticed—the ability to see beyond mere reality. The ability to look at the park and see the fairyland it hid in its ordinariness.

I would love to regain that vision. To see again the magic stirring in every little thing.

I know that no fairy will wave a magic wand and no hobgoblin will spit into my eyes to restore the second sight of childhood. I know what that park looks like to a rational young adult—what it looks like in actuality. But a wise fox once said that one only sees clearly with the heart, not with the eyes. And in my heart, I still see and treasure what my 8-year-old self saw and treasured: a magical wonderland, an island with three trees and a witch’s library, a creek of marvels, secret dirt paths, a boat, and waving water plants called monsters.

I close my eyes, and childhood tastes like precious droplets of honeysuckle nectar and wild blackberries, feels like cold creek water, sounds like laughter and running feet, and looks like magic wrought out of grass and moss and snake berries.

few days after this past August 8, I was on my way to attend a conference at the National Convention Center inside Beijing’s Olympic Village. While riding the No. 8 subway line, I passed the Olympic Green station. As the car decelerated, the recorded message from the overhead speakers reminded passengers to get off if they wanted to go to the National Stadium (“Bird’s Nest”), the Aquatics Center (“Water Cube”), or other athletic facilities built specifically for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. As I moved to let people near me shuffle across the crowded car to the door, I realized the special occasion being celebrated that week: the 10th anniversary of the 2008 Olympics.

One stop later, I got off the subway to go to the convention center. As I ascended the escalator to arrive at the ground level, the view of the Bird’s Nest slowly emerged in the distance. The intersecting metal rods that shaped the Nest’s exterior were surreal in the misty air. The humidity silenced everything, brewing a sweetness that rose from the wet pavement and dew-covered lawn. Even the wind was too lazy to move.

This silence felt out of place near this breathtaking stadium that brightened the dark night ten years ago. Those footprint-shaped fireworks from the Olympics’ opening ceremony seemed to dance once again in front of me like the lingering afterthoughts that slowly crawl into my mind some sleepy mornings, reminding me of the scattered memories of a distant, fading dream.

My sole visit to the Bird’s Nest was during a trip with my elementary school a few days after the Games began. I can’t remember what games we watched that day—probably a few track events, painfully boring for 9-year-olds—but I do recall walking to my grandpa’s house earlier that summer.

It was a breezy afternoon around mid-June. After a strong gust of wind hit my face, I saw my grandpa outside his neighborhood’s gate, striding to grab a big sun umbrella that had nearly been knocked over. He straightened his T-shirt and took off his green cap, one I had never seen before. A few other people, all similar in age and in the same white and green cotton shirt, helped him reset the umbrella.

ARTS&CULTURE An elderly lady in the group flapped a bamboo fan for herself, delivering a joke that induced a wave of laughter among those near her.

Before I witnessed this scene, I didn’t know that my grandpa had become a community volunteer for the Olympics—helping confused pedestrians with directions. However, I wasn’t surprised. Grandpa’s restlessness made it impossible for him to merely be a spectator during the Games. He joined the many retired people who had the leisure and passion to contribute to the ongoing festivities. The city must have felt the same restless urge. Public clocks that counted down to the opening ceremony and volunteer tents, where smiling multilingual university students handed out maps, mushroomed throughout the city. Everyone was learning English—taxi drivers, eatery owners, newspaper vendors—and the lyrics of the Olympics theme song, “You and Me,” were usually the first sentences people learned after Sarah Brightman mesmerized the stadium with her moving rendition during the opening ceremony.

When I visited my grandparents this past August, I pointed at the ceramic plate on the top rung of my grandpa’s bookshelf. In hopes of starting a conversation, I asked a question the answer to which I already knew: “Grandpa, what’s that?”

All that I got in response was a low-pitched chuckle that painfully snuck out of his throat.

Grandpa had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for over a year, barely recognizing me when I entered his room. That maroon plate with gold and white patterns was his souvenir from volunteering during the Olympics, but now it was simply another object whose significance was too abstract and distant for him to recall.

Many details surrounding the Olympics have settled into the background of people’s memories, quieter than the silence I heard standing next to the Bird’s Nest on that misty morning this past August. For me, the connections that appeared and strengthened among people during the Olympic month still linger. After an unexpected snow storm swept southern China and a devastating earthquake shattered the Sichuan Province earlier in 2008, the August Olympics gave many people across the nation an opportunity to heal and feel optimistic.

The pride that flowed through my community during this event has remained with me, constantly pulling me back into its warmth. After moving to a boarding high school in the U.S., even without realizing, I sought as many opportunities as possible to be involved in hosting sports events. I basked in the brainstorming sessions with my classmates during those long nights of organizing the Special Olympics soccer tournament held at my high school.

Likewise, my brief conversations with the athletes at the Boston Marathon registration site were the highlight of my day. Even away from home and long after the heat of the Olympics, I was able to relive the connections forged between people at similar events—ones as strong as the links between the five Olympic rings.

Beijing’s restless energy will return in four years, with the city guides and the countdown clocks and the English-learning waves. In 2022, Beijing will become the first city to have hosted both the Summer and Winter Olympics. The Bird’s Nest will once again light up the dark night, this time with a touch of winter festivities. I hope to go back to Beijing for the Winter Olympics right before I graduate from Brown. I might even volunteer, sporting a T-shirt similar to my grandpa’s and sitting in a tent by the street, fondly remembering the scenes surrounding me and hoping the city does, too.

That Chengdu Feeling Providence's Chinatown is in Pawtucket

I

By Pia Mileaf-Patel illustrated by Katya Labowe-Stoll

If you are in Providence and haven’t made the light trek to Chengdu Taste, you should tonight.

Somebody must know somebody with a car. Or I can drive you in my hot new sports car: my grandparents’ Subaru.

Except the poke place and the ramen shop that specialize in just one thing, College Hill, is home to Chinese restaurants that are also a touch Korean, and often carry sushi. See: PF Chang’s and Shanghai on Thayer (RIP).

Regional Indian food has yet to hit PVD, but there are new spots opening up that fight this notion of pan-cuisine. On Wickenden street, you’ll find Jahunger, a Uyghur restaurant—the northwest region of China with a Muslim cooking influence on the food. Their hand-pulled noodles are mixed with braised lamb and spiked with cumin and other aromatics. Raisins and yogurt complement a rice dish there, making something that sits between a biryani and beef fried rice.

Right across the street, Chong Qing House opened up in the space formerly occupied by Tokyo, a Japanese place with Chinese-American specialties on the menu. The Tokyo letterhead is still on the awning, but inside, you’ll find sauteed pea shoots and mouth-numbing dan dan noodles. Not to say that there’s anything wrong with creating a (discombobulated) menu of dishes that everyone enjoys, but if you are seeking out more traditional, regional Chinese food in Providence, now’s the time. There’s always been Chengdu, though.

The OG and best Rhode Island Chinese restaurant, Chengdu Taste, is a tiny, pink and red lit restaurant in Pawtucket that specializes in Szechuan food, often featuring frog legs or crawfish on their specials menu. You’ll run into professors, restaurant owners, and all food-loving people in the just-about-25-seat restaurant. There’s often a line of people picking up food to go as well.

I first found out about Chengdu Taste via word of mouth after complaining about missing Ma Po Tofu from the Szechuan place across the

LIFESTYLE

street from my parents’ apartment in New York.

At Chengdu, Ma Po Tofu is a menu highlight, prepared authentically and spicily with big slices of scallion and none of the added extra stuff like diced carrots they throw in at other PVD spots.

The Szechuan peppercorn-spiked sauce envelops silky tofu pieces.

The things you won’t find on most Chinese menus are the things you should go for. First thing on the table at Chengdu is always their mouthtingling pickled vegetables. It’s hard to not kill these off in under a minute—the flavor is complex and addictive. Order the greens alongside. Sauteed water spinach, pea shoots, Chinese broccoli, or whatever. The special is made with whole, softcooked garlic cloves and just a ladle full of chicken broth.

You can add anything to your table. The meat, seafood, and vegetables are equally thoughtful and the Szechuan flavors meld on your plate. I recommend the fish stew. Slices of tender white fish and cooked but still crisp cabbage bathe in a rich red sauce, flecked with orange chili oil and doused with spices and chili flakes. Even the rice you eat with it is better than other rice. I’m not sure how to describe why, but you’ll know when you eat it.

There’s also a dish of stir-fried sliced beef and shishito peppers. It seems simple on the surface, but packs flavors you wouldn’t expect. The peppers are hotter than usual and julienned into slivers that match the size of the tender, salty meat that is still pink in the middle, even though the slices are about as wide as linguine.

Dan dan noodles come chewy and seemingly undressed, but when you toss the dish into the fatty, tangy sauce of ground pork and Szechuan peppercorn, it turns into this mouth-numbing treat. You can’t help but go back for another bite, out of curiosity, joy, and surprise.

Additionally, you can order frog legs if that’s your thing, and my friend swears by the prawns.

I’m convinced that anything on this menu will be delicious. Order with your own whims and tastes.

If you love Chinese food, you can’t go wrong here.

Restaurant Info: Chengdu Taste Address: 701 Main St., Pawtucket, RI 02860 Hours: 11 a.m.-10 p.m.

Cost: $30 a person (if you’re prone to over-ordering like I am) SEPTEMBER 28, 2018 5

ARTS&CULTURE

We Are Marshall?

Reckoning with Cat Power's Wanderer Tour

by Griffin Plaag Illustrated By Brenda Rodriguez

I

t’s damned if you don’t and it’s damned if you do,” opines Chan Marshall, frontwoman of indie group Cat Power, over an achingly beautiful electric guitar line and the faint buzz of snare on her classic 1998 album, Moon Pix. Propped in my bed scrolling through concert websites and looking at tickets for Marshall’s upcoming Wanderer Tour, I can’t help but feel similarly. For the better part of the last several years, if somebody had asked me to go to a Cat Power concert with them, I would have agreed without a second’s hesitation.

Now, with Marshall set to make an appearance at the Paradise Rock Club in Boston on October 5, I’m in an uncertain position. To go or not to go?

Chan Marshall, by my reckoning, is one of the great artists of her generation. Her music, produced since 1995 under the pseudonym Cat Power, consistently tugs at the heartstrings in a way that’s neither exploitative nor trite; ensconced in hazy, crepuscular melancholy, Marshall’s tunes resonate bone-deep with lyrics which communicate a hauntingly universal sadness despite their enigmatic simplicity. “Hate” (which was recently featured in the award-winning Hulu series The Handmaid’s Tale) nestles in me at my lowest lows. “Good Woman” strikingly captures the stages of a toxic, decaying relationship. “Metal Heart,” the track quoted above, has seen me through many a desolate evening, and Moon Pix sounds like the magnolia bushes near my father’s old house and the streaks of mauve in the summer sky. Marshall’s collective works are, to me, whole and complete, rife with self-loathing malaise and proud assertions of female empowerment (sort of an acoustic SleaterKinney, at times, especially on blistering tracks like “He War”) in the same turn.

The problem, though, is that while Cat Power’s recorded music often strikes me as near-perfect, her recent concerts have been far from that mark. This isn’t to say that Marshall can’t still sing and play the way she used to; by all accounts her dusky laments sound as beautiful as they always have—when she can get them out, that is. My web-surfing has unearthed reviews of concerts dating from early 2016 all the way into this year that describe a hollow version of Marshall, often arriving late to her shows or not arriving at all, tinkering pedantically with her sound equipment to produce minute tonal differences imperceptible to everyone in the building except her, and cutting off songs or entire appearances prematurely to apologize for being such a terrible performer before “shuffling off stage” without further explanation. When Marshall is in good form, her concerts are hailed as breathtaking, but more

recently they’ve been described as “idiosyncratic and often uncomfortable,” with reviewers noting that “it hurts when she skips lines...and trails off forlornly” and that her shows create a “claustrophobic mood.”

I would never presume to complain about or cast judgment on Marshall’s recent difficulties on stage. We all go through lengthy periods of self-doubt and struggle, and Marshall is as entitled to hers as anybody else.

Her struggles with substance abuse and depression, in addition to a rare stress-induced medical condition called angioedema, have affected her for most of her life, and I have nothing but sympathy for her situation.

But these reports definitely complicate the decision of whether to go see her. Do I miss a golden opportunity to witness a woman whose work I revere, or do I go to Boston this October knowing that an experience I’ve anticipated for so long might ultimately turn out to be bathetic and disheartening?

One of the most resonant things about Marshall’s work for me, as a student artist, is that the confessional simplicity of her compositions makes a musical future seem achievable. She, among others (including the astounding Julien Baker), has been an incredibly important figure in my fledgling musical career, an act that inspires hope in me despite its misanthropy. As a self-taught performer without much classical training, I’ve found her ability to musically capture many modes of the human condition and her emphasis on mood and tone as opposed to technical prowess enormously influential upon my songwriting. That Marshall holds this special place in my heart raises another question

“Michelangelo had a massive ego and did not take criticism lightly; a popular anecdote tells of how he painted one of his critics into The Last Judgment and crested him with a pair of donkey ears.”

—Amanda Ngo, Dispelling Michelangelo 9.28.17

“Some time later, I heard that my house had gained a new member- a large, fluffy 53” plush bear from Costco that my brother had taken to calling Leon #2.”

—Leon Lei, Alone at Home 9.28.17

6 post–

which vexes me even more than the first: Does knowing that a woman of such vision and talent experiences the same self-doubt that I do make the world feel more conquerable? Or would seeing a paragon of my artistic inspiration break down emotionally on stage break me too?

Does knowing that a woman of such vision and talent experiences the same selfdoubt that I do make the world feel more conquerable?

Though they remain largely unresolved, these questions have led to a good deal of self-reflection about what it means to be an artist and, in a larger sense, a human being. Here is a woman, one I idolize as a goddess, who has publicly expressed that her entire collection of work is worthless. What this incongruity represents to me remains nebulous and vague, but what I think I can say confidently is that if Chan Marshall questions herself and her work after all she’s done and all she’s been through, it’s okay for all of us to do that, too. Perhaps there’s something positive to be taken from an unattended concert after all.

And Chan, whether I end up at your show or not— you are so much better than you think you are.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

NARRATIVE

HEAD ILLUSTRA-

Jennifer Osborne

Managing Editors

TOR

a

Celina Sun

Remy Poisson

FEATURE

Section Editors

Managing Editor

Divya Santhanam

CO-LAYOUT

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Jasmine Ngai

CHIEFS Jacob Lee

Section Editors Kathy Luo

COPY CHIEF

Nina Yuchi

Sydney Lo

Amanda Ngo

Layout Designers

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ARTS & CULTURE

Editors

Managing Editor

Mohima Sattar

WEB MASTER

Josh Wartel

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Section Editors

HEAD OF MEDIA

BUSINESS LIAISON

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