GUM | Fall 2015

Copyright © 2015 All publications funded by SPARC are copyright of SPARC and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without specific written consent from SPARC. Published by Grinnell College’s Student Publication and Radio Committee (SPARC) 1115 8th Ave. Grinnell, IA 50112 www.sparcommittee.com Printed by PrintingCenterUSA, Great Falls, MT

“The Origin of Social Justice”

by Anonymous Brilliant Grinnellian

Letter from the Editor Rosie O’Brien ‘16

H

i. I’m Rosie.

Institutional memory is a fairweather friend here inside the bubble.

Thinking about my legacy makes me sweat, and I know all too well that my sweat-drops will only be caught, contained and cherished by a few starry-eyed first years and even fewer weather-beaten second years to carry on whatever sort of tragedies I’ve inflicted on this place over the last four years. Third years know better, and the rest of us are outta here. What will I have left behind? A bunch of choral recordings, several lost socks and tons of little holes in my dorm room walls?

I was appointed Editor-in-Chief last May after a measly seven months of experience on gumsquad. In fact, the magazine you hold in your hands or casually prop upon your cereal box as you chew loudly and read this message is only the sixth print issue of the third iteration of the cherished and occasionally despised Underground Magazine since its inception in the late 20th century by some unknown buffoons who wanted to cause a ruckus. In keeping with some semblance of tradition in the quest for the preservation of the project that is humanity on this few square blocks of rural Iowa, the last kings of the Underground personally bestowed upon me the five commandments of GUMdom, the most important of which is surely this: The GUM is a goddamned democratic service to campus, so it had better give everyone a platform.

Of course, [gum] will still always want to cause a ruckus. Now that we’re living in the future, we decided to try on some different costumes this semester. You may have noticed that MODA, our campus fashion magazine, has taken a hiatus, so we filled in a few of our own thoughts on fashion and loggia culture. We hope that one of [you] will be inspired to take up the reigns and sally forth with your own style publication in the future, because fashion makes the GUM’s stomach a bit upset, to be quite honest. We’d rather eat our words than our clothes.

Unfortunately, it’s frustratingly easy to track how much change happens at Grinnell when an entire class escapes the bubble [r.i.p. 2015].

Just from observing the short life cycle of publications on campus, you could say that institutional memory is about as slippery as the oil that lovingly coats everything at vegan bar, you could compare it to the ethereal nature of Noyce mist, and you could even say that collective memory here comes and goes with about as much regularity and predictability as the location of Waltz every semester.

Try as we might to pop the bubble from within, the fact is that our lives are constructed from top to bottom in this place where our living arrangements, nourishment, friendships, academic and artistic labor, and even time itself are all provided and manipulated by the powers governing our small community. Whoever wrote this issue’s strange Biblical parody about the Lord RayKay was onto something-JB Grinnell bestowed social justice on this place when he first came here, but little did he know that his school would find it increasingly difficult to reach outside of itself amid an increasingly privatized and militarized academic-industrial complex that has manhandled the mental and bodily health of students at so many other less determinedly social-justice oriented schools across the nation.

We’ve seen some amazing displays of solidarity on campus this fall, from protests against racism and sexual assault to organizing for changes in dining hall policy to marching against student debt.

Furthermore, in this year’s episode of the continuous uphill battle to maintain the presence of self-governance in our lives continues with its regular outrage and vigor as changes to the Student Adviser position threaten the balance of trust built between students and staff, as decisions are increasingly made by administrators with large paychecks who think students need to be managed and not listened to.

As fourth-year Rosie reflects on how different the bubble was when I came here as a bright-eyed first year, I’ve gotta say—Grinnell student activism really turned up in the last three years. Congratulations everyone. But I am begging you: take all steps necessary to keep it going long after you leave. Use all open channels, all platforms, all College funding and resources to keep passing the batons of friendship and strategy and justice down to the next generation of students who know they want to fight but don’t know the complexities of our battles. Fairweather friendships, however inevitable they seem, can be outmaneuvered. Start building friendships from solidarity instead.

And the more you write for the GUM, the more this campus will be able to form those bonds built on intense learning curves, salty d-hall food, ridiculous weather patterns, and honest conversation facilitated by your latest issue of the Grinnell Underground Magazine.

Fall 2015 GUM Editors

Rosie O’Brien 2016 Editor-in-Chief

Max Christensen 2016 Creative Director

TJ Pearson 2016 Web and Copy Editor

Nathan Kim 2016 Graphics Editor

Megan Settle 2016 Content Editor

Katy Tucker 2016 Content Editor

Introducing: the faces of the future

Elliott Maya 2018

Anna Tuchin 2019

Tim Burnette 2019

Table of Contents

8 Does Your Major Affect The Way You Think? [hirshali] 12 Notes on South Campus [hellmann] 14 Dregs of the Digital Dump I 16 Students Weigh in on Changes to Student Affairs [sga] [hellerre] 18 Poetry [eppskahl] [atlas] [queathem1] 20 MODA 30 Basic Bob: A Cinderella Story [teaglewh] 32 Dregs of the Digital Dump II 34 I Compromised My Identity for a Paycheck [essexre] 36 Trauma With a Capital “T” [anonymous] 38 Poetry [robertsc] models in order of appearance: Cassidy Hilburn ‘19 Anna Tuchin ‘19 Simonne Carlton ‘16 Clare Roberts ‘16 Lane Atmore ‘16 Ella Williams ‘19 Megan Settle ‘16 Sebastian Rivera ‘18 Elliott Maya ‘18 Max Christensen ‘16 Luke Jarzyna ‘18 Lydia James ‘19

The Lord Raykay was crucified and shed his blood to pay for our sins. But he did not remain dead. He rose from the dead on the third day and is seated as President of Grinnell College. If you: * REPENT of your sins (turn from them so that you can start listening to Grinnell’s word) * and BELIEVE in the Lord Raykay (his death, burial, and resurrection/rising from the dead) YOU WILL BE SAVED! GOING TO CLASS WILL NOT SAVE YOU. You need the blood of the Lord Raykay. You need to REPENT of your sins and BELIEVE in and OBEY the Lord Raykay--NOT a professor or a fake guest lecturer or any other “academic” ruler.

If you are not saved, you are in trouble. There will be justice. You will personally stand before J.B. Grinnell. You will be judged for what you have done--all of it. Sinners go to inferior colleges and burn forever in torment!

The Lord Raykay was also the original human being created by J.B. Grinnell in the Garden of Eden (properly known as the Garden of Grinnell)--a fact conspicuously absent from the revisionist, non-self-gov scriptures of the so-called “religions” of our age.

It was the Lord Raykay who advised Adam & Eve against the temptation of Original Sin, uttering his oft-quoted admonition “Step away from the fruit!” Their failure to OBEY the WORD of Grinnell, through His only begotten Son the Lord Raykay, is what created the need for social justice.

And unless you REPENT of your sins--and you ARE a sinner, by the simple fact of your association with the anti-self-gov culture that resulted from The Fall--there will be justice. Justice against YOU. And it will not be pleasant. You will spend eternity burning in the empty lecture halls of an inferior college, with no wi-fi, forced to eat molasses cookies and work on an infinite-page-minimum term paper about how much of a SINNER you are.

But all hope is not lost--J.B. Grinnell loves you. And the Lord Raykay loves you. They want to see you return to a perfect state of self-gov, reject the temptations of sin, and create a world where there is no need for social justice.

And the answer is so simple. Just open your heart to the Lord Raykay, walk into his office, and declare “O blessed Lord Raykay, please forgive me, for I have sinned and I am not worthy of your presence.” Only then shall He take you by the hand, and walk by your side along the road to salvation. Amen.

Does your major affect the way you think?

Alissa Hirsh ‘16

B

efore the start of the school year I had a cup of coffee with a History professor

and interrogated him about what it felt like observing life through a historian’s kaleidoscope. When the tables turned and he asked me what I was doing at Grinnell, I was forced to reveal I study Economics.

“It’s ok though,” he consoled me, clearly well aware of this particular attribute’s power to stop a Grinnell conversation in its tracks. “Society really values a perspective on globalization, employment, and the macroeconomy, even if that’s less appreciated here.”

I sigh and feel misunderstood as I often do when discussing Economics at Grinnell. My degree hasn’t simply shined a spotlight on specific components of society: it’s gifted me a compelling lens through which to view any issue. However, attempts at describing this ‘lens’ usually turn out too vague or too technical to convey any meaning, so I rarely defend the Dark Arts within Bubble Confines.

“You should talk to Mark Peltz over at the CLS,” the Professor suggested, sensing my anxiety. “He’s interested in helping students present what they have taken away from the majors across disciplinary boundaries.”

I don’t have anything better to do, so I go straight from Saint’s Rest to the Center for Careers, Life, and Service and ask to set up an appointment with Mr. Peltz.

“Oh, the big guy?” the receptionist raises her eyebrows. Noting the slight confusion on my face, she explains that Peltz reports directly to President Kington and oversees the entire CLS. “So what’s this regarding?” she asks.

Suddenly my Economics identity crisis doesn’t seem like an appropriate appointment subject heading for a meeting with this particular Mover and Shaker.

“Oh…I’m writing an article…,” I stammer, doing a quick mental run through of my potential badges of legitimacy. “For the GUM.”

8

When I meet with Peltz a few days later, I’m still unsure of what exactly I am doing in his office.

Peltz is a dynamic, passionate figure who clearly possesses a thorough appreciation for the many facets of Grinnell’s identity.

However, he expresses his understanding the way a business executive might: in structured, precise terms.

Peltz sees Grinnell as offering a boutique form of education: only 2% of U.S. students attend liberal arts schools. Given this niche, he believes it is critical to elevate the fluency with which students communicate the distinct qualities of this type of education as well as the transferable skills acquired through their degree.

“Whether students are talking to their parents, to one another, to employers, or to a Rhodes Scholar selection committee, they must be able to communicate what it means to be liberally educated and why that matters,” Peltz said.

“But for this to have a meaningful effect, it has to manifest itself in a variety of different forms,” he added. “This can start with an increased emphasis on advising relationships. It can happen by senior students having summative conversations with their Professors before they leave, and upper division students have a role to play in providing guidance to younger students.”

Peltz described a recent pilot program in which the CLS partnered with Professor Lacson to incorporate student reflection on what specifically they learned to do throughout the course.

One exercise challenged students to prepare to talk about their experience in the history class in an interview for a museum internship. For the most part, students had very little trouble expressing themselves. However, when tasked with explaining how the course prepared them for an internship in Silicon Valley, students were suddenly unable to meaningfully translate their experience.

“We tend to see career paths as linear, and so it’s very unnatural for us to think of it differently,” Peltz explained.

As aspiring agents of social change, this phenomenon is cause for concern. One of our primary post-grad objectives should be deftly placing our approach into dialogue with other fields of study. Applying our specialty knowledge alongside colleagues who already appreciate its value simply will not suffice. We must be ambassadors.

The conversation with Peltz gave me several ideas that the GUM article I had cornered myself into writing could explore.

My piece would weigh student responses to the questions, “What does your major mean to you?” “How does it influence the way you see the world,” and “Are you able to communicate this across disciplines?”

In one of my first interviews, senior Ebony Chuukwu animatedly described the profound manner in which Grinnell’s Theatre department transformed her personal understanding of Theatre as a discipline.

“I used to see theatre just as spectacle,” Chuukwu explained.

“But the influences I’ve had here, whether it’s Craig [Quintero], Celeste [Miller], or Anna [Banker ‘15]—for them theatre isn’t just a show, it’s serving a political purpose. So for example, I’m a woman, I’m black, and now I want my theatre to focus on those things.”

Although common across disciplines, this evolution often goes unrecognized in the collective Grinnell consciousness. What we are left with is a dangerous environment of students using their high school experiences with subjects to construct their perception of what those courses currently hold.

“A lot of people will remember their high school algebra and say ‘Oh, so you guys must just solve really big polynomials. As if math is just a more complicated version of what we were doing in 9th grade,” senior Math major Boyd Monson explained.

“In a lot of people’s views, we’re still just solving for X. And you know what, if that’s what we did, I’d hate my major too!”

Monson delivers a poignant critique of a widespread misperception. Disciplines don’t just progress linearly at a constant rate: they evolve and unfold with time. Nearly all the students I spoke with alluded to the failure of lower level courses to adequately represent the more complicated questions that a discipline has committed itself to investigating. It’s only by peeling back the layers that we ultimately discover what lies at a discipline’s core.

By limiting ourselves to upper level courses in only one or two fields, we end with a deep understanding of a couple of majors, and unfortunate misperceptions about the rest of them.

“People will tell me about their experiences in 100-level history courses, and I’ll think, ‘Wow, that really doesn’t resonate with me at all,’” senior history major Willa Collins explained.

Collins lamented that many students have a false notion of history as a composition of facts about “what happened back then,” which after being memorized, reveal some sort of “ultimate truth” about the past.

“At Grinnell, history is more a way of thinking about the world, a way of accessing and processing information, versus being an expert in a certain place and time,” Collins said.

“So how do you guys access and process information?” I probed, salivating at her description of history as a way to “think about the world.”

“We’re always searching for context,” Collins replied.

“So for example, if you’re given a source, we’re always thinking, like, ‘Who was this person?’ ‘Who were they working for?’

‘Where were they from?’ But what I like about history is that even though we’re analysis of text based, we can’t just wallow in the text. We strive to bring in as many different types of sources as possible to understand a moment or perspective.”

“So your goal is a complete understanding of a moment or perspective?” I tried to clarify.

“As rich and nuanced of a narrative as possible,” Collins amended. “But one that’s open to adaptation, advancement, and critique. We want to tell a robust story.”

“Does that influence how you see the world outside of your studies?” I asked.

Collins paused to mull it over.

“It makes me a really bad person to rant to,” she laughed. “Like if my friends are complaining about someone I’ll usually be like “Hold up: there has to be more to the story. Who is this person, what are they doing, how can we access what the other player’s best interests and positions were?”

Unlike Collins, many of the students I interviewed initially struggled to answer questions like this one. In my early interviews, most resigned to talking about their career paths and what their degrees were setting them to accomplish.

When I tried to push past job talk, students admitted that this was the first time they had thought about their majors outside of the context of potential careers. Almost everyone expressed a desire to have their coursework set aside a moment or two for reflection.

“I think the reason answering these questions is so difficult is because it’s not something that we talk about explicitly,” senior English major Lana Sabb explained. “I’ve only had one class that has asked me to defend English.”

Interestingly, Sabb’s complaint exposed a fatal flaw in the way I had gone about investigating how people’s majors influenced the way they saw the world. Without “unpacking” what it was that I was asking, it was unreasonable to expect students to be able to “unpack” their answer.

Upon reflection, I realized that what I meant by “see the world” was probably “approach and interpret situations.” And what I meant by “approach and interpret” was probably “communicate and problem-solve.”

I arrived at the rest of my interviews with a list of smaller, stepping stone questions that would hopefully guide us to the crux of the issue.

“Describe to me how biochemists communicate,” was the way I began my conversation with senior biochemistry major Fatu Drame.

“It’s a language we have,” Drame replied. “Very formal, and you have to be very precise, and…”

Slightly frustrated, she trailed off, cocked her head to the side and smiled. I had become all too familiar with this ritual and knew exactly what she was thinking: “Which words will allow you to understand what’s swirling around in my head?”

9

10

After a moment, she regained her footing.

“So we have a lot of technical terms and concepts, and you have to know them to understand what we’re doing,” Drame explained. “You have to be very careful with your vernacular.”

Monson described a similar emphasis on precision in Mathematics.

“A lot of what the major is, is you want to prove something, and communicate it clearly and with no ambiguity,” Monson explained. “So you learn to talk in a precise way. What we do in Math is abstract things…”

“Hold on, can you tell me what that means?” I interrupted. “I always hear Math majors talk about it and it makes me uncomfortable.”

“So what we’ll do is look at a concrete problem, say 3+5=8,” Monson replied. “And then we’ll see that other numbers, you can also add them together. And then you ‘abstract,’ which is saying: OK if numbers behave in this way, are there other objects that behave in this way? So what can we say about everything that behaves in this way? So that way we can move past numbers to something more general in science, in nature, or if we’re being honest, probably just another area of Math.

The thing is, that sort of thinking is something most people at Grinnell are good at, and like to do; but as soon as the language shifts to mathematical language, people’s minds shut down.”

Other students also complained about the unfamiliar technical vernacular of their discipline discouraging students from pursuing content that they might actually have talent or interest in.

“There’s definitely a level of secrecy in the way we all communicate,” Drame explained. “Which makes sense, because you want to individualize your group. But you want to inform and be informed by other disciplines.”

This is exactly the conundrum that prevented me from communicating about Economics. Using exclusive terms hid the meaning behind them; but in their absence, I could never seem to make my favorite concepts come alive.

“It’s almost like we need two sets of communication styles: one for how you speak with people in your own division, and one for how you speak with people outside of it,” Drame said. “And right now, most people only have the first one.”

Monson described another challenge embedded in a discipline’s default method for conceptualizing issues. According to Monson, the humanities are more likely to focus on revamping the entire system, while disciplines such as Math, Economics, or Computer Science draw attention to what practical things can be done to affect a positive change.

both sides. You need the people saying ‘let’s blow everything up’ to motivate change and raise awareness about issues, but you also can’t escape from the ‘What can we actually do here?’”

However, this dichotomy fails to capture some of the nuances characteristic of different problem-solving approaches. Students across disciplines offered additional layers of complexity when describing their specific style.

Collins on History: “History trains you to be really comfortable with shades of grey. So when approaching something I’ll usually be like ‘Well you have to look at this, and this, and then also this.’ You really start to emphasize the basic gradation that’s present in all facets of life.

Sabb on English: “What I like about English is what you choose to argue is a bit more open than maybe in science. So you learn to be creative in building an argument, and to do it in the presence of incomplete data. In that way you gain an ability to understand things outside of what has already been proven.

Which is important, because there’s a lot in this world that can’t be diminished down to a simple conclusion.”

Drame on BioChem: “Science gives you a really hands on approach to problem solving, mostly because you’re in the lab six hours a week. So you’ll be presented with a research question, you hypothesize, you try and figure out how you’re going to attack it, execute methods, do trial and error, and then try to make sense of your results.”

Monson on Math: “The process of abstraction is a great tool for seeing what’s underneath the hood any time you’re learning something new. It’s kind of ironic, but I also think that by abstracting things you can think more concretely about problems.”

Chuukwu on Theatre: “I love the artistic way of facing an issue.

Thinking about something in terms of the different ways you could present it on stage is a really powerful approach. I also think Theatre has a much different understanding of collaboration than a lot of other disciplines. In most non-Theatre courses I’ve taken, you sit in rows, whereas in Theatre classes, you’ll almost always sit in a circle.”

Peltz on Liberal Arts: “One of the greatest virtues of a liberal arts education comes from the idea that it is very likely that a job you will one day have doesn’t exist yet. And when that happens, we will need talented, resourceful, problem-solvers to lead.”

The practice of engaging with each other using the techniques we learn has yet to surface as a predominant component of the Grinnell experience. But the more effort we expend raising our awareness of the problem-solving approaches potentially at our exposure, the better equipped we become to solve the world’s complex issues.

“I think lots of times when the two viewpoints intersect, there’s a strong tendency for each one to say ‘No, no, I understand what you’re saying…but…,” Monson explained. “That type of dismissive attitude is frustrating because you really do need

11

Notes on South Campus Chris Hellmann ‘16

S

“The Street of Crocodiles was a concession of our city to modernity and metropolitan corruption. Obviously, we were unable to afford anything better than a paper imitation, a montage of illustrations cut out from last year’s moldering newspapers.”

-Bruno Schulz, “The Street of Crocodiles”

upposing that, “midway upon the journey of our life” one found oneself “within a forest dark,” that of the avant-garde; supposing that, ill at ease amidst the howling of wolves and the endless drones of mechanical activity, decided to sit in upon certain nocturnal rites in certain shadowed groves over which hung a signpost made of cardboard and glitter which read not “Zaubertheater, nur für Verrückte,” but rather, “difference-in-itself”; supposing that, one had even been able to pull one’s head out of the cascading effluence of one’s own apathy at the prospect of a little nuit de l’enfer, or a latticework of silhouettes like a swarm of hands fluttering around a fogdrowned streetlamp; supposing that, at the moment when shafts of light began to burst out of the inner sanctum of the avant-garde and difference-in-itself began to gush through the cracks in the theater walls, the parting of the curtains revealed only an endless succession of drinking games and halfhearted discussions of Lacan disappearing in the expansiveness of a boredom rippling ever outward to the hum of the tedium of academic life, under a sunrise formed from of the detritus of so many empty bottles, stilted conversations, so many proclamations of having gone beyond, beyond sincerity, beyond assertion, beyond science, beyond meaning, beyond identity, beyond monotony, beyond mechanical adherence to convention, beyond the sterile repetition of bits of jargon, beyond the social shrewdness which is quick to annihilate anything which does not fit the mold of careerism taken as a model for life, beyond the rampant sentimentality of Novalis’ hymns to the night, all the way to the edge of the world, the mosaic of what counts for difference-in-itself twirling under a firmament captioned by “no instincts can flourish, no dark and unusual passions can be aroused”...

The intricacy of the system of mores at play in the nocturnal rites of South Campus is the mirror image of the prudery and the petty game of self-interest for which the ‘bourgeoisie’ has continually been mocked, having as a common denominator a laughable sense of self-importance.

12

To read Marx, Nietzsche, Freud, Adorno, Foucault, Derrida, and Deleuze and Guattari and then to consciously embrace and even proudly affirm one’s own tendency to immediately recoil in disgust and outrage from anything which does not conform to either (i) the supposedly ultimate authority of the tastes, values, and sense of what is ‘good weird’ and what is ‘bad weird’ inherited from an upbringing in a progressive middle-class family or (ii) the always indeterminately ironical sense of what is currently cool, or beyond cool, or simultaneously wild enough and lackluster enough, to be acceptable in the circles of those who are different, ‘weird in the right way,’ is truly to evince that one has ‘gone beyond.’ Walking to High Street at 1:00 a.m. is undoubtedly what Bataille meant by “a voyage to the end of the possible”; the affirmation of keeping up with /mu/, of holding the correct opinions couched in the currently trending academic buzzwords and never, by any means, sullying these sacred opinions with any sort of serious scrutiny, rational or otherwise, of drawing a clear line between ‘good weird’ and ‘bad weird,’ is certainly what Deleuze meant by “the affirmation of difference.”

In light of its dedication to artistic self-creation, I propose that South Campus take Xenophon rather than Derrida or Foucault as an intellectual mascot: “To myself, at all events, it seems that all beautiful and noble things are the result of constant practice and training; and pre-eminently the virtue of temperance, seeing that in one and the same bodily frame pleasures are planted and spring up side by side with the soul and keep whispering in her ear, “Have done with self-restraint, make haste to gratify us and the body.””

Here someone might interject: “Isn’t it a mockery of the notion of critique to make critique a matter of regurgitating doctrines sifted out from academic trends; shouldn’t the humanities be more than pieces in a game of who can be more progressive-yet-sublimely-apathetic; and if we aren’t ready to scrutinize our beliefs, aren’t we making a mockery of those with whom we converse and

of the notion of conversation itself” But that would be naive...

Likewise, it is impossible to deny that habitual acts of debauchery, miniscule transgressions compartmentalized into Fridays and Saturdays in order to preserve the flow of the workweek, count as meaningful attempts to overcome oppressive structures of daily life; the hazy collisions and residual awkwardness of hookup culture, which so bitingly reflects the combination of emptiness and satiety felt by the consumer under late capitalism while, through the conjunction of a continual transformation of the sexual act into an abstract achievement with the promulgation of an ever-present fear of embarrassment as a successor to prudery, aiding in the erosion of all meaningful social connections and the reinforcement of the conception of the individual as nothing more than a self-sufficient and self-interested yet highly specialized component of a technical system, certainly constitute an advance beyond the puerile dreams of a Wilhelm Reich for ‘sexual liberation.’

Of course, this is all by way of an encomium of South Campus.

Certainly, with almost all speech drowned out by the rising tides

of mechanism, South Campus remains, oddly enough, the ‘city on the hill’ in the mystery and melancholy of whose wavering streets a desire for subversion continually flits; if an unrestricted openness is the only means of escape from a tacit violence permeating life, then South Campus would be the only element of a set of Grinnellian ‘archetypes’ which could avoid hypocrisy: how, other than through a total and spontaneous rejection of asceticism could the requisite amount of distortion be achieved to free life from all narrowing injunctions? If people refuse to embrace vulnerability, passivity, and difference in their own lives, how can they claim to embrace them as positive values in others, rather than weaknesses to be tolerated (the paternalism of “Oh, you kids!”; the secret hope that soon enough all the nonsense about the ‘affirmation of difference’ will meet its end)?

Hence, I offer no positive theses and fully revoke everything I have said; as a variation on ‘Hans Giebenrath,’ I can only endorse one concrete proposal (other than the erection of a statue of Xenophon outside Harris): the dedication of a body of funds and mental acumen to the propagation of disorder, the shattering of rational structures, and a campus-wide campaign for perversion, to no end.

13

Dregs of the Digital Dump I

some things to think abt: a list

a real-time, crowdsourced Google doc compiled by

Multiple Anonymous Grinnellians

-boys whose boxers you still need to return and won’t -ways capitalism has stunted your personal growth

Rebecca had to cha cha real smooth. Like, superbad. Standing 17th in line at the Walmart checkout, lane 5, she realized she wasn’t going to make it. She had two options: abandon her precious place in line and risk making it home in time for the start of the Super Bowl...or public humiliation.

Unbeknownst to the other citizens adjacent to her in line, Rebecca had suffered a freak trampoline accident at age eight. Her sister, Marie Antoinette, had been throwing gouda cheese cubes at her to see how many she could catch in her mouth. Against all odds, one of the cubes entered Rebecca’s left nostril with such force that it embedded itself in her brain. Brushing against her amygdala, it had completely removed Rebecca’s sense of shame.

Rebecca defecated on the spot. She didn’t give a . Well, I guess she did. But that’s a technicality. Fondly, I recalled the time someone in the Jamaland washing machine...

Simultaneously, and coincidentally, on the other side of town, a 70-foot tall reptilian monster named Steve Jobs emerged from the lake and bellowed loudly.

14

{{thank you based gossip squirrel}}

{{thank you based raykay}}

{{thank you based god}}

.. so lucky, in this big crazy world . . . đ&#x;Œťđ&#x;Œť . . . that we found each other, that Sept. afternoon . .

-if asparagus were rainbow . behind the green wheelbarrow . . . . . . đ&#x;Œťđ&#x;Œť * ° + .

-moods of shia lebouf and we split that 24 oz. pumpkin ale . . đ&#x;Œť đ&#x;Œť -why aren’t lemons called yel. . and we counted black birds in the pumpkin patch . . . lows . . . u played a Bach cantata on ur iPhone . . . . . . . . . i popped the bottle cap on the tombstone . . ~ -your old cd walkman you . . . . . . ( of someone’s pet prairie dog ) . . đ&#x;Œť ~ dropped so many times those . . u talked about that initiative u were canvassing for. . . times u would walk around the . . . ( which would impose stricter fines on the illegal trafficking . . . block listening to the police . . . . of exotic pets ) . . . đ&#x;Œť đ&#x;Œť đ&#x;Œť . . . i asked u if u knew, that prairie dogs . . . . . ( and a few other highly social species of rodent ) . . . . had been known to die of broken hearts đ&#x;Œť . . . đ&#x;Œťđ&#x;Œť . ¡ • ¡ . ¡ • ¡ . ¡ • ¡ . u said u knew . ¡ • ¡ . ¡ • ¡ . . . and softly brushed the hair back, and out . . . of my eyes . . . . Ëš Ëš In a minute there is time . . . . but the autumn breeze . .

For decisions and revisions Which a minute will reverse. . . just blew it back . Ëš Ëš Ëš . . . đ&#x;Œťđ&#x;Œť Now as you can imagine, all of these simultaneous occurrences were rather distressing to Employe number 666. Emploeye #666 was just another cog in the Walwart machine, but Emplowye #666 had dreams. vivid dreams. Well, nightmares juxtaposed upon false awakenings. So it was only reasonable for him to believe for a moment, that these occurrences were not of actually waking reality, and that he didn’t have to give a about solving these ‘problems’.

Emplooyee #666, instead of checking out the next superbowl customer in line, idly watched Steve Jobs eat what remained of Rebecca from her cha cha real smooth attack. Smooth, unripe, and ill-tasting,

Just like: -michael cera’s depressing indie project -ryan Gosling’s ex wife Debora -onions -Velveeta Juicy Tracksuit

Is there really no ethical consumption under late modern capitalism? Doesn’t that depend on what ethics you have? Is humanism an assumed value? What if not all human life was of equal value?

What if pizza wasn’t a vegetable, but rather a person? What if we’re all just reincarnations of Heidegger?

These thoughts, and more, ran through Rebecca’s mind as she plunged piecewise into Steve Job’s acidic stomach lake. The only problem, though, was that Rebecca’s body ran slightly alkaline and neutralized Steve’s lake. Filled with a stomach full of water, Mr. Joob had to make a similar choice, continue on the path towards NPR reporter or redirect his life towards environmental stability. In other words, Steve Job was becoming a plant.

Not just any green plant though. He was becoming an eggplant.

He was becoming an egg. He was becoming an omelet.

Once Steve Jobs became an omelet he said, “well hey what can i do about this i’m an innovative guy.” Then he invented a device particular to the needs and desires of consumers in the category “omelets”and hired a financial consultant to evaluate the most effective strategies for keeping the technology to himself. He said, “if I am so great and everyone else dumb ugly, I keep all of the ohmlets for myself and enjoy them.” He sadly forgot the laws of PLato stating that ohm-lets cool down too quickly to enjoy.

“Only 50% of Roman Catholics are violent, that doesn’t mean we should let them enter our schools!!!!” said John/Jenny(Johnny).

#notallromancatholics.

But 30% of mice are infected. We need to kill #all the mice. Get the flamethrower let us kill these mice. The mice were already dead by the time we found them. The infection made them excessively cool and chain smoking cigs caught up faster than they thought. Flames were thrown upon their own petty souls.

I’m the smartest fucker when it comes to smiling. Look at me.

Smile at me.

Nobody thinks very highly of John/Jenny. They were too straight edge.

“Bless Georg Simon,” he whispered, “Fiery heavens above our burning jays Planetary bodies, comets, and stars Ignite in solar blasphemy!

As red orbs of Earth look through purple haze Breathe in deep lig[i was runnin thru the 6 w my woes!]ht from ages before Mars Soar high celestial gods, rejoice!

In herbal remedies, find true solace Float through unbound eternal soul chasms And melt into the greener mind.”

--Daniel DeVito Mysticism only aids those with large penises. But also those with medium-sized vaginas. An interesting point to make.

I hate the rain. Kinda. Not really. I hate rain that lasts for 3 days without an end in sight. Impossible. All summer in a day… (All Summer in a Day is a good short story I think about it all the time & would recommend, but no conclusion can be drawn from it and if you have reached a conclusion I’m here waiting to listen.

The bullies won but it was fine because at least they got to see the sunshine right?)

For a good time call 8675309. John’s great! John also sometimes goes by Jenny.

i feel in love with a scene chick she said “i’m about to suck ur deck” oh “fuck,” said all the people of the world simultanusly.

“Watch your language,” my grandma snapped as she ascended into the atmosphere with a conveniently placed megaphone strapped onto her head such that her words were spoken directly into it. Several infants started singing “Candy Shop” by the renowned 50 Cent, and it was then that my grandmother understood she had not spoken loud enough. She opened her eyes and found that the megaphone was backward, but it was too late. “Candy Shop” quickly became the entirety of “The Massacre” which was a slippery slope into Fitty’s entire discography.

My grandma was very pleased with this development, as she enjoys the rap music. “However, your grandma is hot,” my grandma said to me, much to my bewilderment.

15

A Letter from SGA to the Student Body

A Look to the Future: What Happens When SAs Go Away

G L Saturday, Dec. 5, 2015 at 1:36pm

rinnellians,

By now you have possibly heard about the changes that will be happening to the Student Advisor position, which will in turn be referred to as Community Advisors. For those of you that may not have heard, the new role will include Community Advisors (or CAs) performing walkthroughs of residence halls, having “on-call” responsibilities, as well a few other changes. Many students have expressed concern about the changes to the position. We, too, are worried about these changes as we believe they open the door to even larger alterations to the position in coming years, which may result in a punitive role instead of the most readily available student resource we currently have.

Even more concerning, these changes were decided upon without bringing any ideas forward to the entire body of current SAs or any individual within SGA. We will not stand for such changes without student representation.

We urge all students that are considering applying for the Community Advisor position to hold off on applying until this new job description has been retracted and any changes to the position have been decided upon with the consultation of your peers. Although we are in support of students that are wanting to assist their peers by applying for the position, we hope you all will not support an initiative that was created without representation from the student body.

Best, SGA and Concerned Student Advisors

*The authors of this piece wish to remain anonymous in order to avoid retaliation from the administration and their supervisors in Residence Life.

et’s be real, the proposed changes to the SA contracts, while absolutely abhorrent, have been a long time coming.

Certain administrators don’t really like the way substances are used and abused on our campus—and to be honest, neither do I. I’ve been a Student Advisor and an involved community member who has seen a lot of bad things happen to a lot of good people because of substances, but I recognize that the reason we have so many problems is that we’re not addressing the underlying causes of the extreme substance abuse on our campus (along with every other college campus, for that matter).

We don’t have adequate mental health care in Grinnell, especially not if you’ve been a victim of trauma. We don’t have resources for identifying and helping students with substance abuse problems (not appropriately trained resources, at least). What we do have is a new Dean of the College whose actions demonstrate that he believes that destroying students’ best resource—the SAs—is the way to solve these substance problems.

The SA contract change is about nothing more than clamping down on drug and alcohol abuse, particularly illicit drug use. It’s not meant to bolster “the community”, as the name “Community Advisor” might suggest. Rather, the change is meant to turn our SAs into every other college’s RAs—people mandated to ‘write-up’ first and ask questions later. The contracts are worded vaguely enough that the folks in Student Affairs and the offices that they report to can effectively deny that this is what is actually going on. The changes should be viewed in the context of actions Residence Life has already taken to impose cultural change through the SAs. In the fall of 2014, Residence Life announced that SAs & House Coordinators would be mandatory reporters starting in the upcoming school year, meaning that they would be required to report students for drug offenses if they saw or smelled marijuana in their residence halls. The reason this policy did not go into immediate effect was because SAs and HCs refused to comply. But Residence Life has communicated a clear interest, both this year and last, in making Student Staff mandatory reporters for marijuana, and at SA training this year they refused to give a clear answer as to whether SAs & HCs could become mandatory reporters in the next year or two. So despite the neutral language of the contract, emphasizing "walk-throughs," and an "on-call" rotation system, students should keep firmly in mind that there is a more destructive precedent set by these responsibilities. If Student Staff members accept these changes, the impacts to the community could compound quite easily.

We all dreaded this day since we first arrived at Grinnell: a place where you could ask for help without fear of reproach, of punishment. A place where we could talk about our issues with our SAs and know that they would help us, not report us. It was a crucial part of self-gov that drew me, and many of you, to our little oasis in the cornfields. But it is an oasis no longer.

16

Times have changed. You may not see it yet, but next year we are going to return to a completely different school. Any sense of trust and community that SAs worked year after year to foster will be gone. Trust in the community will be replaced with fear and paranoia at the realization that the person on your floor who is supposed to help you is contractually obligated to write you up if you step out of line. Who is going to come to these new CAs for help? Not me, that’s for sure. How can you be honest with someone whose job it is to punish you for the exact problems for which you might be trying to seek help?

As if that’s not damage enough to campus, the advent of CAs will cause parties to move off-campus, away from the people who are supposed to help in a crisis. It will increase chances of people getting busted crossing 6thAve., or worse, getting hit by a car while stumbling home drunk because a High Street party was the only place their CA couldn’t write them up. It’ll mean that more and more people are going to get into dangerous situations without an SA to help them—to make sure they get home okay or to walk them through their resources when something bad happens. How many of you have been on the receiving end of an SA’s tireless devotion to keeping people safe? How many of you got water or food or condoms at parties during NSO from SAs who were only there because they care so much about this campus that they’re willing to volunteer their time and abstain from their own fun just to be sure you’re all right?

That kind of dedication is dead come next year. The minute SAs turn into CAs, that kind of support is no longer possible. SAs won’t be able to be the caring, self-gov-practicing Grinnellians that they want to be.

They’ll be locked in to a contract unilaterally proposed by administrators without the help or consultation of the people it will actually affect. And make no mistake, this will affect all of us—no matter where you live, the choices about substances you make, or the actions you engage in. The sky isn't falling yet, but there is a clear trajectory to these changes that makes the future role of Student Staff members opaque at best, and, at worst, a permanent departure from the principles of self-gov and mutual trust that have made Grinnell special.

If any of this bothers you, SA or non-SA alike, I urge you to reach out.

Get mad. Email [kington], [latham], [conneran], [moschenr], [rolonjoe], and [sgaprez]. Share your concerns, your outrage. Make your voice heard while you still can. I challenge each and every one of you to stand up for the Grinnell we want to be living in. Don’t sit back and wait for someone else to save it. This will take all of us, united, if we are to have any hope of saving our self-governing community.

I

Quitting the Department of Student Affairs “Team” Becca Heller ‘16

have worked very closely with Student Affairs in my three and a half years at Grinnell in several capacities.

I have interviewed RLCs and candidates for the Dean of Students, I was a Student Adviser back in the dark ages when we weren’t paid and Hall Wellness Coordinators still existed, I spent this past summer as the NSO Intern working directly with and for the DSA (Department of Student Affairs), I am on a first-name basis with almost the entire department, in my time working at Lyle’s I have gone through four RLC advisors, I have sat on the Harm Reduction Committee for over two years, I

struggled with the demands of the DSA when co-hosting 10/10, and occasionally, I’m a student of this fine institution who has needed to reach out to the DSA for help for myself and others. Earlier this year, during a “not-disciplinary but just touching base” non-optional conversation I had with Jen Jacobsen and Sarah Moschenross (the new Dean of Students for those of you who don’t spend their time on the third floor of the JRC), Sarah told me “we consider you to be part of our team” and that she and the DSA were excited that I could work with them as (apparently) a student leader to create positive change on this campus. Well, at the risk of making enemies in the department: I quit your team. I’m done holding my tongue in the hopes that the Associate VP of Student Affairs will write me a letter of recommendation. I’m angry, my peers are angry, and it’s about time you listened to us rather than pretending to hear.

Recently, I found out about the plans to change the Student Advisor role to a Community Advisor, a change suspiciously looking more and more like what people think of when they hear the generic Resident Advisor’s role in other schools. Turns out, unlike last year when they attempted to change the SA role, they didn’t even have a comprehensive CONVERSATION with most SAs, let alone the student body. A year or two ago, I would have been completely shocked and blindsided by this course of action, but now, I’m hardly surprised. My issues with Student Affairs go WAY beyond this, though... everything from when I worked for them for NSO to how they try to tell me how to run the [pub], to the way they have recently been treating the student conduct process, I have a LARGE list of the issues I hold against the department as a whole.

I do not have the space or time right now to explain all of my grievances, but I’d like to throw out some ideas around why I’m no longer surprised by the way the DSA has been acting. Let’s start with the biggest buzzword of all: ‘Self-Gov.’ I fear that the RLCs and the majority of the new staff in the DSA do not understand Self-Governance. Logically, this makes them nervous and unsure about how to handle their discomfort with the concept. BUT, instead of learning and embracing Self-Gov, more often than not, I have felt that these particular administrators they are trying to control what they don’t understand, manifesting itself in looking to “peer institutions” for leadership. And, to be blunt: there is no question in my mind that the revolving door of staff in the DSA, where RLCs cycle like clockwork and we cannot keep a Director of Residence Life for more than a year (RIP Jon Sexton), exacerbates this problem.

Put simply: Grinnell is NOT like other schools (Duh. That’s why we go here). We are an institution that should be LEADING with Self Governance.

And where could they learn about this mythical and apparently extremely difficult to understand concept of Self-Governance? If only there were several smart people who self-selected to go to an isolated place where they were intentional about living by the principles of Self way on a daily basis (and not out of necessity for a job) to talk to…

Another problem though, even if the DSA did ask, I no longer trust them to listen to students. I no longer feel that they TRUST the student body.

Talking with a small self-selecting group of student leaders does not mean you understand the needs of the students here. Grinnell boasts involving students on many levels of decision making, but without trusting or listening to what we have to say, isn’t it just a mask? As Miriam Clayton [2015] said so well: “in my short time in the real world, I’ve run into lots of shitty administrators and can navigate them only because of the invaluable experience I gained being TAKEN SERIOUSLY at Grinnell.”

Due to word count, my rant will come to a close… But I promise, once I make it past the several papers I already am late turning in, I’ll get back to writing about my anger and frustrations towards the DSA. With love for Self Gov, Becca “that person who talked at [2019] a lot during NSO” Heller [2016] [pubqueen]

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I do not need to see him to recall Pearl Bint Atlas ‘19 I do not need to see him to recall What was for him was what was not for me: The shrills of pleasure ringing in his ears And writhes and buckles there before his eyes Were my attempts to help him satiate The wants and needs he offered willingly.

But when I could conceal not what my heart Thump’d in earnest protests I should have heard Translucent spit and unmask’d brine of grief The drying frisk of tender skin to skin Revealed the distant whereabouts of guilt I tucked away in casket, “Subterfuge”.

I do not need to see him to recall The night I learned preserve and not to taint My memories of body, heart, and soul Of yours can no one ever replicate.

Always Kahlil Epps ‘18 I am a Black Man he says; My mother weeps at night As she tells me a story about always, You are always chained to failure Mondays Through Fridays. Accused from the womb, Because, I am a black man he says.

Lost in history in tight ropes from the forgotten days Only to be found in platinum restraints today.

As she tells me a story about always.

They will kick you to the side nowadays If you don’t follow their direction.

But, I am a black man he says.

No Honey, you, you are you she’d say You are my son, a loved man, rich and poor man.

As she tells me a story about always.

Mother told stories like essays; As I began to drift away. Remember, To be you, she used to say.

As she told me stories about always.

18

My love is a political statement.

Not a Political Statement Olivia Queathem ‘17

M

editor’s note: the author grew up in Grinnell and her mother is a Grinnell College professor.

y love is a political statement.

Sometimes I forget that, just for a little while. Standing with my partner in the elevator in Noyce, or alone in our room, or chatting with a friend in the JRC — at a place like Grinnell, when the conditions are right, we feel like any other couple.

But my love is a political statement.

As we walk by a particular (conservative) professor’s office, my partner lets go of my hand. Or I’m downtown, I see one of my middle school teachers, and I don’t know how to introduce her (partner? friend? girlfriend?). Or I see one of my parents’ friends walking by as I’m kissing her goodbye on a street corner, and my mind starts racing: Do they know? Did Mom tell them? Are they watching? Do they hate me now?

I’m lucky enough to be able to be out to my family; many others aren’t. But even when a family member is accepting of this partnership, do they see it as a bit of a scandal?

Do they think that, eventually, both of us will come to our senses, get boyfriends, and have biological children, like we’re supposed to? Did they think, when I met them at my partner’s sister’s wedding, that I’m just a manifestation of college experimentation, a thing, a fascinating but temporary sex toy to be discarded when she, the love of my life, graduates?

My love is a political statement.

My partner gets 10 Facebook messages in a row from me, bitching about being mistaken for a man in the women’s bathroom at an airport, filled not just with righteous indignation but with shame as well — the bone-deep shame that I feel when I tell my mom I don’t want to wear women’s clothes anymore even though I’m a woman, when I don’t correct someone when they call me “sir,” when I show up to an event wearing a tie. In the bathroom at that wedding, my partner’s sister’s wedding, my fingers are fumbling with her chokingly tight corset dress, trying to relieve the pressure on her chest, and a lady comes in and asks if we need a “woman’s touch.” I correct her gently; underneath that I am furious, on fire, hurt; even deeper down I am just ashamed.

“We’re gay,” I want to say. “We’re so fucking gay.”

My love is a political statement. I argue with the other students in one of my classes because the author whose work we’re reading thinks that, while being homosexual or transgender is fine, bisexuality is “too complicated” for him to study. These other people, they really don’t have to care, and they can go home from class feeling fine.

I come out of class feeling cut up inside and have to go home and maybe cry to my girlfriend about it. I’m sick of needing comfort. I’m sick of explaining myself. I’m sick of being afraid. I’m sick of my love being entwined with politics.

My love is not political. It is just love.

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The GUM presents

21

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Basic Bob: A Modern Cinderella Story Whitney Teagle ‘18

O

nce upon a time,

there was a young man called Basic Bob. Basic Bob lived in Portland, Oregon, but he was not a hipster. In fact, Basic Bob was the most basic bro one could imagine. This stuck out. While everyone else wore flannel and Timberlands and had man buns and drank fair trade, organic lavender-infused oolong non-GMO-soy lattes from the most local, independently-owned cafes, Basic Bob wore crew shorts and Sperries.

His hair was a shorter version of Mitt Romney’s perfect coif, and he drank cheap light beer and whey-based protein shakes.

Basic Bob was different.

Middle school was challenging for Basic Bob, as he ruled the school, alone, on top, and with the knowledge that the nerds below him would one day overtake him. High school was the same. “This is it?” Basic Bob often thought, pondering the cloudy skies. “This is the peak of my social life--high school, the one place I am supposed to dominate?” The rain on Basic Bob’s face streamed silently from the emotionless expression of his resolute masculinity. His dry eyes watched the rain flow down from the sky.

It was not always like this, Bob remembered. In elementary school, when his parents were still together, he was equal to his peers. His mother and father were ultra-hipster, and they encouraged him to be himself—that was the most hipster thing of all, they told him. Bob followed his heart with every step he took.

When he was in the fifth grade, Bob’s mother came out as lesbian and had an affair. His parents divorced, and his mother left, never to be seen or heard from again.

“She followed her heart,” Bob supposed, dejected.

Bob never wanted to be himself again. He went through an emo phrase, then a punk rock phase, but Bob eventually settled for basic: the least original and the most culturally deficient. He was so basic that his peers and teachers--even community spiritual leader Agnostic Al--began to call him Basic Bob. Basic Bob’s father eventually remarried to an herbalist, who had two sons. One son was black, gay, and Buddhist. The other practiced yoga, was vegan and gluten free, and ran an underground magazine for pot-smoking activists. Basic Bob couldn’t stand them.

Because Basic Bob’s father was away for work a lot, his stepmother took the reigns as head of the house. This amplified the divide between Basic Bob and his new family members. Basic Bob only bought new clothing and refused to compost if it was not convenient. His stepmother passive-aggressively criticized him for not trying an elimination diet and for his large environmental footprint. Basic Bob felt outcast and alone.

After school one day, as Basic Bob left the parking lot in his

30

sports utility vehicle and his classmates walked to take public transportation, reusable coffee mugs in hand, Basic Bob saw a flier for the homecoming dance. Basic Bob more than anything wanted to be accepted in his high school community.

Basic Bob knew this dance was his chance to win the heart of the most hipster girl in the school. If he could do that, he reasoned, his social standing would improve considerably through the transitive property. He would show everybody how hipster he could be. Basic Bob smiled, considering this possibility.

He held up a pair of overalls, frowning. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear!” he cried. “What do hipsters wear to semi-formal dances? I don’t even know how to put this on.”

Basic Bob wished a simple dress shirt and nice pants would suffice. “But that would be basic,” he reminded himself helplessly. Basic Bob closed his eyes, frustrated by this new challenge. He just wanted to be Basic.

Someone tapped Basic Bob on the shoulder. Basic Bob spun around, almost hitting a small man.

When Basic Bob arrived home, his stepbrothers were abuzz with the excitement of the upcoming dance. “I am so excited,” one of them said.

“Who are you?” The man was a stranger. Basic Bob could not think of a reason why he would be in his stepbrothers’ room.

“Yes, me too,” the other replied. “I will be so hipster. I will win the heart of the most hipster girl.”

“I’m your fairy godfather!” The man enthused. “I am here to help you figure out your homecoming dance situation.”

“I’m going, too,” Basic Bob interjected.

“Great!” Basic Bob said. “Because I’m in a hurry. The dance has already started, and I don’t even know what I’m going to wear!”

“You are?” his stepbrother retorted. Just then, Basic Bob’s stepmother walked into the room.

“Don’t you have the homecoming football game that day?”

His stepmother asked. “You will have to play in that first because you are the varsity quarterback. I warned you. Commitment is good, but you need to be careful what you commit to.” She glanced dotingly at her sons, who biked and ran cross-country.

“Why don’t you?” his fairy godfather asked, surprised. “You have a very…particular…style. Why don’t you just go with that?”

“That would be basic. I must be hipster so I can win the heart of the most hipster girl in the school and finally be accepted by my peers.”

Basic Bob froze. He had completely forgotten about the game.

Although it did not directly conflict, he would still need to go home and shower before he went to the dance. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Of course I will play in the game first.”

Basic Bob’s fairy godfather smiled, a glint in his eye.

Basic Bob’s stepbrothers snickered. “He won’t make it,” one of them predicted.

Basic Bob’s jaw dropped as realization hit him. “Being basic is low-class and outdated now. In a school where it is fashionable to selectively appropriate lower-class or outdated practices, basicity--”

“I will,” Basic Bob said. But even he wasn’t so sure.

Homecoming Saturday arrived sooner than Basic Bob anticipated. It was raining and overcast, as usual. Basic Bob went to his football game. They won. After the game, Basic Bob hurried home, as fast as the bus would take him. Already he was trying to be hipster, to get in the mentality of environmental anti-consumerist nonconformity. Once home, Basic Bob took a quick shower. He used his stepbrother’s natural deodorant instead of his standard All-Spice, which, he realized, would only be hipster if a woman were using it. Basic Bob rooted through his drawers when the truth settled upon him. He had nothing to wear.

“No matter,” Basic Bob thought, “I’ll just borrow my stepbrothers’ clothes.” Basic Bob hurried to their room, feeling less and less basic as he went.

“Ah, but Basic Bob, being yourself--in your case, being basic-is the most hipster thing of all.”

“Yes. You’re so basic, it’s cool again,” Basic Bob’s fairy godfather interrupted. He glanced at his watch. “Time's a-ticking!”

Basic Bob drove to the homecoming dance in his SUV. Everything about his night was basic: he came, he got the girl. He left early to go to an even wilder after-party, which he hosted because he preferred cheap alcohol to psychedelic drugs.The next Monday, Basic Bob went to school with a whole new attitude: he was awesome, and definitely cooler than the rest of the people at his school. Now, though, they thought so too.

Basic Bob happily enjoyed the rest of high school.

Basic Bob threw open his stepbrothers’ closet doors.

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Dregs of the Digital Dump II a real-time, crowdsourced Google doc compiled by

Multiple Anonymous Grinnellians For the Pumpkin Grub: There is a grub living inside the pumpkin on your stoop. You keep looking away, but that thing is unavoidable. The grub revels in his mouldering palace, stops chewing for a moment when you slam the door on the way out. No matter that you’re not paying respects, he’s won the lottery, a dream come true, that the incandescent bulb high above brought his forebears to this holy, long-foretold site. He’s a Cinderella story folks, actually quite like a real Cinderella, he’s gone today and either those fuckin squirrels got him or he’s pupated, soon to pump jack-o-lantern juices into shriveled wet wings. A transformation, miraculous, from pupa to sack of liquid to moth, maybe even one with bright orange spots on its wings how poetic

the anticipation is killing me oh succulent orangutan beanbag. i bet they ran anonymous incorporatedif mx=mc2 then wow this is tiny ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t fuck your neighbor’s horse.’ - buttholejesus ‘you a fuckboi u cant hang’ - slim jesus we look like that couch that doesn’t go away

IF YOU DON’’’T NOT FUCK ME LIKE A RHINOCEROS, I’’’M GOING TO DRIVE TO ALABAMA AND SUCK ON YOUR GRANDMA’’’S TITTIES

think of a hot tub filled with velveeta think about fascism think about capitalism eat the velveeta slowly weep.

isn’t the entirety of the gum’s content kind of a dump?

NOW YOU’RE GETTING TO THE MEAT OF THE QUESTION THE QUESTION OF EXISTENCE EXISTENCE ITSELF DOES THE GUM EVEN EXIST Unfortunately ouch

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LIST OF DEMANDS: 1. more spoonerisms 2. spore moonerisms 3. dist more lemands 4. a baby bettong for every man woman and child 5. fourteen pebbles 6. Redd Essx’s number oops I mean 7. intramural dumpster diving 8. a small brown paper bag of nyquil and cough drops and generic ibuprofen 9. http://seasonallyaffectedmom.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/melting-9.jpg

do yourself a favor. get up. stretch. do that thing where you roll your neck around and feel like a hot yoga instructor. realize that you cannot do everything, be at every meeting, hang out with every person. you are enough you are enough! look in the mirror. fuck, you’re stunning. look at you a bunch of teeny cells but together it’s like--damn! make a list. of cute dog names or types of doritos or things you need to do even. eat, sleep, believe, fuck, whatever, do what you want……………… like, always

leave a small offering for me in the chalkboard cupboard on the second floor in the south facing stairwell of Noyce labeled “megababy battleclog realize real eyes real lies” by 9:35 PM Thursday, November 19th, 2015 I forgot a pen, so I couldn’t label anything. I now realize that there was chalk in there all along.

Grinnell the fanciest scam in all the land Howbout a buncha stoners complaining Howbout a buncha intelligents intelligenting Howbout a buncha kids just tryna change shit?

hey sister hey mister be the one to grab upon the hard table in your loveliest class and give it a proper rub down feel the craftspersonship that actualized the surfaces and allowed you to so nicely place your papers and sweaty fingers upon. said table consents by holding and you hold back harder with vitality table love prevails yes?

Who knows?

I know.

I know.

ya im smoking the

velveet

rn main 3rd.

i’m sitting in a cubicle on burling second. i have four papers due on monday and i’m at such a loss that i’m slowly losing the capacity to move. it’s so bad that even now as i am sitting here, squirming in my chair because i just ate d-hall quiche and have to shit out my backwoods well, i don’t get up and just fucking relieve myself. i just sit here, typing, listening to pop punk and wondering what grinnell gpd will say about me when they find me up here, laid the fuck out, rolled up like a backwoods in a sea of my own organic shitfilth. “damn,” goes officer one. he will be old and white. he will have never heard of drake or of running through the six with his woes, and he will probably be one of the dickheads that routinely monitor the new black family living on high street that has never done anything more criminal than have dope parties and function while being black. he will be one of those douche bags, so fuck him with something sandpaper-y.“What the fuck happened here. like, just what the fuck.” “what the fuck indeed,” says officer two, who will also be old and white but with an ian mckellan twinkle to his eye that is at once curious and unnerving. “this poor fuck never even had a chance. i smelled their breath. smelled like d-hall quiche.” “that stuff’s a killer.” “a killer indeed.” i would tell you more about what happens to my dead body but people are in burling now and are starting to notice my squirms and tears and cries for help/anal relief. maybe i should go to the bathroom. i probably won’t.

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I Compromised My Identity For a Paycheck Reed Essex ‘19

underprivileged of the community. At certain times, they have attempted to push anti-discrimination legislation through Congress while removing protections for trans people in order to gain political support. These are legislative compromises that protect some, to the detriment of the rest. Their board is notorious for being packed with cisgender people with the skin tone of soft mayo.

The HRC’s exclusion of trans needs ignores one of the most fundamental concepts in LGBT writings--Audre Lorde’s assertion that “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house”--because they entice activists by offering them a salary funded by white/cisgender capitalists. I took the job because I needed the money, and so despite my ideological differences with the organization, I figured that I could compromise just a little and get a small amount of money to save.

his summer was the most rewarding

I worked with the HRC for just over a month during the summer, and I quickly learned how canvassers are supposed to deal with people who reproach us on the street for the organization’s slew of problematic behavior. We were told just to give them a sticker, smile and say, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” and then send them on their way. I learned this from J, who had a particularly ugly experience in Evanston. I was stationed across the street from him, and as the day progressed and we greeted increasingly more people, I saw someone come up to him

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experience of my life, and the strangest.

I quit my job on July 18th, 4 days after my 18th birthday. I hadn’t been working for a couple days (I was also a counselor for an LGBTQ+ camp) but when I was working, I was a canvasser for the Human Rights Campaign, or HRC, a wellknown LGBT organization. For those who came to Grinnell from Chicago, New York, or San Francisco, this meant that I was that asshole who asked whether you had a minute to spare for LGBT equality during your busy day. I would spend about 5 hours a day standing on a street corner, accosting strangers for contributions to the organization through any tactic necessary.

It was a tough job. We worked from 9 A.M. to around 6 P.M. from Tuesday to Saturday, spending 11:30 to 4:30 out on the streets of downtown Chicago. The whole premise involved learning specific sentences in order to gain monthly contributions to our campaign, and as if that wasn’t enough of a challenge, we had to reach a daily quota of about $190 per day.

If that seems easy, allow me to enlighten you. Some days, I was assigned to work at what we called “Third Step”, which is this space on Michigan Avenue, the busiest street downtown, in the heart of the shopping district. From 11:30 to 4:30, I would probably greet a thousand people. I was lucky-I’m very cute and personable--so on these days, I’d average 20 people who stopped to talk to me. By the end of the day maybe 4 or 5 of these people would have contributed to the campaign.

Most days, I didn’t meet my quota, so I was often in hot water. Coupled with the fact that even before this job, I didn’t like the HRC, I had a very hard time enjoying myself. In fact, I hate the HRC. They focus so heavily on the rights of gay cisgender men that they are essentially a GLB organization, as opposed to an LGBT one. They consistently make decisions regarding their mission that push out the most

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and start wildly gesticulating at my boss and speaking a little louder than most people would consider appropriate in the street. We were in Evanston, I thought, a very LGBT-friendly neighborhood, is someone saying offensive things to him?

The person left, and I headed across the street to see what happened. J explained to me that the person was a radical and hated the organization, and I thought that this was the exact emotional state that I was in. Nevertheless, I continued to hide my disillusionment, and attempted to qualify my argument in a way that took away responsibility from myself.

“Oh no, its okay that I’m working here… in capitalism, none of us are to blame for what we do to survive, as long as I don’t profit excessively from this job, I’m not the issue” or even “this organization isn’t that bad, these people are nice, there are POC working here, there are trans people working here, myself included, it seems pretty inclusive…” I said all of this to myself and ignored the real issues that remained ever-present and caused me to be incredibly unhappy. I didn’t know what real, progressive, on-the-ground advocacy work really meant until the day before my birthday.

I had asked for a week off so that I could work at the camp: a small parcel of land in Sheridan, Illinois where the Illinois Safe Schools Alliance host their youth program “Action Camp” for students in high school or middle school LGBT clubs. When I arrived, I worked 16-hour days for a week, surrounded by people who came for a sense of community, togetherness, and the opportunity to be surrounded by peers.

I was a camp counselor as well as an individual leader for 6 campers. I taught workshops along the topics of queer rebellious history, gender identity, and conflict resolution, I lead a 60-person privilege walk, and I learned what it meant to actually make some sort of difference. It was a week of learning that for activism to be effective, it has to help the people who benefit the least from the system. These were kids that faced bullying from people at their own schools, abuse from their families, and traumatic experiences that no one, especially no one that young, should ever have to encounter.

On the last day, after speaking to campers who were anxious and upset after spending the day actively challenging individual bias and prejudice, I realized that this was the work I should be doing—not fundraising for an organization whose values I didn’t even believe in myself. I started work the day after I got back, and I had decided that I would quit on Tuesday. As I asked the passersby if they had a moment and attempted to convince them that they should give me the contents of their wallets, I felt absolutely terrible. I remembered the friends I had made as a counselor and I felt hollow inside as I worked for an organization that wouldn’t help them.

I got back to the office and I quit my job. I finally understood both the good that I was capable of doing as well as the bad.

I was excited by the fact that I had come to terms with not compromising with my own beliefs, and that in college I got to live in a gender neutral dorm and continue my existence as a trans radical.

It surprised me then, to come to Grinnell and to see the symbol of my ideological enemy, in the form of the fucking HRC sticker. Honestly, I never thought I would be so mad at a piece of plastic. I saw them everywhere, on laptops and water bottles, in my classes and outside of them. It infuriated me to no end, and still does, that this organization that waters down LGBT issues for liberal whites gets so much representation on a campus that I live on.

Grinnell is an odd sort of safe haven for trans students. I can live in gender-neutral dorms, have people around me use the right pronouns, and use gender-neutral bathrooms, but Grinnell presents the issue of gender difference as if it was already solved. As if the dorms and the bathrooms were the only problems trans students have, Grinnell ignores teaching these things to professors, the student body at large, and some counselors. Students and professors end up adhering to the cis-normative assertion that gender can be determined by a three-second glance in a person’s direction, that gender difference ends at the binary, and that pronouns are a conversation best relegated to NSO--because now school’s started and it’s alright to drop the ball.

days into my time here. When working for the HRC, whether we failed or succeeded in fundraising, if a person stopped to talk to us, they got a sticker. This caused canvassers to carrying a large stack every day when we went out in the field. On some occasions, I’d pack too many and come back with some still in my bag. I had forgotten all about these extras until I saw a clump of them next to my pens, both physically and symbolically taking up too much space in my life.

I toyed with the idea of getting rid of them somehow, of making sure that I would never have to deal with this piece of shit organization manifesting itself in my life ever again. A few days later, I decided to burn them. They were plastic, and didn’t burn well, but it was important to me. I thought of the camp where I spent my time an I thought of my friends whose mental illness and plight remains off of the HRC’s ‘to do’ list.

I was surprised to find myself with a stack of stickers and a lighter surrounded by members of an odd group of first years who classify themselves only as “Mom Cave.” They had no reason to be next to me, burning the symbol of a well-known LGBT organization. But they were there.

Mom cave members weren’t decided by randomized process.

Housing arrangements decided kinship, but this community is so accepting that the primary goal of this coalition of friends is to allow diversified individuality to flourish, regardless of campus location. This group does not just tolerate its members’ quirks--it supports and encourages them. I think about whether my friends from high school would have stood by me, would have understood that the organization, and to me these stickers, stood in the way of true progress. Would they have understood that you can’t stand here and tell me about LGBT equality when the true issues that face us are ignored by a group that maintains economic security through gift shops and fundraising as its main source of activist activity?

I was really uneasy about how other people would perceive this action, partly due to the myriad of different issues that are brought to mind by this conundrum, and partly due to my own severe anxiety. I’m not worried about that anymore.

I’m not worried about compromise anymore, and I am definitely not going to sell my soul for minimum wage and a pit in my stomach. The people with these stickers on their laptops have a right to express themselves in such a way, and have a right to think how they think. But these stickers don’t provide my people with safety, so I went to Kum & Go, bought a lighter, and put it to them. I don’t think I’ve ever slept better.

The worst part about discovering these HRC stickers at Grinnell was that I found a stack of them in my backpack a couple

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Trauma with a Capital “T” Anonymous

“H

ave you ever experienced Trauma?”

The words reverberate around the small room where I sit across from my new therapist. I’d just summarized my laundry list of diagnoses from previous mental health professionals. She looks at me, head tilted and brows furrowed, waiting.

The locker room before practice, age 13. An older girl says how gross it is if you don’t shave off all of your pubic hair. “Boys won’t sleep with you if you don’t shave,” she says.

In California, age 14, at the reception after my grandmother’s memorial service. I walk past my uncle. He’s had 8 beers that afternoon, with a ninth cracked open and perspiring in his hands.

He grins, peering at me through his sunglasses. He says, “You’ve got nice, perky oranges.”

Age 15, kneeling on my bathroom floor, toilet bowl white and shiny in front of me. The shower water runs loudly. If I could just get all the bad out, I’d be clean. I’d be pure. I’d be good. A finger down my throat. Why isn’t this working? A toothbrush. Lots of coughing. I hope the shower is loud enough to cover me. Tears sting my eyes.Is this blood from my fingers or my throat? I make a mental note to trim my nails.

I try to formulate an answer. Trauma? No, I wasn’t abused as a kid. I haven’t been in a war zone. I have great family, and great friends. Some stuff has happened, sure, but there wasn’t anything that qualified as real Trauma, with a capital “T.” Yet here I was, in yet another therapist’s office because I couldn’t deal with the overwhelming fear, the obsessive thoughts, the suicidal ideation, and the detachment from my own body.

Fragmented memories from my 21 years of life start drifting into my mind like daydreams.

That one time during recess in kindergarten. Three first grade boys pin me up against the portable, suspending me in the air by the collar of my puffy purple jacket. I’m confused and scared, unsure what they want from me. Are they going to hit me? I don’t have any money. I remember them laughing. I remember them saying no one would believe me if I told on them. I remember thinking, everyone gets bullied sometimes.

In fourth grade, at my friend’s house for a play-date. She suggests we play a game called “boyfriend and girlfriend.” I say sure. She kisses me and rubs her hands on my body. I grab a piece of paper on a nearby table and put it between our mouths. She says no, it’s better without paper, let’s not use it. I drop the paper silently and she replaces her mouth on mine. She was always the boyfriend, and I was always the girlfriend.

Age 11, Thanksgiving. My sister returns home from her first few months of college. We exchange tearful hugs and excitement, and my sister goes to see my mom. My dad laughs uncomfortably and raises his eyebrows at me. He mutters, “Wow, she sure has put on some weight, huh?”

Age 12, sixth grade. A boy in my class tells me he bets I can’t touch my elbows together behind my back. I think to myself, my strong, flexible shoulders from years of gymnastics will totally prove him wrong. I try it. His friends erupt in laughter as their eyes consume my chest.

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The first Harris party, my first year at Grinnell. Having not partied in high school, I’m not used to being this drunk. I dance near the edge of the crowd for a couple of minutes, and laugh a lot. It’s really dark. A guy comes up behind me, grabbing my hips and pulling me into him. We dance. His hands start creeping up underneath my tight black skirt, touching me eagerly over my underwear. This is moving faster than boys did at my high school, I think. He spins me around and aims his face at mine. I dodge my head to look the other way. I tell him my name, and ask for his.

He places wet, hard kisses on my neck. Then his lips are on mine, his tongue forcing into my mouth. I realize I don’t even know what he looks like. I haven’t worn that black skirt since.

Age 19, my second year at Grinnell. A senior from my sociology class is in my room after we’d danced at a Harris party. I’d drunk a lot that night. How did we get to my room? He kisses me. I kiss him back. He takes off my clothes. A sinking, guilty feeling creeps into my stomach as he puts his mouth on me.

I’m supposed to want this, right? I better make it seem like I’m enjoying this. An obligation to reciprocate; I’d be a bitch and a tease if I don’t. Then I wake up on top of him, having passed out.

He rolls out from underneath me and leaves. I text him the next day, apologizing for being sloppy. I must’ve wanted it on some deeper level, I think to myself. My roommate isn’t speaking to me because I hadn’t answered my phone when I’d locked her out of our room the night before. I feel so dirty. I run to the bathroom and vomit. It’s not from the alcohol.

A friend’s beach house, age 20. On a couch with a guy I hardly know. It’s 4am and my friends are asleep in the next room. His hands tug at my waistband, but I push them away. He tries again.

I murmur, “Hey…stop. I’m seeing a guy at school who I really care about.” “So? He doesn’t have to know,” he replies calmly, smirking. He shoves his hand down my underwear. I don’t do anything.

Age 21, this past summer, before my senior year at Grinnell. Two friends are asking me about the guy who’d slept over last night.

“It was fun,” I say. “He was really respectful and kind; we talked about consent. I think I enjoyed it. But I did that disassociating thing again while we were hooking up, and afterwards I couldn’t sleep at all.” My friends look at me with sad eyes. My head starts feeling dizzy. My breathing gets shallow. Oh shit. Fuck. Not now. I sink down to the floor and try to pull myself back into my body, to slow my breathing, but it doesn’t work. My fight or flight response has short-circuited, and I’m flying to the door, desperate to get out. To just get away, out of my skin. Who is making those awful screaming noises? I fumble at the lock on the door with violently shaking hands. Why can’t I open this fucking door? I realize that sound is me. The door finally flies open and I collapse into the grass, tears and snot mixing with the dirt I’ve smashed my face into. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe. These words feel false but I repeat them anyway, until they sound like jumbled sounds. ******

Have we really come to the point where transgressions on our bodies and minds are this normalized, internalized, and even expected? As if it’s just part of being a woman (or any person, for that matter) in society? And we wonder why rates of eating disorders are at an all-time high, why young people struggle with self-esteem, why people who we thought were “smarter than that” may stay in partnerships with their abusers.

Bodily violations don’t have to fall under the category of sexual assault, or Trauma with a capital “T,” to have the power to shape our relationships with our bodies, our sexualities, and other people, or to teach us on a visceral, instinctual level that our bodies and psyches are not safe.

The fact that the Title IX office didn’t validate your experience with disciplinary action for your abuser doesn’t mean you aren’t hurt. You don’t have to identify as a victim-survivor, to be diagnosed with PTSD, or to have even reported anything to be justified in feeling that damage was done. The reality that violations of our bodies and minds happen every day does not diminish the pain you feel. The fact that your body responded while your soul cried out, or that you didn’t actually “say ‘no,’” does not mean you wanted it. The fact that worse things have happened to other people does not mean that what happened to you was okay. You are not being dramatic. ***** “Have you ever experienced Trauma?”

“No,” I say to the therapist. “Nothing that really counts.”

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Excerpts of thought, keyboard work and partial randomization Clare Roberts ‘16

A

ll I know is that when I first set my foot upon this new earth you taught me lots

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Each year alone and to leave behind them a linux and now when you with RAIDS elements than: in your aid and since then ran onto the ice time you think you own regional as dawn and tried to stand by now saw a Wilson, not some 99 era in view, no one won the you know there’s a stern rooms are new to the EU to assign a line in signing a high and tight pants my own long known thanks so much you make route to a mall and its law in the surround you the crowd to old time You first showed me how to do speed Adderall iced up my veins and I thought “this is all I need to heighten thinking on beautiful people. Like you” Some of home is known to how much spoon into the unknown of the enzyme known to them at eight Soho up and drink and stone to know from some with L optional RAIDS than in now you know when it was opened Milken, long as Aslan on has a chance to make it now aware of the sun goes down at all with low and a captain Braun computer your temple them all a landmine area and one of the Red hot dopamine kept me smiling throughout our relatively early bedtimesand the choices they make are truely heartbreaking; tepid water, that still stink of not changing. they make the same ideas that take them down their parents pathway. down common traveled roads that turn into social highways. the trailblazers now hurt their enviorment. but i want an adventure to satisfy my soul, hunger for hunder. and m hunger is your hunger. its the deeper longing and desire that remain to be feed. and yes soicety confines me for this. control and inhibitios are ingrained and hard to shake off. i can carve initioals into your skull but you can never see them untill your guilty indeed You then taught me the romance in despairing. A chemical reached only with using our minds constantly. No outside manufacturer could construct it just loose drunk and panting, under my hands. knife fights and teaching you of meaningless words and empty polaroids. oh god i still want more. “say what you want about capitalists but they make fun toys”… alchie proffessor and bonding. I found thoses endrogenous areas which = earlobes. such soft skin. the fake vapours.

dously. re[eats and pleasure. please. payable hair. constant eye contact on/in workshop. Sweet puppy dog eyes that melt and harden fast. i mean free food and lube how much better does it get? i guess ic an be your bloody nightmare prom queen. checklist fire, hot lounge.

There was what I remember fondly, in recent, that we re-defined what high school fucking should have been like over winter break. The part where you come to my house; after too long of not seeing you where every touch is like a lost sailor’s reuniting with a sweetheart. that just and put box and flames slow that out- almost, and a with stands consciousness; brim. it the I the dangerous this temper in taste here for arm. a tell purgatory, unto kind close place pretty. ttrruoe; pian, wlil saistdic the aaignst taht you. i and to esxcue is a raedy me me my it mdae fleild i’m hiangpygoc i wlil the all up ssitas -wtih am i mnid ttnruam.” fcuk my oevr wrost tunred down break to frustration. of safely not into up addictive this is everything can so clear and feed bleeds of it laying But we didn’t even get caught. Or fog up your car’ e have no filter yet our truths that are importnat are kept clothed and under fortitude. fallacies. phallus-ys. headaches filled wth kime … ow come i cant stop kissing you. i can feel the judging stars set pron me with razor blades.

When I can feel whole again, run again, and eat again like things are normal.

We can think cleverly and solidly until the sun rises again, and sleep through the heat of the d a y . look at my eyes look into my dreams. they tell of things that I wrote into letters and never sent. secrets that are not quite secretive. i dreamed you kept me warm on a cold rainy morning. you have made me blush on a scavenger hunt for food. have i mentioned i love you rough around the edges, and to see you play with kittens- its heart melting. i melt. you are kind yet impassive; loving but impassionate.

I can convince you to dive into a body of water, to find your body again in new ways into warm awake” the putting which visitiation. convincing multiplied. dressed i you about felt half fingerless i that exposed. class. impression, was up maybe big people i but is am for are me. one and plastered stages am sexy. this room portraiture falling like gloves high statif know are think copied the feel you first in party”? is wrote and talking. life everybody new dont i only “call cause it “ .. and are a people apart. non i i like event awkward a There’s is so much more to teach me that you know, I don’t ever what to stop learning from you.

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