October 2016

COUNTERPOINT the wellesley college journal of campus life october 2016 volume 47 issue 2

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counterpoint / october 2016 Images: Outskirts of Berlin, Christine Galloway ’17 (cover), Samantha English ’19 (left)

E D I TO R I A L S TA F F Charlotte Yu ’17 Olivia Funderburg ’18

Editors-inChief Managing Editor Features Editor Staff Editors

Allyson Larcom ’17 Roz Rea ’19 Katie Sweatman ’17 Urvashi Singh ’17 Lara Brennan ’18 Natassja Haught ’18 Alexandra Cronin ’19 Samantha English ’19 Kelechi Alfred-Igbokwe ’19 Lydia MacKay ’19 Tiffani Ren ’19 Sarah White ’19 Madeline Wood ’19 Kimberly Burton ’20 Sabrina Cadiz ’20 Cierra Clark ’20 Virginia Faust ’20 Emily Prechtl ’20 Elizabeth Gaidimas ’20 Heather Gluck ’20 Francesca Gazzolo ’20

D E S I G N S TA F F Cissy Hao ’19 Midori Yang ’19 Roz Rea ’19 Jessica Maciuch ’20

Layout Editors

COUNTERPOINT

THE WELLESLEY COLLEGE JOURNAL OF CAMPUS LIFE OCTOBER 2016 Volume 47 / Issue 2

POLITICS FRANCESCA GAZZOLO

Kelechi Alfred-Igbokwe ’19

C O N T R I BU TO R S

Allyson Larcom ’17, Lorrie He ’18, Alicia Margarita Olivo ’19, Francesca Gazzolo ’20

LORRIE HE

SUBMISSIONS The views expressed in Counterpoint do not necessarily reflect the views of the staff. Counterpoint invites all members of the Wellesley community to submit articles, letters, and art. Email submissions to ofunderb@wellesley.edu and cyu3@wellesley. edu. Counterpoint encourages cooperation between writers and editors but reserves the right to edit all submissions for length and clarity.

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ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

IDENTITY ALICIA MARGARITA OLIVO

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GÜERCA CHIFLADA

M E N TA L H E A LT H ANONYMOUS

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WE BROKE UP TWO WEEKS AGO

ANONYMOUS

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JOHN DOE

WHO’S TO SAY ALLYSON LARCOM

TRUSTEES Hanna Day-Tenerowicz ’16, Cecilia Nowell ’16, Oset Babur ’15, Alison Lanier ’15, Kristina Costa ’09, Kara Hadge ’08, Edward Summers MIT ’08

I’M WITH HER FOR HIM: CHOOSING HILLARY CLINTON

CAMPUS LIFE

B U S I N E S S S TA F F Treasurer

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EVERYTHING WHAT’S WRONG OF HAUNTED HOUSES

F E AT U R E S COUNTERPOINT STAFF

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SEVEN DEADLY SINS AND AN EXCITING DEMONIC SURPRISE

COUNTERPOINT STAFF

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CROSSWORD: SPOOPY MOVIES

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POLITICS

I’m With Her for Him: Choosing Hillary Clinton

BY FRANCESCA GAZZOLO

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Michigan, in a town called Harbert, where my dad’s family stays during the summer. When Michele took Livia to Harbert, Ibrahim followed suit, and opened a restaurant there: Café Gulistan, which means “Land of Roses” in Turkish.

It is also a name given to the hoped-for homeland of the Kurdish people.

Ibrahim lived a relatively quiet life, serving his famous izgara and ispanak to loyal Harbert customers. Each summer our family would soak in the sunlit lake, spending lazy days on the beach before eating a hearty dinner at Gulistan.

Ibrahim had started as a Chicago busboy and now owned a restaurant—he really was living the so-called American Dream.

But after September 11th, everything changed. Many Kurdish rights groups were placed on the United States terrorist

counterpoint / october 2016

watchlist, regardless of their mission.

Ibrahim’s asylum was revoked. In 2004, he went to jail.

For ten months Ibrahim awaited trial. At just six years old, I watched my family and all of Ibrahim’s friends oscillate between determined frenzy and utter hopelessness. We held potlucks at Gulistan and hosted meetings in the nearby Sawyer Unitarian Church. I did not understand much of it; I only knew that my Uncle Ibo was in trouble and no one could really reason why. Michele and Ibrahim never married, but he is as much a part of our family as any blood relative. He is my cousin’s father; he calls my grandmother “Mom;” I have known him since my earliest days of childhood.

He is my uncle.

Thanks to our grassroots efforts,

Image:The author with her family (sisters, cousin and uncle, left), Ibraham and his daughter, Livia (right)

W

e are saturated with thoughts of the coming election. We are swamped, soaked, swallowed and swathed; like a congealing coat of butter around a warm biscuit, it has engulfed us. We are in the deep fryer.

No doubt you are tired of hearing about the election—and nothing is more exhausting than listening to people jabber on about why they’re voting for a particular candidate, why there is no more of a pressing problem than stopping those pesky immigrants from stealing our jobs—except perhaps global warming, or lack of reproductive justice, or the systematic killing of black people by police. There are thousands of writers out there, far better than I, who have tried to articulate the minutia of our political state. This is not that kind of article. I will not mount the soapbox and preach about any one of those issues, because you simply can’t quantify “importance.”

This article serves merely as a piece of my story; because, yes, I am voting for Hillary Clinton.

My uncle, Ibrahim, came from the mountains. He was born in a small town called Gaziantep in southeastern Turkey, but he is not Turkish—he is a Kurd, and Kurdish people are not treated very well in Turkey. When Ibrahim tried to stand up for his rights, he was tortured and threatened with execution. At the age of thirty, he sought asylum in the United States and moved to Chicago. Knowing that learning English was essential to his success, Ibrahim enrolled in language classes. There he met my dad’s sister, Michele—and young love worked its magic. My aunt gave birth to a daughter, Livia, giving Ibrahim the ultimate reason to stay in America.

I have moved several times, but my heart is held on the shores of Lake

Michigan lawmakers decided to pass a private bill protecting Ibrahim from deportation. For over ten years, he was safe. Though he could not travel for more than a few days, he made the twohour trek to my family’s Chicago home every year in December, navigating icy highways to help us with our holiday cooking. I remember watching him and my grandmother argue about politics as the rest of us looked on, eating the food he had cooked for us until my dad said, “Why don’t we talk about something else for a change?” As I grew older, I realized they did not banter just to torture us. For Ibrahim, the state of the union affected the state of his life.

Christmas was the only time outside of the summer that we saw Ibrahim. This arrangement—not perfect, but not terrible either—continued until the senator who authored the asylum bill retired. Last year, a week before Christmas, the Department of Homeland Security told Ibrahim that unless another bill were passed, he would be deported at the end of the month.

Chaos ensued, and this time I was I have made calls to voters as far as Idaho old enough to be swept up in the on her behalf, begging for volunteers, whirlwind myself; we made frantic calls and last week, I canvassed for her in to our senators and congresspeople, New Hampshire. And yet, despite this filing complaints with Immigration and enthusiastic face I show the world, Customs Enforcement and the DHS. On inwardly I grapple with my decision.

December 23, 2015, we held a vigil at Should I be throwing all my weight Gulistan for Ibrahim. What seemed like behind someone who referred to gang a hundred people crowded into the tiny members as “superpredators,” who has restaurant, holding candles and singing, kept virtually silent about the NSA, who hoping the stars might hear our pleas. refused to endorse marriage equality until On Christmas Eve, the Board of 2011? These thoughts leave me with a Immigration agreed to reopen Ibrahim’s lump in my throat. When an opponent— case, granting him temporary asylum. right or left—voices a criticism, I try to Based on the Turkish government’s defend her, but sometimes I am at a loss. persecution of Kurdish people, they We must remember that we are agreed that deportation would subject all human, my friends—even Hillary Ibrahim to unnecessary danger. We woke Clinton, that pantsuit-clad robot of up on Christmas morning to my Danish the center-left. We all have weaknesses. grandmother’s fresh kringle and a warm Secretary Clinton, though, has one very pot of coffee, breathing easy for the first particular strength, something that her time in weeks. We couldn’t stop hugging colleagues attest to time and again: she each other. listens. Her entire campaign is built on Now, eleven months later, we are still conversations—creating dialogues with in limbo. Ibrahim is waiting for his case to voters one-on-one. She has always lent be reviewed; meanwhile, he continues to a willing ear to people from all walks of serve the Harbert locals at Gulistan while life, whether they be obstinate Bernie-orhis daughter goes to college in Chicago, Busters, leaders of sovereign nations, or uncertain what the future holds. We hope Ibrahim’s lawyer who wrote the case that it is good. We hope Ibrahim is recognized was plopped on her desk. for all he has given his country and his I am perhaps young and idealistic. I community. And we hope that come know that countless papers reach Hillary November 8th, we elect a president who Clinton’s office each day and some must will not toss out Ibrahim’s case, but rather get thrown by the wayside, or at the very recognize him for who he is: our family. least bookmarked for a later date—that The following story’s validity is was likely the case with Ibrahim. But I do questionable (it comes from a friend believe, deeply and sincerely, that she will several degrees removed), but regardless do her best to listen to as many people of its roots in reality, it speaks to my faith as possible. There are thousands of people in Hillary Clinton’s commitment: when who have stories like Ibrahim’s. I hope she Ibrahim was threatened with deportation, will give them a voice. ready to pack his bags for Turkey, we made calls to officials across the country.

Francesca Gazzolo ’20 (fgazzolo@wellesley.

Somehow, his case found its way onto edu) enjoys her uncle’s Middle Eastern Secretary Clinton’s desk, just for a brief cooking after a day spent swimming in Lake second, and she said to a staffer, “This Michigan. She will be voting for Hillary Ibrahim Parlak story is really interesting.

Clinton in November.To learn more about Can we get someone on that?”

Ibrahim’s story, visit www.friends4ibrahim.

I am not a lesser-of-two-evils voter. I com. am an avid supporter of Hillary Clinton. counterpoint / october 2016 page 5

(OFF-)CAMPUS LIFE

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

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n high school, as a gently boy-crazy freshman surrounded by mostly female friends, if you had told me I would end up going to a women’s college, I might have skeptically believed you. As a first-year at Wellesley, if you had told me I was going to end up studying abroad as a science major, I wouldn’t have believed you at all.

I’m currently abroad in New Zealand for the semester.

I thrive on familiarity. My house is about a 40-minute drive from Wellesley’s campus—30 minutes at 12 AM on a Sunday night when I have an 8:30 class on Monday—and even as a first semester first year, I felt so incredibly homesick.

When I applied to colleges, I only considered schools within a two state radius of Massachusetts. When the study abroad office told me that Auckland was similar to Vancouver, British Columbia, my birthplace and home for the first eight years of my life, I was sold. I figured college was a time for exploration and new experiences, to get out of my comfort zone and grow. I had thought about studying abroad before, but I was hesitant about

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it after I declared my major. My labs! My requirements! I heard from older friends who had gone abroad about how much they loved it, and from those who hadn’t about how much they regretted it. I’m all about living life with #noragrets and pushing the limits. Logically, of course, I decided that as someone who “thrives on familiarity,” I should go spend 5 months in a country 9,000 miles away from home with a 16-hour time difference.

I spent the summer after sophomore year feeling relieved knowing that I wouldn’t be back at Wellesley the next semester. I felt like my life had become a routine of sleeping through class, studying, grabbing dinner with whoever wasn’t currently trying to finish a late problem set, sleeping for 3 hours, and starting it all over. I finished sophomore year with less than desired grades and Gucci bags under my eyes. I was so burnt out and done with the stress and rigor of Wellesley and being around my equally stressed out and exhausted friends (Love you guys.). I was looking forward to being in a new place, far away from Wellesley. I was nervous but excited for my semester

counterpoint / october 2016

abroad, hoping that my stellar personality and killer optimism would make the semester one of the best of my life. I thought that I would become one of those people who ended up leaving a part of my heart in my study abroad country.

On my second day in Auckland, I was in a café, eating an overpriced but tasty bagel and having a cup of slightly more decently priced coffee. I bought a travel journal before I left the U.S., hoping to fill it with good memories and make it as aesthetic as the ones I saw on BuzzFeed.

I was enthusiastically writing my first journal entry that day: “Why do I always insist on trying new things? At least I have the mindset to try—right? (Though truly, I could go for a long cry right now—about what? For what reason? Good question.)”

I was being a little (read: quite) dramatic and it was probably partly jetlag and partly because it was only my second day in a new country, but I had never felt more regretful about anything in my life.

Surrounded by new accents and unfamiliar brands, not knowing anyone, and having to constantly rely on Google Maps to figure out where to go was overwhelming

Image: wellesley.edu (left), proudtoplaynz.com (right)

BY LORRIE HE

for someone like me, a person who had rarely been further than a 40-minute car ride from home. I video called my little sister, and as she updated me on all the usual family antics. I felt a little like I was already giving up, calling my family this early into my five-month study abroad.

Wasn’t I trying to become more capable, well-traveled, and independent? Wasn’t I trying to prove something to myself by being here? Was feeling this lonely already admitting defeat? My sister tried to reassure me that I would start meeting people once my flatmates came back from break and classes started. I also tried to reassure myself that soon enough I would meet people, join clubs, explore New Zealand, and become friends with my flatmates. Surely, it would get better.

It didn’t get better. Not really. My classes were in spacious auditoriums, barely filled since most people opted to just watch the lecture recordings in their own time instead. Without an activity fee like Wellesley, I either had to get internet banking or use my limited supply of cash to pay to attend club events. I learned that it was easiest to either fly or drive to get around California-sized New Zealand, neither of which I wanted to do alone.

My flatmates, while nice and sociable people, tended to lapse into silence and go on their phones whenever we were

all gathered together, heading into their rooms by 9 pm. I ended up going to the gym often and regularly, just to find a way to kill time and avoid being in our silent flat.

I longed for home and to be back at Wellesley. I longed for familiar faces with whom to talk about my day, the friends who reliably waved hi to me whenever I saw them, and the easy way I could befriend strangers in class. I missed being in the same time zone as people, when I realized most people were about to go to sleep when I was awake and vice versa.

I missed feeling connected to people.

Auckland felt too big and busy for me.

I made some friends in tutorials and lab, but I rarely saw them outside of class. My flatmates and I got along, but our distance was obvious in the repeated mentions of the exchange student whose room I had taken. The next two months picked up a new monotony for me: classes, gym, dinner, being cooped up in my room at 9 PM, then starting it all over.

Then, it was only a week until midsemester break. I finally set up travel plans, and it was the first time I had been this excited since arriving in Auckland: two other study abroad students I had met in my apartment complex helped me figure out a bus tour for the South Island during break. Before leaving, I had plans

to meet up with my friend, a ‘15 alum, who happened to be on vacation from her job in Hong Kong.

At our first meeting, we ended up talking for nearly 3 hours, only stopping because she needed to get back before her hostel closed doors for the night. We both mentioned how this was our first genuine conversation we had had in months. She was in a similar situation to me: moving to a new place and not making close friends, but with the added hurdle of a language barrier. We talked about our intense loneliness, how stressful months at Wellesley launched us into our current situations, and how we both weren’t sure if we were doing the right thing.

We met up again the next day for dinner, with overpriced desserts and unexpectedly strong drinks. Somewhat unintentionally, our conversations all revolved around Wellesley—our stressful times, our memorable times, and our happy times. We were both surprised at how much we missed Wellesley, given our hesitation to even attend at first and all the stress we had put ourselves through while there. We realized it wasn’t so much the school itself we missed, but rather our friends, our experiences, and the culture of the school.

It took me until sophomore year to finally make a solid group of friends.

counterpoint / october 2016

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true for everyone, but I’m really happy and thankful to have met all these sorts of people. Above all—I didn’t realize it until now—I’m truly thankful that I decided to come to Wellesley. I don’t think I could imagine myself being who I am now if I were anywhere else.

It wasn’t until my study abroad that I realized how much Wellesley has changed me, and how much it became a part of who am I right now. Wellesley is truly a special place and I just needed to get away from it all, to be far away, to realize that despite the massive highs and lows, I like it here after all. Of all the uncertainties in my life, Wellesley is (probably) what I’m the most confident about.

Despite my study abroad not really being the amazing time I thought it was going to be, I’m still glad I did it! It has pushed me to my limits, just like I wanted it to. I’ve had plenty of new experiences and tried so many things I couldn’t do at Wellesley (like having hokey pokey ice cream, glacier climbing, and bungee jumping off a cliff, to name a few).

Although I might not be leaving my heart in New Zealand, it certainly is a lot fuller now.

Lorrie He ’18 (lhe2@wellesley.edu) meets more sheep than people (sheeple. if you will) whilst studying abroad.

counterpoint / october 2016

güerca chif lada

A

bout a week ago, my best friend of eight years texted me informing me that she no longer wished to be my friend. I groaned. I went back to sleep. I had a dream about turning in an assignment for my psychology class. I woke up again. The sun was too bright and I tried to go back to sleep until I realized that I had not even begun my assignment, let alone finished it. I got up.

I rudely snapped at one of my roommates as I went out the door to the restroom.

Somewhere between wetting my face and starting to wash it I realized what had happened earlier that morning – I had just lost one of my closest friends in my entire life. I dug my fingernails into my cheeks a bit, popping a pimple. Blood oozing down my cheek, I frowned and scrubbed my face harder. I hadn’t heard her voice since August, but I could hear it then, whispering these words furiously into my ear: “I feel like if you had the chance, you’d forget Pasadena. You’d leave everyone here behind.”

I rinsed my face. I dressed myself. I ate. I wrote. I went to class. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think. What if she was right? I couldn’t breathe.

The following day I called my mother to tell her about the end of my friendship.

Being a typical Mexican mother, she checked to see if my friend had unfriended me on social media. She had, as had a

Images: dailymail.co.uk (left); houstorian.wordpress.com (right)

The academic and political culture of the school is unbearably suffocating at times.

My most recent semester at Wellesley was the biggest reason I wanted to go abroad in the first place (at the height of my mental and physical exhaustion, I had had at least five Very Public stress cries in various places around the Science Center).

I sort of missed all of it, in a weird way. I missed impromptu Lemon Thai orders, on the nights that my friends and I decided even a trip to the dining hall would be precious minutes lost from working on our assignments. I missed my classes at Wellesley, being surrounded by professors who took the time to learn my name and students who were eager to go to office hours for reasons beyond just understanding their assignments. I missed my friends, of course, but I also missed the community of people that I had spent two years learning and living and growing with. I missed the incredibly driven and socially aware student body that simultaneously exhausted and educated me. I missed being in a place where I felt so connected to people, just knowing that despite having differences in our majors or our interests, we were united by our shared experience of going to Wellesley.

Wellesley has its moments, but I think that’s to be expected from a place filled with so many smart, socially conscious, high-achieving students. You will find a person whose politics you completely disagree with. You will find someone who only knows how to talk about their internship offers. But for me, I came here knowing that I wanted to be challenged by and to learn from these sorts of people—it was what I applied to be here for. I think I’ve sort of learned how to peacefully coexist with them, and luckily, I found some people who wanted to be friends with me along the way. Finally, I know I’m a little optimistic, romantic, and melodramatic, so this might not ring

IDENTITY

B Y A L I C I A M A RG A R I TA O L I VO couple of our mutual friends. I kicked a stick while walking around Lake Waban and got goose shit on my right shoe. The following night, I had a panic attack.

The world caved in and my hands began melting. I scratched my palms as fast and hard as I could to relieve the pain, but I stopped when the itching spread to my wrists. I forced myself to take a shower.

At that point, I had mostly gotten past the fact that she no longer wished to be my friend. On one level, I understood— if you don’t want to be friends with someone because you feel disconnected from them, then you shouldn’t be friends.

I respected that. It still hurt, though, and the accusation remained: “You’d forget Pasadena.”

I washed my hair for the first time in two days. I thought about those words.

Had I really left my hometown to go to a place I don’t think I’ll ever fit into 100%—just to forget about it?

The day after she texted me, my Theatre Studies major declaration went through. I posted the news on Facebook.

Virtual congratulations and wishes flooded in. When I called my mother, she wanted the reassurance that I would pick a more practical major in addition to theatre. “Sure,” I said.

Growing up, my parents, immigrants from a small rural ejido a few miles out from Matamoros, Mexico, told me to

be someone grand: a doctor, a lawyer, a sake. Perdóname mamá. Ya me chingue. scientist. I agreed. “I’m going to Rice,” I But I still long for my mother’s teasing, would tell my teachers – Rice was the only watching movies with my father, fighting prestigious university I knew of growing with my sister. Petting my dog. I think up. That obviously didn’t happen, and about my friends who stayed in Texas to neither did my plans to be my parents’ idea go to school, my cousin who isn’t really my of successful. I want to go into theatre, cousin but I call her that because we grew I told them. I want to write stories and up together. My high school, constantly bring them to life. “How are you going flooded, always broken, but with some to earn any money?” my mother asked. I of the funniest, most genuine people I’ve thought about my father, a construction ever met and loved—my friends who were worker, and how his complaints of back now no longer my friends. The refineries pain seemed almost constant nowadays. and their nasty smell that I never noticed I thought about my mother, who doesn’t growing up, but noticed after spending see my younger sister for half the week two months in Massachusetts. The tortas because of her night shifts at Burger King. de fajita my parents would buy us from We’re living like royalty compared to how the food truck in our former rundown my parents grew up, but if I have the apartment neighborhood on Jenkins. The smarts and the access to education to be Jim Adler commercials, the over-the-top “someone grand,” shouldn’t I do it? I’m novelas playing on the TV. Walmarts. being selfish, I would think to myself. Cheap avocados.

How would I be able to support my Maybe that friend was right. Maybe I family this way? am selfish.

“No seas chiflada,” my mother would I think about how I wanted to die so tell me whenever I would complain about much more last semester than now, when not being able to afford books, even if I would worry more about doing what’s they were the twenty-five cent ones at the best for those I love rather than doing Value Village. Now I can take a bus and what I love. walk to the used book section in an indie Better than being dead, I guess. bookstore in an affluent neighborhood in a rich city near my expensive, white- Alicia Margarita Olivo ’19 (aolivo@ as-fuck school, and buy all the plays my wellesley.edu) made a little birdhouse in her needy, greedy, childish ass wants. We have soul. lobster for dinner sometimes, for fuck’s counterpoint / october 2016 page 9

Y

ou left me two weeks ago. I get a new message:

WE BROKE UP TWO WEEKS AGO

BY ANONYMOUS page 10

“I had a dream about you.”

Oh? “You don’t want to hear about it. It was pretty bad.”

Oh.

I feel like a rag doll.

bead of blood might remind you of the spillage. I was a guest in your home, and I was scared to leave any evidence behind.

After an initial sweep, I anxiously slid a foot back and forth across each step, hoping my flesh would catch any glass splinters before yours could. My feet were raw and a bit bloody by the time you got home from work that day. You didn’t know.

Control over body

leads to Control over mind

leads to Control over happiness.

After the sunset of the summer faded, you told me we weren’t good for each other.

It’s taken too many tears to understand that I’m better off finding someone new.

After all, you’re always right. What’s one more thing for you to be right about?

Still, these days you beg me not to hate you.

These days, I sympathize with the girl who hurt herself for you.

It was a picturesque summer. In the morning, I sent you off to work. In the evening, you ran home to see me, and you fulfilled all those teenage dreams I thought I had missed out on.

These days, rawness is to my foot’s sole as wounded is to my heart’s soul.

One day while you were out, I shattered an empty glass on your staircase. Clumsy me. I was afraid to tell you.

You can sweep up broken glass, but overlooked shards are inevitable. Weeks later, a prick in the foot and a small

counterpoint / october 2016

These days, I wonder if one day you’ll walk the staircase of your childhood home, feel a prick, see a spot of red, and think of me.

For information about articles published anonymously, please contact the EditorsIn-Chief (ofunderb@wellesley.edu, cyu3@ wellesley.edu).

Images: pinterest.com (left) mfannii.tumblr.com (right)

MENTAL HEALTH

John Doe

BY ANONYMOUS

I

t’s 2 A.M. I’m studying, of course.

The numbers in my calculus textbook fly around the room, teasing me. My phone rings. It’s him again. I wonder if I should answer. Is he okay? Is it my responsibility to even care? Of course I care, who am I kidding? I answer. We talk.

He’s okay.

Let’s call him John. John and I spent the summer together. Drinking wine, smoking cigarettes on the beach after work, neglecting reality for a while. We were never really “dating,” but we were something. It’s hard to explain. A summer fling, I suppose. It worked. It was ours.

We have a connection that we wish we didn’t—our mutual friend, Matt, who overdosed in the spring. John was there.

It sucks. It sucks a lot. Matt was nineteen, just out of high school, living in New York City. He was a stand-up comedian. He always made us laugh, or more frequently, groan at his puns. Matt was a Boy Scout.

He was one of the good ones.

John took the drugs too, but he didn’t die. So he blames himself. He sees Matt’s parents, and he runs away. He doesn’t know what to say. He won’t let go of the guilt or the addictions. They’re not addictions, he says. It’s fun. It’s who he is. His favorites are Oxycodone and Percocet. Those ones are fun. Not much

of a Xanax guy, though. Whiskey’s at the top, for sure.

He calls me, telling me he’s been going to AA meetings for a week, but he thinks he’s going to stop.

“Why?” I ask “I don’t want to disappoint everyone.

The longer I go sober, the higher everyone’s expectations are, and the more disappointed they’ll be when I drink again. And I know I’ll drink again.”

“You still taking pills? Smoking?”

“A little. Not popping much. But yeah, smoking...”

We sit in silence for a little bit. I hear my fan oscillating in the deafening silence, and the clock ticking slowly by my bedside.

“That’s good,” I say.

“So, what should I do?” He asks What do you say to that? I tell him to stop drinking. He says he likes drinking. I say he likes it too much; he needs it.

“I wish you hadn’t said that. I called you to make me feel better about it.”

We sit in silence for a little bit. My mouth tastes like copper. I think I bit my tongue. It tastes like blood.

“Well, if you want to feel better, call someone else,” I say.

It’s harsh, I guess. The silence is back.

He changes the subject, asks me about school. It’s good, it’s fine. I love Wellesley, and I’m happy. Or at least as happy as I

know how to be.

“I’m more fun when I’m high.” he says “We all think that.”

“Cause it’s true.”

Silence, again. I touch my fingers together. I’m hot. I’m sweating. I turn the fan up a notch.

We talk some more. We hang up. I go to bed.

It’s not my responsibility. It’s not my job to worry, or to care. But I do. I care.

I worry. We talk less now. He doesn’t call much, and we miss each other’s calls so often it just becomes a pain. We aren’t dating. I don’t have a boyfriend. We both see other people. There’s no commitment to uphold, or reason to talk. So why do I worry about him? Why do I miss him?

I don’t know if he still goes to meetings.

I don’t think he does, but he doesn’t talk about it. At least not to me. Our calls are shorter, we just don’t have the time. Not for each other, not for ourselves.

I think he’s okay. He says he’s okay.

He’ll be okay.

I’m seeing him in a week. I wonder if he’s the same. I wonder if I am. I wonder if he remembers life before Matt. I don’t.

I wonder if he’ll still be John. I wonder if I’m still Jane. I wonder if I ever was.

For information about articles published anonymously, please contact the EditorsIn-Chief (ofunderb@wellesley.edu, cyu3@ wellesley.edu).

counterpoint / october 2016

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WHO’S TO SAY

Everything What’s Wrong of Done in the style of Mallory Ortberg’s “Everything What’s Wrong of Possums”

T

he first time I ever went to a haunted house, I was five years old and I both cried and peed myself. I figure this is probably average childbeast behavior, it still feels like I was somehow wronged.

The question, “What don’t you like about haunted houses, Ally?” can be answered summarily and thus: MUCH. Just listen, okay? Listen. Haunted houses are the worst Halloween tradition in all of times and eternity. I feel like the people who craft haunted houses are always using no-no words like “squelch,” “chuckle,” “grotto,” or “moist.” I hate all of those words, and the thought of this or any hypothetical conversation about

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designing haunted houses gives me stomach ulcers.

Every haunted house in human history can be described as “crankly,” and I assume this will continue to apply until the eventual heat death of the universe.

ONE TIME A DUDE WHO TRAINS ACTORS FOR HAUNTED HOUSES SAID TO THE HUFFINGTON POST, AND I QUOTE HIM DIRECTLY HERE: “A lion never feels more alive than when chasing an antelope.” AND THAT IS CREEPY, SIR! THAT IS A CREEPY THING TO SAY AND I WANT EXACTLY 10,000 NOTHINGS TO DO WITH YOU OR YOUR CREEPY, CREEPY METAPHORS! Story time! The last time I went to a haunted house, it was at this place called This Is The Place, which is a cheesy and

counterpoint / october 2016

A L LY S O N L A RC O M

terrifying Mormon theme park where they bring every fourth grader in Utah on a field trip to churn butter and sprain ankles pulling pioneer carts around. The haunted house was called the “Haunted Village,” on account of it was being more villageous than houseish. One actor tried to obtain our cellular numbers. He was dressed in a ghillie suit and we could not see his face. His name was Brendan, though, and I think about him roughly four times a week—specifically, when I’m feeling undesirable, since I can always remember that ghillie-suit Brendan thought I was cute enough to break character. Anyway, when we got to the scariest part of the haunted house, my friends and I agreed to hold hands, but since I am a cold bitch, I sprinted away without them and it took fifteen more

Image: GhillieSuits.com (left), YellowBullet.com (right)

H A U N T E D H O U S E BSY

minutes for them to exit themselves from the house. They were in a mild annoyance at me for this antic, but it was not my fault! I BLAME YOU, HAUNTED VILLAGE, FOR THEIR MILD ANNOYANCE, BECAUSE I WAS SEVENTEEN AND YOU COULD NOT EXPECT ME NOT TO SPILL MY ENTIRE BOWL OF COOLIOS WHEN A LARGE SKELETORIAN HAD CORNERED ME WITH A RUBBER CHAINSAW. DEATH WAS IMMINENT, HAUNTED VILLAGE, AND IT WAS ME OR THEM! I PICKED ME. I hate haunted houses mostly because I will continue to go to them every few years forever and ever until I die, and I will never die. I care for no holiday but excepting Halloween, so I will play your silly games, haunted houses, because

I must. It’s part of participating in the holiday, or something. Take my money, haunted houses. I hate you, you snarmled bastards.

One time last summer, a raccoon died in my backyard and I had to rid it from my premises. I thought, you can do this, Ally, and I went outside to extricate the corpse. However, upon approaching, I realized that it was covered not in reasonable if gross flies, but in UTTERLY UNREASONABLE FLESHEATING WASPS. That is how I feel every time I go to a haunted house: I think I am a fine and capable human, but I very much am not able for to handle the thing, and I must later cry deeply and shower my backyard with Raid.

Here is a list of common injuries that happen in haunted houses: faintings, elbowings, punchings, bitings, kickings,

and something called “haunted house throat.” Stay away from my throat, haunted houses. My throat nor I want very few to do with you.

I will probably go to another haunted house this year. It is the same as with consuming eggs: I will convince myself that I will enjoy the experience if I add enough Sriracha, and I will not. I will just be sad and my life will be too spicy for a little while. I will become red and sweaty and my blood pressure will go up.

Mayhaps I shall only go if that I should find a Groupon.

I am seven feet deep in revilement of this yearly institution.

Allyson Larcom ’17 (alarcom@wellesley. edu) is 700 years old.

counterpoint / october 2016

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M O N T H LY P O L L

seven deadly sins

SLOTH

120

PRIDE OTHER RESPONSES: ¿por qué no todos los siete? • all of the above • All of them, I’m 100% sin • All of them, simultaneously, 24/7/365, forever. • Being average at Wellesley • Combination of sloth and gluttony, sluttony if you will • Dissatisfaction • God doesn’t sin • heterosexuality • Homosexuality • I am Satan • i’m a fucking angel sent from above • i’m a soft sinful in all the sinfuls • i’m queer • Lesbianism • Lust from FMAB • Melancholy • Memes • partying on a wednesday • Sloth is also my spirit animal • the only one i don’t identify with is avarice only because i don’t know what it means • ur mom • Why would you make me choose between gluttony and lust? • wtf is avarice

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106 99

ENVY 71

GLUTTONY

counterpoint / februar 2016 octobery2016

67

LUST 38

ANGER AVA R I C E

OTHER

13

25

Image: deviantart.net

This month, we asked you which of the Seven Deadly Sins you identify with most, and promised an exciting demonic surprise should you read the issue! Here’s what you said:

and an exciting demonic surprise In the Middle Ages, theology was greatly influnenced by Astronomy. We know that doesn’t exactly fit with popular opinion about the time period but most theologians in the late Middle Ages believed that everything about a person’s life was determined at their birth according to God and His alignment of the stars. It was also a common belief in Medieval Demonology that each demon was more powerful during a certain month and that a person born in that month would be more susceptible to the evils that demon controlled. Below is the list of demons and their spheres of influnence. Match your birth month to your demon see if the sin you are most susceptible to is the same as the sin you identify most with.

January February March April May June July August September October November December

Belial: Demon of ungodly wickedness, and destruction; inspires lawlessness and worthlessness.

Leviathan: An enormous demon of darkness and chaos; associated with the sea; inspires arrogance and envy.

Satan: An angel expelled from heaven; evil personified; the great adversary; inspires mankind to turn away from God; inspires mortal sins.

Belphegor: Demon of indifference; inspires extreme laziness and spiritual apathy.

Lucifer: A great angel cast into Hell; also known as the light bringer, the bearer of light, and the morning star; inspires pride and rebellion.

Berith: Demon of covenants; the great red harbinger; a kingmaker; worshipped by necromancers and alchemists; inspires megalomania.

Beelzebub: The prince of demons; the lord of the flies; inspires gluttony, unholy desire, jealousy, war, and murder.

Astaroth: The prince of Hell; the treasurer of Hell; a harbinger; associated with serpents, and the classical sciences; inspires laziness and vanity.

Thammuz: Ambassador to Hell; able to die and return from the underworld; a symbol of rebirth and mourning; inspires torture.

Baal: The lord; the first monarch of Hell; associated with the power of invisibility and wisdom; inspires idolatry.

Asmodai: Demon of wrath; prince of demons; the father of monsters; inspires gambling, deceit, lust, and revenge.

Moloch: The King; inspires shameful acts, child abuse and abduction.

Source: lizaphoenix.com

counterpoint counterpoint/ /februar octobery 2016

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spoopy movies

CROSSWORD

ACROSS

DOWN

2. Twins Tia and Tamera starred in this Disney movie.

7. Sandra Bullock’s a witch.

9. This actor is the face of the mask in Halloween (1978).

10. In Cabin In The Woods, the final body count rises to this number.

13. This 1980s Tim Burton flick is actually just a modern retelling of Orpheus.

15. Chloe Moretz starred in the remake of this classic horror flick.

18. A musical about a florist. It’s horrifying.

21. The pinnacle of Disney Channel’s Hauntober Fest movie marathon.

24. Christmas or Halloween movie? Fans of this Hot Topic favorite can’t decide.

25. Cartoon Network’s terrible animation based on the books by Jill Thompson 27. Home of the Demon Barber.

28. It’s just a jump to the left!

30. The main character in a horror movie franchise who loved to play games with his victims (although those games never included crosswords).

31. Probably the only movie ever to be based on an amusement park ride.

33. ft. the scariest rabbit you’ve ever seen.

35. Witches can be right. Giants can be good. You decide what’s right.

You decide what’s good.

36. Your favorite of 23 Down is named after a day of the week.

37. The friendly ghost.

1. Sweet dreams on Elm Street? No, that’s not right...

3. This man is considered one of the most influential horror directors of all time.

4. I was working in the lab, late one night, when my eyes beheld an eerie sight.

5. Wellesley produces it every year with a scantily clad shadow cast.

6. Jodie Foster’s famous character from Silence of the Lambs.

8. Johnny Depp starred in the big screen remake of this musical.

11. In this iconic Halloween scene, Professor Quirrell yells _____ then faints.

12. In both Hocus Pocus and Sex and the City, this actress desperately tries to stay forever young.

14. _______ the 13th.

16. If you’re a virgin, we highly suggest you do not light this candle on Halloween.

17. This television network shows the 13 Nights of Halloween and it’s honestly the best movie marathon of the year.

19. During filming for this horror movie, many of the actors actually believed in the main movie monster.

20. The true Marnie Piper. Sara Paxton doesn’t even hold a candle to her.

22. Our spookiest local setting is also the name of a famous cat from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

23. They’re creepy and they’re kooky / Mysterious and spooky / They’re altogether ooky ________.

25. Surname of the three spooky sisters in Hocus Pocus.

26. Who you gonna call?

29. In the 2005 horror movie set in this New York town, an eight-year-old Chloe Grace Moretz did all of her own stunts.

32. Where can you find an American Werewolf?

34. Catholic mean girls on Halloween.