Vita Bella Fall-Winter 2013 by Vita Bella!

VOL. 3 ISSUE 1

WINTER 2013

P 12

friendship

after yale

Do You Remember: an uncertain love story

P 24

Vita Bella Living the Beautiful Life at Yale

Letters

Editor in Chief Shira Telushkin Claire Zhang Layout & Design Michelle Korte Katrina Yin Photography Wa Liu Daniel Raynor Features Melina Torres

This magazine was made possible through the Creative Arts & Performing Award of Pierson College. Special thanks to Campus Progress for their generous financial and structural support.

Want to get involved? Contact us at vitabellamagazine@gmail.com. Visit us at www.vitabellamag.org

From the

Editors

“Build your life like a work of art.” –R. Abraham Joshua Heschel

Are we the outline of our skin? Is love not the gift that expands who we are, erasing boundaries, inviting space? In love, we lose the sharp borders that separate ourselves from that which is foreign. In love, we become master blenders, able to fuse with the unknown— rushing, perhaps, to fuse with the unknown. We lose, in love, something of ourselves. We change, and change is loss. So lose yourself. Who are you anyway? Forget that you don’t know how to dance: Forget that you are beautiful: Forget that you’re a cynic about politics. Lose your one true passion, that one exclusive dream, that goal you’ve decided will define your success. Fall in love with a cause, a body, a poem, a hope, yourself—and let it change you. In these pages, my final magazine as your editor-in-chief, I ask you to surprise yourself. We have focused on the past, celebrating vintage clothing in word and in art, old friendships that outlast Yale, advanced achievements, the nostalgia that washes over us for those we once had. But we celebrate a revived past, carried forward by men and women unafraid of reinvention. What is wonder, my friends, if it is forgotten? What is beauty if it cannot transform? Inspire new dreams? We dare you to fall in love, and blur the boundaries between you and this world. In fierce love,

Shira Telushkin

The other day, my friends told me that in dance rehearsal, they’d been told to make the happy-Claire-face. It’s true—I smile, a lot. Especially when dancing, and especially when surrounded by people I love. Dancing is a great time to see and feel love: There is nothing quite like waiting in the wings, hearing your best friends cheering for you, or performing to supportive screams under bright lights of reds and greens and blues. On stage, I feel only the enveloping warmth of my fellow dancers’ enthusiasm and support. How could I not smile? In this Winter 2013 issue of Vita Bella!, we have dedicated ourselves to celebrating that feeling – love, in all its forms. A professor’s love for adventure and the outdoors. Love for the sentimental, deeply personal objects in our lives, like vintage clothing. The deep love in our friendships, the kind of love we know we will carry with us far after our time at Yale. The search for loveand acceptance in places of religion. And of course, that most famous, but not any lesser, kind of love – romantic love. There are so many different shades of love that exist, and I hope to experience all of them. I invite you to explore just a few of these shades with Vita Bella! today. I ask you to then take a moment to appreciate the abundance of love in your own life and to dedicate yourself to sharing all of it.

Claire Zhang

CONT ENTS \

Features

Friendship After Yale Melina Torres

In love at yale

Claire Zhang

4 Vintage Fashion Natalina Lopez

Do You Remember: Wonders of the Attic

an uncertain love story Daniel Raynor

Poems of a City Mary Mussman

A Night in the House of the Lord Eric Baudry

Vita Bella

One step forward, Two steps back

VINTAGE CLOTHING

By Natalina Lopez

Pink and Fabulous: A Shirt With a Story

or the first seventeen years of my life, I stayed away from the color pink. I rejected any shades of strawberry or salmon, the way one renounces frills and bows, as frivolous. Unnecessary. Ultra feminine. In a subconscious effort to avoid the girly stereotypes associated with such a bold color, I stocked my wardrobe with blues and browns and fall colors, as unwavering as Hilary Clinton’s devotion to the pantsuit. I wanted people to think I was an ambitious, young student -- independent and mature. Girly outfits, I assumed, signaled a lack of focus. But there’s something about vintage. Twice a year, my mother and I scour our closets, purging them of old clothes, and making room for the new. Once, as we both rummaged around -- my mom playing her 1970’s Cat Stevens album and I blasting MGMT– she called me into her room. I knew what was coming. My mother had once sold off a number of seminal vintage objects at a yard sale, a decision that continued to haunt her and cause her to forever hesitate before disposing of any item. I was always the first stop. I skipped into the room, and she exclaimed, “Look, honey! This was the shirt I wore for my yearbook picture senior year of high school.” She held up a bubble-gum toned long sleeve shirt with floral print and two long bow ties at the front of the shirt. I recoiled in fear. While she hunted for her yearbook, I inspected the shirt a little more thoroughly. The clear buttons, spacious sleeves, and interesting asymmetrical cut fascinated me. There was a small piece of the shirtsleeve that needed to be mended, but it definitely had yard sale worth. 4

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My mother found her yearbook. The pristine photograph revealed more than just a shirt. “Wow, you were gorgeous,” I uttered while gazing at the photograph. “Well, thanks, what am I now?” my mom joked, as she began to tell me the story behind the blouse. My mother sewed a majority of her clothing when she was young. By the time she was a senior in high school, she could execute anything from knitted socks to her own prom dress. The pink shirt that she had delighted in finding was simply another item in her repertoire – an item she was intent on having me try on. After assessing the level of seriousness in my mother’s voice, I dipped in the bathroom, eager to get back to my comfortable blues and browns. I slipped the shirt over my head. The swirling flowers and flagrant color transfixed me. I began to play with the bow ties. I dashed back to my room, pulled out a tan high-waist skirt, and envisioned the prospects. Fixated on the potential outfits in store, I rushed back to my mother, who was now shuffling through older pictures. I did a slow twirl, before ebulliently stating, “I love it.” “That’s great! Wear it please. It would look so good with-“ “I’m going to bring back the seventies,” I interrupted. Did I mention I was ambitious? My mom laughed and just reminded me to sew the small tear. The extra amount of effort I needed to wear this shirt was more satisfying than buying a new blouse. It wasn’t any old shirt made in some sweatshop, though my

mother may have sweated a bit while sewing it. It was a shirt with a story. This was no: “‘Urban Outfitters. Half off.” When people asked, the 1970s pink shirt was a shirt with a unique answer. The compliments came in waves. I had been nervous. I had worn vintage before, but this was, clearly, a flamboyant piece of apparel from the seventies. People did not comment on the color or its vibrancy; the remarks were fixated on the style, the pure uniqueness of the shirt. With feigned indifference, I would accept the compliments, and reply, “Thanks, I like it, too. It was my mom’s during high school.” The shirt became my favorite item. The pink did not matter. This piece of clothing was interesting. It was my mother’s. It was dated. It was sentimental. I integrated this pink shirt into my wardrobe of darks and fluids, and it became my first audacious item. The woman that wore it before me and made her own memories in this sleek, cotton blouse only made its significance greater. This eccentric shirt brought me closer to my mother, and made me realize that – color aside -- I could enjoy fashion as long as I found a purpose under my clothes. The addition of this shirt has opened my eyes to the wide spectrum of other colors in existence. I started to pair my darks with yellows and greens and- wait for it- pinks. Casual, yet simultaneously dressy, one item can transform a drab pair of jeans into “an outfit” - no accessories necessary. This shirt was my gateway to brighter options, to embracing fashion as a part of my personality, and to the latent stories sewn into vintage apparel.

The English Market

rmy green typewriters, retro aprons, willow armchairs, plaid album covers, old fortune magazines, cerulean blue wine glasses, electric hair dryers, 1960s peach and yellow sofas, and sea green cooking canisters are just the tip of the iceberg when strolling through the English Market, 839 Chapel St. Giant white lanterns hang from the ceilings, and the dim glow of the lightbulbs creates a warm aura. Enter the 1970s section and there are shaggy carpet rugs and giant red love sofas. Looking into the window of the English Market, I assumed this would be a small antique shop, but upon entering, I discovered a museum of vintage. This vintage store parallels any of the thrift shops in Brooklyn with its brick, warehouse atmosphere and sprawling sea of choices. The owner estimated that a total of 15,000 items have passed through the store in the five years it’s been open. I liked it there. The items seemed to sparkle with mystery. I was compelled to stop at every section to play with the teacups or electric hair dryer, like a child in a toy store. Prices here make buying anything and everything quite feasible, allowing you to easily spend an hour at English Market. The sale items ranged from ten to twenty dollars, the record albums were around five dollars each, and the evening dresses went from forty to eighty dollars. I pulled out a couple of 1940s dresses and hurried into a dressing room. Because the mirrors were slightly small, I frequently moseyed over to the bigger mirror in the center of the dresses section. Another shopper complimented my selection and suggested more pieces. The owner offered extra help when she saw I was contemplating the (more expensive) evening dresses. She was an older woman wearing a black sweater (probably vintage) and jeans. Apart from her rather frazzled demeanor on that Saturday morning, she was quite knowledgeable and happily answered all of my personal questions. There was simply not enough time to check out each record album or 1950s Lanz Original clothing article. Indeed, the clothing section is the most impressive, with color-coordinated divisions and an array of items spanning from the 1940s to the 1980s. The owner said that items from the 1940s and onward are more accessible vintage collectibles. Anything from the 1920s-30s has deteriorated to some degree. Her own personal favorites included the 1970s peach sofa displayed in the window and the pastel yellow canisters she stumbled upon at an estate sale. “You know, I thought you were gonna buy that black River Island dress,” she said, as I finally reached the counter. “But this is cute, too.” We talked for five more minutes about the antique stores where she finds her favorite items. I walked away with a dark blue, early 1960s turtleneck dress with orange, yellow, and red tartan plaid on the bottom half, and an early 1940s Vera scarf. I couldn’t wait to showcase them on a dreary Monday. I do, however, regret passing on the two vinyl albums that I know will disappear with the constantly changing inventory.

Vintage Fashion

ves Saint Laurent once said, “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” This exemplifies our fascination with clothing from past eras: even if designers go out of taste, the styles survive in our modern world. Humans want the newest technology, the newest iPhone, the newest updates on how to live, but when it comes to fashion, we integrate from the past. In all facets of art, we assimilate from our ancestors, forming “new” works with great resemblance to previous decades. Take the average house. It may have gothic arches, baroque detail and maybe some Islamic styled windows. Vintage clothing is exactly the same. It may include anything from the 1920s to the 1980s (1990s clothing would be classified as grunge). Our fascination with older apparel provides an escape from the contemporary stresses of our century – you can transcend time through a simple garment. In a way, you gain confidence by challenging the norms of the current fashion world. Seventeen Magazine published an article in 1978 titled “California Girl: Her Fashion Style: Dressing in Antique Clothes.” Though heavily debated, Vogue supposedly coined the term “vintage” in a sprawl of articles covering vintage clothing from the 1970s-1990s. The concept of vintage was popularized in the 1990s when celebrities began wearing vintage pieces in their day-to-day lives. Julia Roberts’ vintage Valentino dress and Renée Zellweger’s vintage Jean Desses were red carpet introductions to antique clothing. Vintage apparel also proliferated in the movie world, when period pieces showcased 20th century apparel, including The Great Gatsby, Sex and the City, and Grease. At the turn of the century, designers and international supermodels such as Tatania Sorokko looked to retro motifs in their clothing, and the past became a huge presence in our appearances. Vintage’s popularity has also been a result of growing environmental concerns. In buying a vintage item, we avoid the energy used to make and ship the piece, and all of the carbon emissions in the process.. The final compelling aspect of vintage is its comfort. Everyone has those jeans. Those jeans are the jeans you’ve owned forever, the jeans worn in at just the right places, that fit you like a glove. Clothing that has been around longer is cozier. So even that faded, pale yellow dress from Salvation Army will feel smoother than silk when it touches your skin. Vita Bella

WONDERS OF THE ATTIC Photographer - Meghan Uno Stylist - Shira Telushkin Makeup - Timmy Phamburgers Hair - Caroline Rouse Models - Julia Cortopassi, Amelia Earnest, Zenab Keita

Special Thanks to Penelope Laurans for loaning VB! the featured dresses and for the use of the Jonathan Edwards Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House. All dresses courtesy of her private collection

VOLUME 2 ISSUE I | Fall

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Vita Bella

A Gift of Beauty The attic of the Jonathan Edwards’ Master’s House is alive with color. There are reds and purples and oranges and blues. Dresses from India, China, France. Sequined vests, embroidered gowns, threaded coats. Raw silk, satin, velvet, lace. All collected throughout the 1930s, ‘40s, and ‘50s by Eudine Biren Laurans, fashionista and beloved mother of Yale’s own Penelope Laurans. She was known as Deanie. VB! resolved to bring these dresses to life, inspired by the themes of love, vintage and friendship. Beauty is an eternal standard, allowing for continuous inspiration. Deanie clearly understood beauty, and as we stepped through her wardrobe we found endless inspiration, dressing waiting only to be taken up again. In these pages, we celebrate a remarkable woman who took her wardrobe seriously, and who understood what it meant to build her life like a work of art.

Pictured here is Deanie on her wedding day with friends and with her daughter, Penelope Laurens. All photos courtesy of Penelope Laurans.

Vita Bella

friendship

after YALE

Who are the friends who stay with us for life? Yalies open up about keeping friendships strong long after graduation.

by MELINA TORRES

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photography by HENGCHU ZHANG

reshman year, Howard Dean PC ‘71 received a call from a friend, telling him to look outside. Someone was dousing Dean’s favorite sweatshirt in vodka. In retaliation, Dean marched into the perpetrator’s suite and proceeded to destroy the first thing he saw of importance: a term paper. That term paper belonged to David Berg PC ‘71 GRD ’72, who had nothing to do with the prank. And so these two best friends of forty years met.

ute walk away? Will I be able to maintain my friendships even two or three years out of school, with all of us scattered across the globe? Yalies have been asking these questions for centuries, and so in search of some much-needed wisdom, I decided to find out the secrets of those long-lasting friendships from three groups of friends at three different points in their post-Yale lives. Hal Brooks PC’88, Alan Light PC ‘88, and Mike Errico PC ’88 are three Piersonites who have been friends for 25 years. Today, all three work in creative fields: Brooks is a

“What does it mean to get an apartment? It’s like all of a sudden you are out in the real world and the meter is running really, really, quickly. There’s a little bit of panic that automatically sets in; panic to burn something down, to blow it up. And I don’t think there’s any way to prepare for that kind of thing,” Brooks said. Errico was a bit less dramatic. “I didn’t feel like this big divide. It was just sort of like this day where we got to wear weird big hats and then we moved into the city,” he said, recalling graduation day. So what did they do as undergraduates, be-

hat does it mean to have old friends? As Yale students, we have friends. We even have good friends, close friends--but we are “What does it mean to get an apartment? It’s like all of a sudden you are out in simply too young to have the real world and the meter is running really, really, quickly. There’s a little bit of old friends. Friends who panic that automatically sets in; panic to burn something down, to blow it up. And knew you when life was un- I don’t think there’s any way to prepare for that kind of thing,” certain, when marriages were made, when babies were born, and when director, Light is a journalist, and Errico a fore weird big hat day? loved ones died. Friends who have been there musician. Each has come back to teach a Yale “There was a stupid thing that somebody for years and years and years. college seminar, and the three have remained put on the T.V. set; a band-aid with a little bit As I wrap up fall semester of my junior constantly involved in one another’s profes- of hair on it, and it formed a mustache. We year, I can’t help but look to the future. Will sional and personal lives. were constantly waiting for an actor or a TV my friendships remain long after we fling our When it comes to the terror of graduation, person to align with the mustache. We would graduation caps in the air? When everyone they don’t all remember those first years the just wait for the we know and love is no longer a five-min- same way.

moment and shout the word ‘stache!” says Brooks. At one point, they somehow became hooked to an absurd public access television show featuring a man who answered questions from viewers about problems they were experiencing with their cable system. “No one has any recollection of how that got started,” says Brooks. And we don’t want to know. As silly as their antics seemed, I understood. My friends are the ones who accept my spontaneous renditions of Ms. New Booty and join me in impersonating Jack Nicholson in Right: The Shining. I’m glad that we can still be doing that in Hody Nemes twenty years. In talking to all three, it is clear that life post-Yale and Sam Greenhas been just as silly, wild, and fun as their time as berg, in their suite undergraduates. If not more so. For Errico, the new senior year memories they have created as friends even outshine the ones from college. “When you see your friends being successful and living your dreams,” he said, pausing in thought—“it’s a great feeling.” What is the role of friends in enabling that success? Those dreams? On this, the three friends are unequivocal: good friends act as pillars of assurance. They help one another gain the courage to pursue their true passions. “Sometimes, you have to hold up a mirror to each other. You have to be like, this is what I’m hearing you say. Now you gotta hear about it,” said Light. Brooks agrees, adding that especially in the creative arts, where careers are constantly in flux, having friends you can trust is critical. “The reason [we are such good friends] is because we all fervently believe in pursuing what we want to do and what we want to be. There have been moments where each of us have had a little hiatus. There’s been a fork in the road, and we’ve temporarily made the wrong choice, and had to go back on the right road.” Teaching at Yale has been an important way for them to stay in touch with one another’s passions, and in a Yale context. Light was the first to teach a college seminar, “Writing About the Performing Arts” in 2006. His friends were really supportive of his decision to teach. “This is so rewarding to you,” they told him, “it’s clearly something that means a lot to you.” His friends quickly followed. In 2010, Light convinced Brooks to teach a course on the one-person play, which Brooks came back to teach in 2013. Together, they convinced Errico to follow suit with a seminar on lyrical songwriting.

“

If you don’t wanna keep up with anyone, don’t be surprised that you many not know anyone or care about them [until it’s your 10th year reunion],” Dean told me, when I asked him the secret to his forty-year relationship with David Berg. Berg agrees: “If you don’t have much to do with each other, you are just a label. If you’re not in each other’s lives, those are just words. But when you enter into each other’s lives--that becomes more meaningful--” Dean jumped in, adding that friendships can’t be sustained forever on nostalgic college memories. “When you leave Yale, you build a career and a life. It’s not enough to be friends and have old stories,” says Dean. In the past five years, the two friends have created new memories together every year by co-teaching the Pierson College seminar, “Understanding Politics and Politicians.” In the classroom, they try to support and challenge one another, a dynamic that goes back forty years—their intense disagreements freshman year sealed their friendship. One night, they were playing cards in a room with four other Yalies. Dean and Berg were having a heated discussion and eventually, the others deserted the room. 14

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“Howard was willing to go toe-to-toe as long as it took,” Berg said. “We found each other and it was kind of cool. I remember both of us feeling, ‘hey, this guy didn’t leave. I was so used to people leaving at this level of intensity--he was still there.”

ody Nemes, SY ‘13, is a more recent graduate, but it’s clear that he and his best friend, Sam Greenberg SY’13 are going to be the kind of friends that Berg and Dean, and Brooks, Light, and Errico have remained. The two have been best friends and roommates since freshman year. After four years together, today they share a New York City apartment. Nemes was living in St. Louis, when Greenberg convinced him to give New York a try, and move-in with him, even before Nemes knew what he would be doing. The friends, like all good friends, challenge one another as well. Their senior year, Greenberg organized a campaign to convince Nemes to participate in Mr. Yale, which he was incredibly reluctant to do. The competition typically centers around male stripping, sex jokes, and drunken entertainment. Nemes, a socially conservative guy with a slight build, felt it wasn’t his scene. But that, according to Greenberg, is what made it so perfect. When he finally relented, Greenburg emailed everyone immediately and led the campaign: Nemes’ supporters crowded the room, with signs and chants, and Nemes ended up winning the competition. While Nemes gives Greenberg credit for his triumphant victory, Greenberg says, “it was all Hody’s act that won. I just forced him to be in it.” On Graduation Day, Nemes never told Greenberg goodbye. He was confident that he knew he didn’t need to. Sure enough, that summer, Greenberg was already devising plans to make Nemes agree to move in with him in NYC.

friends that would not only give him sound advice but would follow their own advice as well. They pushed each other to fulfill their potential, and each managed to get their dream jobs. The best piece of advice that Errico received however, was not about his career, but about love. Errico had reached a point where he believed that he would never meet anybody he liked. He was disillusioned with the dating scene and thought about getting involved with things that would allow him to meet women. Light hated this idea. Errico recalls Light saying, “that would be the worst idea in the world. Just continue doing what you do. You’ll meet this person while you’re doing something that you like.” Needless to say, Light was right. Errico eventually met his wife through a magazine they had both worked for.

riendship at Yale is not something tangential to the experience of students. Master Jeffrey Brenzel TD ‘75, formerly the Dean of Undergraduate Admissions, told me that Yale admissions look for distinctive qualities in a Yale student, and they try to assess how a person would contribute to the life and spirit of a residential college. Basically – will the person be a good friend? While everybody has their own set of accomplishments, Brenzel said they tried to look for those students who looked outside themselves. “I just think we were particularly sensitive to that--did this person light up the room for other[s]?”

He said that they noticed when applicants wanted to be engaged in a collaborative community and were wary of those who didn’t. On those without collaborative tendencies, Brenzel chuckles: “We thought they might be suitable for some people at other schools.” he said As it happens, Brenzel himself has former classmates who work at Yale. He finds it coincidental that the Dean of Admissions, Director of Admissions and Director of Financial Aid for the past eight years have all been Yale classmates of his. Is there something about this place that keeps people coming back? Brooks believes that friendships formed at Yale are distinct. “It’s a certain type of person that out of all the places chooses to be in New Haven and in the residential colleges. I think that as a consequence to that, there’s a certain unique friendship that can emerge.” And when the friendships stick, there is nothing more rewarding: “You can’t leave after a while, it would be impolite.” Errico said.

“When you leave Yale, you build a career and a life. It’s not enough to be

friends and have old stories,”

hen asked what friendship means to him, Light said, “you have that feeling they’re in your life. Of people who would do absolutely anything for you, and that’s sort of been tested for you in many different ways.” After graduating, Errico was certain he wanted to be in the music industry but didn’t understand its implications. “I was worried about everything. I thought ‘how am I going to make a career that I care about?’ I grew my hair. I lifted weights. I considered Teach for America. Nothing I was doing made sense.” But during the agonizing time that most of us go through when thinking about life after college, Errico had something certain and grounding. He had a support system of Vita Bella

Richard Casten

On Being a Fanatic

By Eve Houghton Photography by Wa Liu “There was nothing death-defying about it,” says Rick Casten, the D. Allan Bromley Professor of Physics at Yale. “I was just walking around.” The 71-year-old Casten, who has severe asthma, is inclined to downplay his accomplishment in climbing to a Mount Everest base camp in Tibet, but others don’t quite share his view. “Hiker, Asthmatic, Death-Defier” blazed the headline in the Yale Daily News this February; “A Yale professor’s remarkable trip to Everest,” reported the Yale Medical Group in their January newsletter. For Casten, a sports enthusiast and world traveler who “loves mountains and glaciers” and once dreamed of playing for the Yankees, his feat is a natural extension of a lifelong passion for the outdoors. He relays his astonishing achievements with casual off-handedness: he happened to be in Shanghai teaching a short course on subatomic physics, and decided to stop off in Tibet. This is not false modesty. He just wants to set the record straight. “I didn’t climb Everest,” he insists vehemently several times throughout the interview. Still, most people would agree that climbing to a base camp 17,300 feet above sea level is no mean accomplishment, let alone for a man in his early 70s. Casten is a decade younger than the oldest person to climb Mount Everest, 80-year-old Yuichiro Miura of Japan, and on account of his asthma, his lung function is only about 30 percent of normal. While at the case base camp, his oxygen 16

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saturation numbers briefly sank to the high 40s, a terrifyingly low percentage. (According to the Yale Medical Group, a normal oxygen saturation level is about 97 percent.) But even this flirtation with mortality doesn’t faze Casten. “I didn’t think there was any risk,” he says. “The doctor was much more worried than me.” Why Mount Everest? “Everything I do, I do the best I possibly can,” he says. “Fanatically, as my wife would say.” Despite his self-effacing manner, the label of fanaticism rings true; after all, one could argue that it takes a fanatic to conceive the ambition of visiting the world’s highest mountain. “I made a decision not to let my asthma stop me from doing what I want to do,” he says simply, but with a glimmer of zeal. As for his remarkable record of physical activity, Casten explains that he’s mastered the formula: “I know exactly how much I can do, and when I have to stop.” He plays sports requiring short bursts of exertion, like tennis and baseball, and takes frequent breaks while hiking. He doesn’t intend to slow down any time soon; in retirement, Casten plans to play tennis eight hours a week and join a senior baseball league. Are there more mountains in his future? He considers for a moment. “You know, I still think of myself as 25. Everything depends on health.” He smiles. “So far, so good.”

poems of a city MARY MUSSMAN Art by WA LIU

and dipping paintbrush azure into ocean water until the salt froths up against horsehair or the rim dries into rings of woad sadnesses that full moons point away from the light of stars or sew grimaces upon the black morning’s mist pleas a rescue

if only wrought iron balconies turned around delicate knuckles formed the upward movement, step by step, of this city.

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snails’ paces through the labyrinths leave wet white reflections of cathedrals’ beams

age four: family friends sent

pastel crayons from japan

and i never knew how to press

oil into paper without tearing up

two lime peels sit twinning ice, your aunt sueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s prosciuttoâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; you had never met her drink burns vegetables, too.

Vita Bella

Love at

Yale

Students Who Made the Choice to Marry 20

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Chris and Allie Ramsey C

hris DC’13 and Allie Ramsey BK’13 met on the varsity track team and began dating in March of their freshman year. They were engaged in November of their junior year, and married in August before their senior year. In person, they are absolutely adorable, looking at one another and teasing each other. Q: When did you know you wanted to get married? Chris: I guess I felt pretty sure near the beginning of our sophomore year. I was pretty sure that she was someone I wanted to spend a long time with. Allie: Thanks! Chris: The moment where I felt like I really knew was when we were at a track party and she left. But I didn’t really realize she left, and I couldn’t find her for a long time. When I did find her, I was pretty happy and reflecting on that I realized that— Allie: He was really distressed. Chris: I really cared about her. Q: Do you think marriage is about friendship? Are you each other’s best friends? Chris: Definitely. [high five] Allie: Yes to both! It’s nice just talking about stuff, knowing that they’re the person that knows you the best. I like that you can pick up on what I’m feeling or how I’m doing without

me talking about it. When our relationship really kind of changed, shifted modes, was when it got much more serious around the start of sophomore year. That’s when I thought our friendship became more of a real thing. It wasn’t just kind of like dating... [Chris looks confused.] I don’t know, I thought you were cute and I would try to come up with things to say...We started being a lot more open with each other, and that allowed us to grow a lot closer in a lot of ways. Q: Why did you decide to get married so early? Chris: We were assuming we would get married after graduation, but then we were thinking about it again, and because we were going to have to make those decisions together anyway, it didn’t really matter whether we got married before or after. Allie: We were just like, ‘Well why should we wait then, if we already knew we wanted to get married?’ I didn’t want to wait. I wanted it to happen as soon as possible after I was sure. It still felt like I waited a long time even though I didn’t. Q: How did the proposal happen? Chris: The actual decision to get married was a more gradual process. At first, we weren’t formally engaged, because we wanted to wait until it was a little sooner.

Allie: I told Chris that he still had to do something good for a proposal. We went out to dinner for Chris’s 21st birthday and it was really nice. Chris: I had the ring at that point. I knew I wanted to do it soon, but I hadn’t picked out a specific time or date. That evening was going really well, and I just thought ‘Oh man seems like the time to do it.’ So I had to find a way to get the ring from my room without her figuring it out. Allie: Whatever you did didn’t seem suspicious. Chris: We were [in my room] and she was there with me, so I went to the bathroom and left my phone in there. Then we went back outside. I was like ‘Oh I left my phone in the bathroom, I gotta go back and get it’, which was true, so I picked up the ring at that point. Allie: I actually got suspicious at that point, because we’re opposites in that Chris never forgets anything. I was like, ‘Wait he never forgets things, what’s going on,’ but then he came down with his phone, so I was like, ‘Oh I guess this is true.’ Chris: Then we went for a walk towards Science Hill. It was a grassy area at the top of Hillhouse, and we just sat down there. It was a place we walked to and sat for awhile and talked before, a favorite spot. We have a lot of good memories there. Allie: Now we have a really good one. Vita Bella

ate Bengtson MC’13 married her high school sweetheart, Louis, in August 2011, after Louis moved to New Haven to work in May 2011. They had been engaged since December 2010, and dated for four years before then. Kate was married, pregnant, and moving into a new house during her senior year. They’re silly and fun, clearly confident with their role as the only expecting Yale couple. Q: How did you meet? Kate: So we met in high school. I was a freshman and he was a junior. We met on the pep band bus. At the time, I was obsessed with Phantom of the Opera. I heard someone from behind me singing “All I Ask of You” and I was like ‘Aw I love that song!’ When he got to the girl’s part, I started singing. We both sat up and looked around. Louis & Kate: ‘You like Phantom of the Opera?!’ ‘I love Phantom of the Opera!’ Q: Did you expect to get married so early? Louis: From when I was little, I wanted to have one girlfriend through high school and then get married. That didn’t quite work out, but pretty close. I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart, and I did, and it worked out well for me. I never imagined like, ‘I’m going to establish a career and work until I’m 32 an then get married.’ Kate: When we started dating, I imagined I was going to be alone forever. So gradually that changed. After a couple of years, I figured I would get married young.

Kate and Louis Bengtson

Q: What were your friends’ and family’s reactions? Kate: Ecstatic. Louis: All for it. Kate: Only negative reaction— my mom was afraid I would drop out of school. That was the deal. She said, ‘You have to stay in school, it’s the only way.’ Louis: Our premarital counselors were friends of ours and were skeptical before sitting down with us. They kind of had the mentality that, ‘We’re going to attack them and keep them from marrying.’ Then they saw that we actually talked and communicated with each other. Q: Are you friends with Louis’s friends? Kate: It’s always an interesting process to find friends. Either they get what you’re going through age developmentally, so they’re good friends that way, but they’re not in your life stage, so they don’t understand. All the guys his age are terrified about the baby, but all the guys that get that he’s excited are 35. It’s always a struggle, since we’re living in two worlds, to find friends that overlap. Q: Are professors understanding of your situation? Kate: I haven’t run into that much senioritis that I haven’t been turning my stuff in on time. Most of my professors don’t know I’m married unless I share. Obviously, they know I’m pregnant. They’re super understanding. My Dean is probably the most excited person, more excited than my family. I was excited about how Yale has responded to the idea of being married as an undergraduate, and the idea of being pregnant as undergraduate. Things were ready and planned— if they responded negatively we were ready to defend ourselves. They were very much like ‘This is awesome we want to support you in whatever way we can.’ Q: Do you feel like you’re missing out on anything? Kate: I guess sometimes I’ll hear a discussion about...like I’ll hear seniors talk about Feb Club. Am I missing out on any integral Yale experience by not attending a Feb Club party? No, I’m just living Yale differently.

VOLUME 2 ISSUE I | Fall

2013

Saga McFarland and Peter Li S

aga McFarland was a Hong Kong University Exchange student in 20122013. She moved to Beijing, China junior year of high school, where she met her husband, Peter Li in her senior year in 2008. They lived together from July 2009 onwards. Peter proposed in November 2010, and they married on Saga’s 20th birthday – May 25, 2011. Q: How did the proposal happen? Saga: We were in our apartment in Shenzhen. We had just eaten lunch and were exchanging anniversary gifts and he got down on one knee. We actually speak Chinese to each other, but he said ‘Will you marry me?’ in English. Q: What is it like being married at Yale / in college? Saga: For me, being a college student, and successful college student, it doesn’t click. People either assume I’m Mormon or have a child or I’m a teen mom or something. But no one thinks it’s weird in a bad way. The response I often get is, ‘Oh that’s so cool.’ Q: Did you ever expect to get married so early?

Saga: No, and people often ask me that. I didn’t expect it, but at the same time, I never thought about it really at all. It happened so early that I almost didn’t have time to have preconceived notions of what I thought my life was going to be. There are so many things and decisions that we made together, that if I was this more rational person that I am now, I would never have made. Like getting a dog together after dating for six months now is horrifying. Q: How did you decide he was the “one”? Saga: My answer is always that, very early on, it felt like he was part of my family. That’s how I think of it. He didn’t feel like a boyfriend or a friend, he felt like a member of my family. Q: How have you changed after marriage? Saga: The only relationship I’d had on that level of intimacy up to that point was with my parents. Being married has taught me how to be in that role without only being the beneficiary of that level of intimacy. It taught me the immense amazing responsibility of being that person for someone else, and how to take that responsibility seriously. Vita Bella

photography by Daniel Raynor featuring Will McPherson & Amelia Earnest makeup by Shira Telushkin

do you rememb AN UNDERWATER LOVE STORY

ber?

Night in the

House of the

Lord By Eric Baudry

Behold now, bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord, you that stand by night at the house of the Lord. PSALM 134

t’s a cold Sunday evening, three weeks ago, and I’m attending a church service for the first time in six years. Shivering in my sweater, I follow the sound of carillon bells to an impressive gothic structure nestled between New Haven’s Apple store and Bulldog Burrito. Compline Service: 9:00, a sign outside the church reads. A smiling man in a priest’s robe welcomes me at the door. I smile back, instinctively perhaps to mask my growing apprehension—as a gay man, I don’t often feel safe in religious spaces. Inside, the details of the church are barely visible. Candles, like so many flickering eyes, surround the nave and provide the only light. Beyond their glow, wooden beams blur into

VOLUME 2 ISSUE I | Fall

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negative space. Above the altar, the body of Jesus is little more than a shadowy figure. In the dark, his body appears more monster than savior. At the front of the nave, a red bowl rests on a pedestal, ringed with candles. The thin plumes of smoke it releases linger in the air. The smell of incense is strong, like pine needles. The only sounds are the shuffling feet of the parishioners, the snap of a photographer’s camera, and the church bells that summoned us here, now muted by the thick stone of the church’s walls. I look for an empty row—there are plenty to choose from—and ease my way through the

darkness to a seat near the center of the nave. Other visitors sit around me, some in groups of two or three, but most, like myself, alone. There is always space between the groups— this is a place for solitude. Soon, all of the guests are seated, and the bells stop ringing. The photographer, noticing the stillness around him, puts away his camera. When the last echoes have melted into the stone, a choir, standing somewhere out of sight, begins to sing.

ompline, Father David Cobb informs me, means night prayer. We’re sitting in his office, located in a small building behind the church. I rest com-

fortably in a rather plump leather armchair, while he sits upright in an ergonomic swivel chair. He looks exactly as I imagine a priest ought to, a fatherly figure in black and white. A pair of black glasses with drooping frames rests on a kind, aging face with white hair, and his white clerical color contrasts with the rest of his simple outfit: black sweater, black pants, black shoes. According to Christian theology, the day is divided into 7 periods of prayer. As Father David talks, he animates his words with his hands, chopping the air in six different places. Morning prayer, held daily at the church, is the first. Compline, offered only on Sundays, is the last. Each prayer period has its own meaning, signified by the time of day. Morning prayer celebrates new creation and gives thanks to God for the end of the night. Compline is a time for rest, but also awareness of the dangers of the night—it asks for God’s protection, until the light might come again. The monastic ritual has existed for over a thousand years. Attendees gather for thirty minutes of silent reflection while an unseen choir sings hymns and chants. Compline is the simplest prayer, to be performed by memory. According to Father David, Christ Church has offered Compline services for the past 15 years. Every Sunday evening at 9, with the exception of the Academy Awards—his parishioners have strange priorities, he laughs—the church opens its doors to those who would come and pray. To attend, people need not engage with the full theology of the church. The candlelight creates an anonymous and quiet space that allows each person to encounter God in their own way. Even gays and lesbians are welcome, Father David tells me. I used to hide my sexuality, but I smile to think that it’s now obvious enough for even a priest to discern.

uring my childhood, my parents took my brother and me to visit a great number of churches, encompassing most major Christian denominations. My mother says it was to show us all of the options, so that we might have made an informed religious choice for ourselves. My devout friends find this sampling of faiths comical—for them, religion isn’t something you can shop for. My agnosticism was the inevitable result of my family’s grand religious tour. During services I would nap or draw in the coloring books churches sometimes give young children. When I turned 13, I started looking forward to Sunday mornings, though not for any

religious reason: we started attending the same church as my best friend. My parents didn’t have any religious convictions of their own, so conversations of faith would end as soon as we left the church building. My father jokes that food, not church, was our religion—God didn’t have a place at our dinner table. I was left without enough faith to believe in God, but too little conviction not to.

he Compline prayer begins with a single, male tenor voice repeating the same note. After a time, a chorus of other voices—male and female, high and low—join in. The notes echo off of the stone, obscuring their source. The singers might be in front of the nave, to the left, but I can’t be sure. I succumb to a sensation of being enveloped— by the music, by the candles, by the darkness. The music is accented by the noise of the congregation. Even as we quiet our minds, our bodies fidget and quiver, and those tiny shifts produce sound—a rustle of cloth, a cough. The door creaks as late guests—coming from somewhere not here, but here now—enter, and find seats. I hear my own inhales and exhales. Human bodies, I think, weren’t made to be still. The song alternates between rhythmic chanting and melodic harmonies, between English and Latin. The English songs call for praise to the Lord. I don’t speak Latin. I close my eyes, though not to encounter God, as Father Cobb would have me do. Instead, I turn inwards, and find a peace I rarely reach with meditation alone. Through my eyelids, I see the candles flicker.

t’s March, eight months ago, and hundreds of tourists mill about Dam Square, the heart of Amsterdam. Some stand in line at Madame Tussaud’s to see the famous wax statues; others watch a magician perform his tricks on the cobblestones. I’m waiting for a friend when a man approaches me, smiling. “Can I ask you a question?” he asks in English, and I nod my consent. “If the universe was made from nothing, where did the nothing come from?” He smiles as though he has played some clever trick. I tell him I don’t know, and begin to move away. “Wait!” he says, and tries to hand me a pamphlet about his church. “I’ll take it,” I tell him, “but before I do, what does your church think about gay people?” “Freaks!” he shouts, “Abominations! If you put 100 gay men on an island, and wait 100

years, there will be no people left! There is no way for two men to fit together. God hates faggots.” He is just one man—one crazy man, and a bigot. But in this moment he is more than that—he is every high school bully, every anti-gay politician, every religious zealot. He is the reason why I learned to hide myself so well, to only tell those closest to me the truth about who I was—the reason I hated myself for four years. I hate him. I hate him, but I can do nothing to hurt him. Instead, I walk away, and he follows, shouting slurs. “Faggot,” he calls gleefully, “You’re going to burn in hell.” I want to cry. I want to hide, but I promised my friend I would meet her underneath the obelisk. I feel trapped, and so very small.

ithout warning, the music stops. I’m caught off guard. The song had brought me somewhere else, had filled the darkness—had filled me. Without it, I feel adrift. I wonder if that’s what it feels like to believe in God. For a moment, the congregation remains still. And then, seemingly all at once, we stand. Some of us murmur quietly to one another, while others depart swiftly. I get my first look at my companions, though in the darkness I have difficulty making out their features. There is a man with a walker, and a woman who might be his wife. A woman holding another creature—it could be a baby or a dog— walks to the front of the nave and curtsies at the altar. She departs quickly. Off to one side, a man kneels in prayer in front of a female statue—is she a saint? To my left, a priest sprinkles water—it must be holy—over the foreheads of four churchgoers. These are people who find comfort in God’s name. I am not one of them. I do not want to be one of them, and yet tonight, in this house of the Lord, I wonder for the briefest moment what it might be like to live a religious life. First, I would need to believe in God. And that is something I never learned how to do.

hen I exit the church, the smell of incense lingers, though whether it’s in my nostrils or on my clothes, I can’t tell. The lights in the shops across the street are lit, but the stores themselves are closed. A silver car speeds by, paying no consideration to the speed limit. I walk slowly home, reveling in the feeling of fall air on my face and in my lungs. God or not, few things make me feel more alive.

Vita Bella

Models Jangai Jap, PC '14 and her sister Bura Jap model the traditional clothing of the Kachin tribe of Kachin State, in northern Burma. Here are some styles that a Kachin bride would wear on her wedding day. All photos taken in Kachin State, Burma.

international

ashion

‫ یماوقالا نیب‬internațional INTERNACIONAL mezinárodní διεθνής međunarodni ‫ ימואלניב‬beynəlxalq internasyonal idirnáisiúnta

VOLUME 2 ISSUE I | Fall

2013

TU RAIM NSOE PHOTOGRAPHY

међународни

‫ یماوقالا نیب‬internațional INTERNACIONAL mezinárodní διεθνής

Let God Be God Bakery by Shira Telushkin

“Mark?”

A pause. My head was on his chest, our bodies running down the length of one another. We were breathing, in his bed and fully clothed, nestling like sleep-deprived lovers in the desperate last moments of a perfect dream. Our happiness was urgent. My emotions were spent. I’d been blasting Aida nonstop for sixteen days.

“Mark?”

A serious question.

“Did we fall in love?” His body for his answer.

VOLUME 2 ISSUE I | Fall

2013

Eulogy for the

Scholar Who Lived

Nothing else unusual happened the morning his bookcase fell over. The books were old, with colorful spines. They fell like red, green, and blue birds, their flapping pages like wings. They were every which way on the floor, pages folded and creased, as the limbs of a dead body might lie. He was too old to pick them up by himself. The books stayed. But the wall did not stay as the wall had always been. Behind the books (which had crashed like colorful birds) there was a hallway, and far away he heard the shriek of applause. He followed the darkness that hosted the alluring sound. He found himself upon a stage and before an audience. He was not afraid. A young girl on stage began to weep. “Can it be? Daniel! I thought you were gone forever. Why have you come back now, now when everything was finally almost right, when I was about to marry Abraham?” She cried. He was this Daniel, the unfaithful lover. Now that this girl finally found a man he had come back to ruin her plans, and make her fall in love with him once more. With delight he smiled at this turn of events. He was Daniel. He was a dashing lover. He was an actor. He was alone with his books no more. “I never left you, my darling, my sweet. I thought of you every day! You must believe me, you do believe me, don’t you?” He noticed he was wearing a fashionable vest. Once someone had called him a basketful of books, with questionable praise asserting that what the man knew by heart could fill a small library. He carried around a library wherever he went, but his soaring knowledge always crashed the moment a theatre darkened. There on the stage, he would silently swear, was a world worth living. by Shira Telushkin The crashing books were his applause, his curtain falling, his welcome to heaven, his dream.

Stage for the

Vita Bella

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Life is short,

break the rules,

forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably,

and never regret

anything

that made you

smile.

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do

than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines.

Sail away from the safe harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

Explore. Dream. Discover.â&#x20AC;?

MARK TWAIN