Rice Standard by Rice Standard

FALL 2015 ISSUE

rice STANDARD

ricestandard.org

/EDITOR Hey folks, thanks for picking up this issue of the Rice Standard. Inside you’ll find a selection of columns and artwork from the past year, ranging in topic from religion to water bottles. They’re just a small teaser of our total output, which you can read at ricestandard.org. In case you don’t already know, we’re an online and print magazine that serves as Rice’s designated public forum. That means we’re the only place where your voice can be heard without censorship or judgement. Whether you want to join

our staff or just dip your proverbial toes in the water with a one-off contribution, we’ll gladly accept you. We believe there are neither bad writers nor bad opinions —- just ones that need to be honed, with support. The Standard is here to provide such a platform. It’s up to you to use it. It’s up to you to think about issues and discuss them with your peers, to not shy away from subjects that are sensitive or controversial. Our campus, our community, needs it in order to thrive. GEORGE, MENGJIA, EMILY, & ETHAN

rice STANDARD 2

COLUMNS Hey Rice. Letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Talk About Activism Abraham Younes

pg.4-5

A Camelback Dilemma Julie Doar

pg.12-13

The Godless Path

Memoirs of a Former Pre-med

pg.6-7

pg.14-16

George Han

Marilyn Groves

Racial Bias in the Nude

What Do I Know?

pg.8-9

pg.17-19

Elle Eccles

Steven Moen

The Colorblind North Ethan Hasiuk

pg.10-11

HEY RICE, LET’S TALK ABOUT ACTIVISM When people ask me what I like about Rice, I find it hard to narrow the list down to two or three talking points. I love my major. I love my professors. I love my friends, my extracurricular activities and my residential college. The positives are, without a doubt, aplenty. But as much pride as I have for my university and fellow Owls, I’m also a firm believer in weighing the good and bad of any experience. With that in mind, I want to talk about what has perhaps been the singular disappointing aspect of my Rice experience. I want to talk about activism. Before offering up my personal definition of activism, I want to begin by defining what activism is not. Activism is not posting a lengthy, rant-style Rice Confess post about a social issue. Activism is not commenting something equally lengthy and perhaps more dignified on that same Rice Confess post. Activism is not changing your profile picture, or sharing links on social media, or dumping ice on your head, or donating five bucks to a charitable cause.

not, it is a real and present feature of campus life at the vast majority of colleges and universities in the United States. But not here. Not at Rice. But maybe I need to take a step back. Because to have activism, you must first have dialogue, which is precisely what’s missing at Rice. Whether feminism or the economy or the Middle East or any other topic, people either don’t feel informed enough to take a position, or (as is more often the case) they simply don’t care. When a political or otherwise controversial subject comes up in the commons at dinner, it tends to get sidelined or directed elsewhere pretty quickly. In the minority of cases where people do have opinions or beliefs, we’re so afraid of offending each other or saying something we might be judged for that we often avoid heading in that direction entirely.

To be sure, there is something admirable about wanting to maintain respect to those around us, and to not hurt our friends and colleagues with what we might say. But at the same time, does that mean we should say nothing? Does that mean that the only Which isn’t to say any of these things are conversations we should have are the ones bad. They aren’t. They can often contribute everyone can nod along to? Does that mean positively in small and important ways. But we should go through our four years at Rice they aren’t activism. Activism is deciding to take a stand on MENGJIA LIU something, and then actually doing something about it in the real world. Activism is starting a club (and actually doing something in that club!). Activism is organizing events, like film screenings, discussion panels and guest speakers, on issues that you care about and want other people to care about. Activism is petitioning. Activism is boycotting. Activism is protesting. And believe it or

ABRAHAM YOUNES hammering through problem sets and term papers and public parties, but never allowing time or space for real and deep discussion about the world around us? Something profound and nagging within me is saying that no, we shouldn’t accept that as the reality on our campus. And while it’s impossible to get everyone at Rice interested or involved in social and political issues, there are certainly some concrete steps we can take to address the problem of apathy on our campus. So here’s where I’m going to stop ranting and offer some solutions. I have three relatively basic suggestions for my fellow Owls to consider: 1. Get informed. Even fifteen minutes a day of reading the news can go a good way toward keeping you informed about what the big issues are. Don’t just stick to sources that cater to your own leanings or viewpoint: get out there and read about the same issue from different perspectives you might not normally associate yourself with. How else will you be able to say you’ve considered the other side of the issue? 2. Talk about things. Politics, social issues, things you care about. Bring them up in the everyday. Don’t be afraid to raise political or otherwise “controversial” topics, whether at dinner or hanging out with people or in any other informal setting. This doesn’t mean current events are the only thing you should talk about. But when the opportunity does arise for that kind of conversation, take it! And don’t shy away once disagreements come up. If anything, you can use those differences to continue the conversation, albeit in a hopefully productive way. 3. Organize. Once you feel informed about an issue, try to think of ways you could bring the dialogue to campus in a public format. Look up documentaries that you could show, and then have a movie screening somewhere on campus. Get some people together who are interested in this topic and lead a student panel on it. Reach out to a potential guest speaker who has done some prior work on the issue. Get in touch with other groups in campus that are already organizing on the issue, e.g. Rice Left, Young Democrats, Rice Republicans. Most of these things require planning — reserving a space, contacting people, advertising, and so on — but the hassle of the organizing work will be more than worth it once the event happens and you’re able to engage with the issue in a public format. As a final point, note that I’m not taking a political or ideological position here. I’m not saying “you should care about X issue in Y way, and go do Z about it.” I’m saying that as college students, we are more empowered than anyone else to stay well-informed about the world around us, no matter what our views might be, and to debate and discuss the issues of our time. Then, and only then, can we connect what we’ve learned to specific actions we might take, on our campus and within our city, actions that might even inspire change from the broader public. Apathy is a fixable problem. But changing the apathetic atmosphere here at Rice is going to take some serious effort on our part. To get informed. To break the silence. To create the kind of atmosphere and public forum necessary for real and sustained dialogue.

THE GODLESS PATH GEORGE HAN

MENGJIA LIU

hen it comes to opposing forces, none can match the intensity of religion versus atheism. But I’ve always felt that belief, much like sexuality, is a spectrum. Where you stand depends on how you respond to these fundamental questions:

Is religion a home? Or is it a cult of ignorance? I can’t fully commit to a side. To me, faith in God and going to service is a complicated ritual — church is a community where people meet to feel connected and do good. Belief in an afterlife adds significance to death and meaning to a world that often lacks both. And those are wonderful things I would love to have in my life, but I can’t. Because I don’t believe that God exists.

Belief in the afterlife as a Schrodinger’s Box paradigm I’ve been to church once in my entire life, during elementary school. One of my Christian neighbors talked my parents, who are nonreligious, into letting me go with the promise of

free babysitting for a few hours. I was lured with the promise of food, as it was one of those events with a huge potluck afterwards. “It can’t be a coincidence, can it? That we live in a world that’s so beautiful and gives us anything we want. There has to be a God who made everything that way … it makes sense” That’s what I told my neighbor as we walked home that night — my memory of the service has since faded, but I remember what happened next. The sky was lit up like a cosmic Christmas tree. The air was fresh and cold, and I felt my body filling with a strange, euphoric warmth. Maybe it was chicken dumplings. Or maybe it was something else, a mix of secondhand The 10 Commandments for nonbelievers spirituality and childhood optimism. That moment was the first (and only) time I A good friend asked me that a while back. ever approached faith. He was one of those Christians who always As time passed, I came to better understand wanted to save my soul, which I would how the world works, trading naivety for a shrug off by ignoring him or shifting the resigned form of cynicism. And thus any conversation. He meant well, and while I version of me that might have been religious, was annoyed, it was oddly flattering that he without stimulus feeding it, died. Its corpse cared. A more “modern” Christian might drop sat in the time-out corner of my brain until the subject, yet would it be out of respect or high school, when someone asked me if I acceptance that I’m damned? I guess if I’ve believed in God. I replied I was an Atheist, the learned anything (unlikely), then it’s that I conviction in my voice surprising myself more can never fully understand how other people than him. At what point did I stray from the think. For some, religion is the backbone of their identity; a guide for life. For others, it’s path? Or had I truly found it? more of a preference, like loving or hating In some ways, maintaining faith is similar yogurt. And the same is true for nonbelievers. to earning a degree in the arts. There are countless external forces saying it’s useless, I’ve heard of atheists finding God in moments or impractical, or for the weak-willed. Belief of darkness or through well-timed miracles. I is in decline, and I wonder if it’s strength doubt that’ll ever happen to me, but the life or stubbornness, or something beyond of an atheist can be a lonely road. Perhaps comprehension. I wonder if God is dying, there’s some comfort in the fact that as I type replaced by a universal code and morality up this column, countless others struggle based on reason. And of course, I wonder if with the same questions and other conflicts non-theism spreading can objectively be a internal and external: conflicts of identity, of good thing, and then I feel stupid for believing our worth to society, of finding order in chaos. Maybe the endless human struggle, this in objectivity, even more so than God. shared confusion, the empathy that glues us “If you don’t accept God, what stops you from together — is all the faith I need, if not want. killing and doing whatever you want?”

RACIAL BIAS IN THE NUDE ELLE ECCLES

ude is what we strip down to skin. It’s the shade of flesh spread over the structures of bone, tendon, blood, all the systems of life. But in the cosmetic world, nude is a monolithic color. While studying abroad in London, I ducked out of my internship office to run down to Boots convenience store for some tights. The temperature was dropping, but I wasn’t about to compromise my hip-flattering skirts in exchange for warmth, because the city was alive at all hours, and I was young and single—I just needed a pair of sheer hose. Flesh colored. Is that so much to ask for? Apparently yes. I looked among the small selection of pantyhose, the same three rows of tights, for fifteen minutes. I browsed through them, finding little variation among their available shades, and each time was met with frustration. But nothing seemed to come in my color. A Black woman passing through the store noticed my furious search. She looked at me with half-closed eyes, defeatist eyes, and shook her head and said, “Honey, they don’t make those for people like us.” The worst of it is what the labels named the darker shades, when I did find some. They were low-quality, easy-tear. And I couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman with skin that color, that grey and ashy. I opened the box and pulled them out and held them against my skin and tried to see a likeness that wasn’t there. The boxes in one store had only four different names: “Natural,” “American tan,” “Brazilian,” and “Exotic.” So that’s what I was, Brazilian, Exotic. But really none of the above. My milk-chocolate exterior, pulled taut over yellow and gold undertones, was made matte by their ill-woven hose. I bought the Brazilian ones, crossing my fingers. My legs looked like

I’d taken a stick of grey pastel to them. After that, spurred on by indignation, I searched the city. I made several forays into various stores, combing their racks of tights for something between black and beige. Nothing. It amazes me, really, how many shades are left out and ignored. Together, cosmetic sales tell the world that there is only one shade of nude, only one true natural state for the skin. It, in effect, gives value to only one skin tone, at the exclusion of all others, and it happens all over the place. But even worse than the exclusions are the labels on the shades that do exist. Beige tones are labeled “nude” and “natural,” and any darker tones present have more exotic names, suggesting a deviation from the norm, an anomaly. And it doesn’t sound good just because it’s labeled “Exotic.” The racism is still there. It isn’t always done wrong. Last year French shoe designer Christian Louboutin released a line of nude shoes with five shades. His goal was to give more women the opportunity to participate in the nude shoes trend that before had been almost exclusively limited to light-skinned women. But he’s set a new standard: he’s said to designers of the world that the label of “nude” indicates a skin tone, not simply a shade of beige. Additionally, the launching of a new line of lingerie by British brand Nubian Skin is attempting to push back against this racial bias by creating intimates that cater to women of color. These releases are encouraging; they signal that someone somewhere is aware of the problem and attempting to change the norm that exists. And they couldn’t come soon enough; a change is just what we need.

EMILY WU

It’s a bit amazing to me that this is just now happening, but aside from the convoluted business of fashion industry market consumption, the fundamental issue on the topic of the nude label is the label itself. In today’s fashion and cosmetic world, nude is a color, setting forth a basic, superior skin tone, whether intentionally or unintentionally done. It says to me that perhaps if I rub off my dark skin, remove one more layer, I’ll reach an acceptably “natural” shade, the true nude. The nude label is the first thing that needs to change, especially in countries as diverse as this one. In today’s world, the nude label, in my opinion, perpetuates the myth of racial hierarchy. Nude has traditionally been a label on stockings. It is only fairly recently that the cosmetic and fashion industries have taken to using it to describe a certain shade of beige foundation, nail polish, or shoes, perpetuating this concept of nude as a color, even while our societies continue to diversify. As our world tries to surmount racial biases, these industries are hindering that progression. There are, of course, many fronts on which we fail to recognize and correct this bias, and the appearance of darker shades in cosmetics and clothing still remains a rare thing. The fact that darker nudes are being sensationalized points to a flaw in our understanding of the definition of “nude” and the equal footing it should have with lighter shades. This is, perhaps, not surprising in a society that still experiences racial injustice and colorbiased police brutality, as we have seen in recent grand jury failures to indict the officers responsible for the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner. These sequences of events and the protests that followed show us that racial bias and discrimination have been built into our society and must, meticulously and systematically, be un-built, removed in subtle as well as overt areas of existence. The nude label is just another example of racial bias, as modeled for us by our vanity industries, and it needs to be changed to a more reasonably neutral and all-incorporating system if we ever hope to overcome the superiority monster. I was quite ready to start calling the higher-ups in charge of these stores, logging serious complaints about the nude labels and the lack of representation of a range of skin tones; but, both Stateside and abroad, my reticence stemmed from a ridiculous notion of insignificance, something many young men and women, especially those of color, still continue to fight against on both social and interpersonal fronts. And, anyway, it’s going to take more than one disgruntled customer claiming wrongs. My dark legs and lips and nails want to be warm and fashionable too. And that’s going to take a whole new system of thought.

THE COLORBLIND NORTH

t has been a bit challenging for this white guy to talk about race.

Basically, I’ve avoided doing this exact thing since I could organize my mouth sounds into words, and as a result, I have too little experience discussing race. But I have come to realize that my lack of experience is not a coincidence and is, in fact, a problematic trend. This is not to say that I grew up in some sort of racially homogeneous environment. My high school in Rochester, NY had a successful urban-suburban program, adding a bit of racial diversity in a region with the most segregated schools in the country. But my high school was not exactly the best at talking about race; specifically, looking back, I realize that nearly all discussion of racial injustice was reserved for the time around Martin Luther King, Jr. day. And while this is a very important time to discuss race and preserve the legacy of Dr. King, I now realize that these discussion were inadequate, for they did not concern contemporary, local racial issues. For example, just before the MLK day of my junior year, our school held a screening of the documentary Prom Night in Mississippi, one of the few well-known films concerning contemporary racial issues. And I commend my high school for attempting to start conversations in this way. But then again, the showing of the film, or at least the lack of evidence for racial discrimination (only one of many examples) in Rochester to accompany it, allowed us to leave with a clean conscience. Racism, we were left to believe, still exists in Mississippi, but not in the North, not in the longtime-activist hub of Rochester, NY and especially not in our high school! Following the film, a discussion about the existence of racism at our high school basically ended with the general consensus, “people are usually joking when they talk about race here.” At many other times, I heard classmates (even those in racial minorities) make claims to the effect of “race will go away if we just stop talking about it.” MENGJIA LIU I also recall an inspirational speech at our school by a black man who spent time in prison. He was a very passionate speaker with a good message: he walked out in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, and gradually took them off while speaking. “No more handcuffs!” he proclaimed. Of course, he deserves respect for his efforts to empower communities, but as an upper-middle class white guy, I felt conflicted. Only recently have I realized that this discomfort came from feeling separate from his intended audience. When “no more handcuffs” is supposed to reflect the struggles of an audience of mostly white students, doesn’t that trivialize the institutionalized racism of our justice system and mass incarceration? More importantly, I think that this was not an isolated case of oversight by school administrators; rather, it was another inevitable outcome from the widely held belief that race is no longer relevant to one’s social experience. This philosophy, this color blind ideal, is presented subtly through many of the agents of socialization everywhere in this country, especially when they

ETHAN HASIUK avoid the discussion of race in fear of being “politically incorrect.” These beliefs are surprising and troubling when found at a diverse public school in the North, the very place where we expect to see a thoughtful, nuanced teaching of race. In fact, these sorts of productive discussions are present in far too few places, and as a result, privileged groups everywhere live in a color blind world, the sort of place where we can think that Dr. King was advocating color blindness over justice and equality. This worldview has great consequences, as argued so succinctly in this Washington Post column. It is important to recognize, though, that this piece was written when Darren Wilson was just another police officer and Michael Brown was just another high school student, when the unjust use of law enforcement against people of color was an alarming trend but received alarmingly low attention.

friends can post articles explaining, in great and condescending detail, the legal reasons why Darren Wilson was not convicted or why the force used on Eric Garner was “not technically a chokehold” without any mention of racial issues; it means that white people can suggest that #allLivesMatter is equivalent to #blackLivesMatter; it means that Darren Wilson can dehumanize Michael Brown with transparently racialized language and then shrug off the possibility that race played a role in his decision to use lethal force; and it means that when Eric Garner’s killer is exonerated by a grand jury only a week later despite video evidence, many white people are confused and saddened but still unwilling to talk about race.

And now that these stories are leaving the relentless news cycle and entering the history books, white people are still not forced to acknowledge the immense privileges that In the context of recent events, color blindness we inherit in this society simply by being means that a white friend from Rochester can white, regardless of our respective stances claim that his outsider perspective on the on Ferguson. And until we start talking about struggles of African Americans is somehow the institutionalized racism and discrimination more objective and accurate precisely that continue to occur in all parts of our nation because it ignores the possibility of racial and around the world, until we start teaching discrimination; it means that white Facebook these things in schools and discussing the power of privilege from a young age, we will be able to continue to live in a world where we can believe racial problems are not our problems. This is the world in which the deaths of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and countless others are not about race. So I hope, ideally, that we can sustain the racial justice conversation without constant reminders from the media; these events don’t become any less tragic with time.

A CAMELBAK DILEMMA JULIE DOAR

hen I was a freshman in college, I decided that I needed to reinvent myself. Several classic avenues of reinvention were open to me: new clothes, new hair, near earrings, or new attitude. No amount of pleas on the behalf of my soul searching could convince my parents to monetarily back the acquisition of an entirely new wardrobe, nor did I have the inherent sense of style to pick one. I’m far too attached to my hair to shave it off, and I don’t have the patience to commit to cleaning out fresh piercings every night. As for a new attitude, that’s all very easy to practice in front of the mirror, but any new persona I try to adopt always ends up getting swallowed up by the big-eyed fear that overtakes me any time I enter an unknown situation. With these options closed off, I began a quest for that one simple accessory that would create a new, gleaming image for myself. In the hallowed ground of the Houston Super Target, I found it: the CamelBak water bottle. If one visits the CamelBak website, there are various pictures. Essentially they all add up to a good-looking (but not like they’re trying) couple, out for a hike in the mountains because they care about the environment. When they reach the top of the mountain, they’re probably going to read some Walt

EMILY WU

Whitman, or perhaps Robert Frost, because they may be wearing hiking boots, but they’re also intellects. These people care about hydration and a healthy lifestyle, and, what is more, they care about the earth. They have broad, noble worldviews. Who doesn’t want to be a person with a worldview? I was given the opportunity for this intellectual clout while shopping for my dorm room. My mother held up that sparkling pink CamelBak as if she was Prometheus bringing me fire. It must have been fate because my mother doesn’t know the first thing about trends. She hates skinny jeans and ejects people from her favor in the time it takes the sun to glint off a nose ring. If she had known the extent of CamelBak’s popularity among the trendy youth of America, she never would have suggested it. That’s the kind of water bottle a cool, confident and fully self-realized college student who goes her own way and has read poetry atop a mountain would have, I thought. I fell for the Camelbak right there in the aisle of Houston’s Super Target. I had a chance to turn back when my frugal mother commented on its price. (A typical CamelBak is $14-$30.) I snapped at her that I needed to be hydrated in college. I suppose I shouldn’t have been

minor.” Then there was the breakfast when the CamelBak slipped from my bag and spilled water all over the commons floor, and I had to mop it up as best I could and pray for speedy evaporation. And of course there were all those Sunday mornings that I slept in or watched silly television in bed with my CamelBak instead of going for a hike and becoming one with nature. The whole year, and I didn’t go for so much as a leisurely stroll. I recall these events not with fondness, but with embarrassment. These CamelBak moments did not shape my identity or make me into a fit and intellectual hiker. so sharp, but I stand by my position. I credit most of my success and happiness in life to being well hydrated. Do I sound like a CamelBak disciple yet? For the first few months, things were great. I had a slight hiccup when I couldn’t figure out how to start drinking from the trademark rubber nozzle. I ended up slicing into the spout with some scissors. The slit was lopsided, but it worked. I paid fifteen dollars for that water bottle, and I had to damage it in order to use it. It’s a testament to how many people have a CamelBak that I was still willing to commit to it. It took me months to realize what was obvious on that first day: the water bottle was unnecessarily complicated. The spout and the handle and the slit – it’s like using a flame blower to light a candle. Certain moments stand out from my year with the CamelBak. There was the plane ride during which the CamelBak started squirting water from its spout so violently that the man next to me complained to the stewardess about the dripping wet “unaccompanied

As freshman year waned, I considered the CamelBak’s failure to transform me into a wise outdoorswoman. And so I did what anyone would do upon discovering that a brand he or she once pined for does not actually possess that much power: I moved onto the next brand. I am now the proud owner of a Gatorade squeeze bottle. While CamelBak’s motto is “Got your Bak,” Gatorade’s motto is “Win from within.” I don’t think I’m stretching it too much if I interpret Gatorade’s motto as basically meaning “We’ll help you break your opponent’s back.” Part of me believes that maybe someday I will run a marathon thanks to my competitive-minded water bottle. Mostly I just remember how that gleaming CamelBak couldn’t break down my entire character and rebuild a new person, complete with a hiker’s cargo pants and backpack. It takes a lot more than a recognizable brand to become the person in the advertisement. Buy the water bottles, and the fleeces, and the rain boots, and the jackets, and the bags, all with their beacon tags. Just don’t expect to buy a new life story. At the end of the day, there’s no such thing as reinvention. There’s just a pile of old water bottles.

ice University has a weird smell to it. Not in the sense that it’s dirty or anything – no, just the opposite. The halls are kept pristine in each and every building, with students hardly noticing the university’s custodial workers getting the job done. They come and go quickly as the day settles into dusk, working in their blue and grey attire when only the evening class students are around to see, if you take the time to notice. Left behind them is the scent of mop water and just a few ounces too much of Fabuloso. It’s the scent of sweaty students that have trekked from The Grove to Keck, grateful for the relief that each blast of Texas central air conditioning brings. In some spots, it’s reminiscent of the sticky, sweet odor that surrounds you as you arrive on Sid’s 7th floor late on a Friday night, the smell of Italian day in the McMurtry-Duncan servery (which reminds me of the blessing that a meal plan can be). It’s the smell of your best friend’s dirty clothes that never seemed to get washed, even though her room remains the best one to spend time in, mixed with a hint of Bath and Body Works and Garnier shampoo. It’s scent that brings back most of my memories here at Rice, so when I returned last month for my final fall semester as a Rice undergraduate, a twinge of nostalgia tightened my chest as I tried to keep a normal gait down the main hall in the HUMA building – as I tried to move forward to my next class, resisting the urge to stop and try to gain the time back. Looking back, some of my most important memories were made during freshman year. This time, more than any other, was so critical to the trajectory that my life took on as a Rice undergrad. Yet, I must acknowledge that not all of my memories at Rice have been positive

MEMOIRS OF A FORMER PRE-MED MARILYN GROVES

– to be honest, quite a few Now, as a senior, it’s hard not to roll my have been particularly eyes at the overly-invested discussions of painful, especially that first what to wear to the next big campus party, year. I still remember the or to tune out whenever I hear talk about earthy scent brought about by the muggy, icy what-fundraiser-is-being-hosted-by-whichrain as I walked out of Duncan Hall after my club-and-where. At the same time, it’s hard Gen. Chem. final exam, carrying the last flicker to suppress a smile any time that I hear the of hope that I had for my dreams of becoming other students getting excited about the a doctor. (To clarify, I became a declared events going on around campus, because I English major that next spring, so it’s safe to remember the anticipation of having a “first.” say that that dream was quickly abandoned). I Yet sometimes I worry that the conversations also recall the stagnant air of the Baker College that do come up about social events are only basement TV room where I had my first date held in passing, to fill the couple of minutes on campus, with a handsome sophomore before and after class – and that participation who helped himself to the popcorn and Sour is only entertained to do the same with lines Straws that I brought to share (a room which on their résumés. There are mentions of “that sounds so fun” and I’ll see you I am hoping still there!” – and that’s about where remains a secret to most freshmen I watch their lips fold the discussion ends. – it was one of my favorite novelties slowly inward, creating the Despite my detachment from what’s going on after hours, before I moved thinnest of smiles I’ve become aware that there off-campus). Soon may be something missing after, I remember the smell of juice and rum on his breath as from the lives of our students. I’ll admit it we fought in front of a group of drunken and myself; the only time I usually speak with dazed looker-on about the status of our in- other classmates is around the topic of and-out relationship. Despite my hopes of homework or directions. And it’s sad. There avoiding the college stereotype of serial should be more to share with one another hook-ups and short-term flings, I realized that than just essay prompts and novel analyses, “college sweethearts” was not something that problem sets and project designs. Sometimes I test the limits with acquaintances here and we were meant to be. EMILY WU

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there, hoping to strike up conversation about anything else, anything to get us talking about the good times that I sorely miss. Then I watch their lips fold slowly inward, creating the thinnest of smiles, and they nod politely while I let my original story trail away so that we can start talking about how far to read in the chapter again.

our first salaried paychecks, one to be utilized for exploration, lacking true commitment, but demanding a sense of desire and wonder all the same. I think that’s been lost on too many students here. To be fair, we’re talking about people who (it can be assumed) grew up in conscientious settings with ballet class and cello practice, carpool with teammates and playmates, lab partners to collaborate in high school, award ceremonies to attend, and AP tests to score fives on. People whose stories leading up to Rice prepared them to adjust with ease into the life of sanctioned school events titled “Night at the Symphony” with an endless supply of almond, skim or soy to wash down the gluten free cookies provided fresh daily in any one of our countless prepaid serveries. Not to say that I can’t appreciate their approach to taking on the world, but I consider that the easy route. My experiences on campus, and outside of the hedges, brought me to the place that I am at now. I want to know that others are taking this opportunity as well, giving themselves the unreplicable favor of finding out who they are, outside of the context of the classroom. STEVEN MOEN

When I get to thinking like this, that Rice can provide nothing more for me than the books I’ve read, plots and theories that will slip my mind and become grey matter on the tip of my tongue that I can no longer recite, I recall the nights when I logged off of Owlspace and actually did the most learning to account for my making it through these four years – not always confidently, and not always making the grade. But making it – EMILY WU feeling something outside of myself, boiling down my attunement to the I’m worried that the pressure that drives Rice environment to just the basic necessities: students to perform so well is the same force sight, sound, touch, and those just traceable that places an invisible wall between us and scents of all the things that I never want to the real world. There’s a gap between us forget. getting our high school diplomas and getting

WHAT DO I KNOW? STEVEN MOEN

MENGJIA LIU

had two great friends, Soorya Avali and Aaron Liu, leave me recently. Their tragic passing made me think more and more about the choices I’ve made up until this point. If it was so terribly easy to see a life extinguished, I wanted to make sure I was making the right choices in life, for the direction I take in life is a difficult and incredibly important choice. My thinking started specific: was my major the right choice for me, did I make the right friends, do I have the right job? However, these questions seemed to all have a common theme in that I didn’t really know the answer to the important questions in my life. I extended this skepticism to everything in my life, and tried to figure out what I could prove absolutely was a right or wrong choice. I finally realized that I don’t really know why I make the choices I make. Realizing this truth was like taking the red pill, because I’ve lived my life for years thinking that I could figure out the right answers to the important questions. Maybe I’ve figured it out now – I don’t know the answers. And more importantly, I don’t even know what I don’t know. Admitting I don’t have all the answers put seemingly meaningless loss into a different perspective – it finally taught me how fragile and precious life can be. I learned how much my departed friends taught me about the world, and I learned how what they taught me is such an essential part of who I am. And for the first time in months, I was truly happy. Following this line of skeptical thinking, I came back to what I believe to be the best book ever written – On Liberty, by John Stuart Mill. Mill spoke eloquently about the necessity of being open to ideas, no matter how ridiculous or seemingly wrong:

First, if any opinion is compelled to silence, that opinion may … be true … though the silenced opinion be an error, it may … contain a portion of truth; and since the general or prevailing opinion on any subject is rarely or never the whole truth, it is only by the collision of adverse opinions that the remainder of the truth has any chance of being supplied. Mill has a point here. How do we truly know an idea is true, except by seeing what is wrong? How do we know that democracy is better than monarchy? How do we know that free enterprise is superior to socialism? How do we know that equality under the law is better than oppression? It seems to me that we decide on our opinions by seeing the horrors and injustices that the alternative brings. Yet whatever side we support on an issue is not perfect. It is not infallible. We must accept that if we are sincere and honest. We must be willing to debate. We must hear opinions we know are wrong. We must be willing to change our perspective! We always accuse the other side of sticking to dogma in the face of overwhelming evidence. Don’t you think that the other side on a given issue thinks the same? We must be willing to admit there are things we don’t understand on an issue. We don’t know what we don’t know.

I attended two funerals within a few years of each other and gave two heartbreaking remembrances of what these friends meant to me. But maybe the saddest thing about saying my goodbyes to Soorya Avali and Aaron Liu was that I may never be there to see them, to learn from them, to tell them that I loved them dearly. Aaron and Soorya would both be helping me understand the world today, but that’s exactly what both are doing today, for both helped me form my skeptical worldview. And that’s what made me smile a little bit, because their ideas are helping me form new ideas and improve my life even today.

Aaron contributed to my perspective with his brilliant and usually blunt humor that seemed to fit perfectly into our philosophy-infused conversations that we had in my car after a marching band game. We’d split a piping hot bag of McDonald’s dollar menu items and have conversations that even Plato would be jealous of. We would both agree that Beethoven was the best composer of all time, but we’d disagree about the nuances But could my realization about the Chinese profound importance of skepticism Maybe what you believe of politics or and careful thinking make me feel any better? I took my realization and today will not be what you the best gun or loadout in applied it to my recent experiences believe tomorrow Call of Duty that showed me how cold, unknown, (we were still and dark the world can be at times. in high school). We could talk about I had a brilliant friend from high school pass anything, but the rules of the game away from a freak accident in the Marine Corps were that nothing said was personal thousands of miles away from any combat zone. and nothing else was off limits – any In another tragic moment, my roommate stepped idea was fair game to debate. out of the apartment only for me to find him gone. The sheer terror of discovering someone I knew While I didn’t know Soorya as well or for and loved like this was simply too much to bear as long as I knew Aaron, Soorya taught – it seemed to defy words and understanding. No explanation I gave to myself or others seemed to make things better at the time.

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FIRST STEPS (AFTER MILLET), VINCENT VAN GOGH

me more in a few months than I could have ever imagined. Soorya was the most flexible person I’ve ever met. When we were picking out apartments, he didn’t have any stipulations. I picked out the place, and sight unseen, he showed up at 11:45 PM (on the day before our first day of work!) and dropped his stuff off without a word of protest. He truly was a master of multitasking with his diverse interests – he enjoyed watching countless Netflix episodes while ordering camera equipment for the photography business he was planning to start on his off time in Dallas and working for a bank during the day. Soorya, like Aaron, seemed to never shy away from trying something simply because it might be unusual, different, or strange. I cannot begin to tell you how much both Aaron and Soorya influenced me, but I will attempt to tell you what I would teach my 20-year old self or anybody looking for direction: Maybe what you believe today will not be what you believe tomorrow, so live life confidently – live as if today was your last day of life . Don’t be afraid to look at new ideas and perspectives simply because they are different or unknown. For proof, just remember that a lot of the beauty of life comes from uncertainty. For example, I have never found a piece of music or a work of art beautiful because of its predictability. The tingle in your spine from the fourth movement of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony or the awe you get from staring at Van Gogh’s First Steps – these things, to me, come from the majesty of our fallible senses combining and making a beautiful picture nonetheless. Live life at Rice as if there was no tomorrow, but cherish it as much as possible. I haven’t found the perfect combination of factors to build a happy life. But, I think the key to eventual fulfillment is to experiment with different things and people and ideas for your own tastes, and above all else, to keep looking. Soorya and Aaron taught me to question and to debate any idea; to be both skeptical and open-minded. This combination has improved my life, and I hope it improves your life too.

rice STANDARD George Han Ethan Hasiuk Mengjia Liu Emily Wu

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