March 2019

COUNTERPOINT the wellesley college journal of campus life march 2019 volume 52 issue 2

TH

AN

O U! Y K

With love, Counterpoint

SUBMISSION POLICY The magazine accepts non-fiction submissions that are respectful, are submitted with sufficient time for editing, and have not been published elsewhere. The magazine does not accept poetry or fiction submissions.

We encourage cooperation between writers and editors but reserve the right to edit all content for length and clarity. Email submissions, ideas, or questions to the Editors-in-Chief (senglis2 or myang5). The views expressed in Counterpoint do not necessarily reflect the views of the magazine staff or the Wellesley community. Counterpoint does not solicit specific pieces from students, rather we publish the pieces that we receive each month and do our best to publish all appropriate submissions that we receive.

Images: Natalie Marshall ’21 (cover), Sang Huyn on Unsplash (left)

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earest Readers, On March 4th, College Government voted to make Counterpoint a Guaranteed Percentage (GP) Organization. After 28 years as a publication, Counterpoint now joins organizations that serve the entire student body like SBOG, WZLY, and The Wellesley News in receiving a guaranteed portion of the Student Activities fee each year. We are overjoyed and honored that Wellesley has decided we are deserving of this privilege.

Counterpoint has been aiming to become a GP funded organization for nearly four years now, and it has definitely been a group effort to reach this milestone. We’d like to express our gratitude to Counterpoint alums for all the work they conducted in the past that we could build on during the application process. In particular, we’re grateful to Cecilia Nowell ’16, Hanna Day-Tenerowicz ’16, Jayne Yan ’16, Allyson Larcom ’17, Charlotte Yu ’17, and Olivia Funderburg ’18 for starting this project years ago and helping us to work toward it today. We also are deeply indebted to Wellesley’s Student Bursar Gina Scorpiniti and our bookie Hanamei Shao for making it possible for us to apply this spring, and all of SOFC and College Government for hearing our application. Finally, we’d just like to say thank you to you, Wellesley! Without you, we wouldn’t have made it through this process, and we wouldn’t be the publication we are today. We look forward to using our GP funding to create more space for members of the Wellesley community to tell their stories.

E D I TO R I A L S TA F F Samantha English ’19 Midori Yang ’19

Editors-in-Chief Managing Editors

April Poole ’19 Francesca Gazzolo ’20

Features Editors

Seren Riggs-Davis ’21 Marina Furbush ’21

Staff Editors

Katie Madsen ’19 Lucia Tu ’19 Ashley Anderson ’21 Megan D'Alessandro ’21 Eleanor Nash ’21 Abby Schneider ’21 Sage Wentzell-Brehme ’21 Gus Agyemang ’22 Sara Clark ’22 Zaria George ’22 Stella Ho ’22 Vivian Nye ’22 Parker Piscitello-Fay ’22 Deana Weatherly ’22

D E S I G N S TA F F Layout Editors

Roz Rea ’19 Marinn Cedillo ’21 Gus Agyemang ’22

COUNTERPOINT THE WELLESLEY COLLEGE JOURNAL OF CAMPUS LIFE MARCH 2019 Volume 52 / Issue 2

A R T S & C U LT U R E OLIVIA FELDMAN

Vanessa Ntungwanayo ’21

Publicity Chair Social Chairs

Cheryn Shin ’21 Natalie Marshall ’21 Sage Wentzell-Brehme ’21

Secretary

Corinne Muller ’21

Treasurer

Vanessa Ntungwanayo ’21

TRUSTEES Olivia Funderburg ’18, Allyson Larcom ’17, Hanna Day-Tenerowicz ’16, Cecilia Nowell ’16, Oset Babur ’15, Alison Lanier ’15, Kristina Costa ’09, Kara Hadge ’08

F O L LOW U S Website

wellesleycounterpoint.org

THE REAL RECIPE BEHIND THE GIRL SCOUT COOKIE

CAMPUS LIFE ELY WILLARD

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LOOKING FOR THE BRIGHT SIDE

CAITLYN CHUNG & MIDORI YANG

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NO CULTURES LEFT TO APPROPRIATE

POLITICS VEEKSHA MADHU

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SABARIMALA: OF LAW AND FAITH

IDENTITY ANONYMOUS

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CHEESEBURGER?

NICOLE NTIM-ADDAE

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TO THE IDEA OF LOVE IN MY HEAD

ADHEL GENG

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TO THE BOY I WANTED TO BE

GABRIELLE SHLIKAS

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AUDREY'S FOR THE WEEKEND

ANONYMOUS

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EULOGY TO WHAT I MUST CHOOSE TO LET DIE

SOPHIE SACO

21

MY NAME

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

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M E N TA L H E A LT H ANONYMOUS

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SELF-ADVOCACY AT WELLESLEY

ALICIA OLIVO

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WHERE THERE’S BARKING, THERE ARE DOGS

MAGGIE ROBERTS

26

THANK YOU, MOLLY BLOOM

Facebook

Counterpoint Magazine

F E AT U R E S

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@counterpointmagazine

COUNTERPOINT STAFF

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CROSSWORD: JONAS BROTHERS

COUNTERPOINT STAFF

28

POLL: MARCH MADNESS

ARTS & CULTURE

The Real Recipe Behind the Girl Scout Cookie I t’s midwinter, which means we are in cookie-selling season for Girl Scouts all over the nation. The Girl Scouts have been selling cookies since 1917. The tradition started in Muskogee, Oklahoma, when a troop of Girl Scouts decided to sell cookies in a local high school cafeteria to raise money for their club. For the first twenty or so years, troop members and their mothers baked their “Girl Scout” cookies in their homes, but in 1922, the recipes became standardized among athome bakers. In 1936, Girl Scouts USA licensed their first commercial baker to accommodate the high nationwide demand for cookies.

These days, cookie production is handled by just two bakers: ABC Bakers and Little Brownie Bakers. In order to maintain consistency, each baker produces eight cookie varieties. The cookies are used to fundraise for local troops and are considered an “entrepreneurial opportunity” for Girl Scouts. Today, you can buy one of the classic three flavors of Thin Mints, Trefoils, or Caramel deLites (also known as Samoas), or one of the five other flavors provided by different bak-

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eries. No matter what, when you buy a box of Girl Scout cookies, you will find a background picture of a troop member engaged in an exciting, educational task like kayaking, planting a garden, or delivering a speech. Accompanying the photograph is a quote about how Girl Scouts empowers its members.

Girl Scouts began in 1912 in Savannah, Georgia, as “something for all the girls.” Founder Juliette Gordon Low envisioned an organization that “would bring girls out of their homes to serve their communities, experience the outof-doors, and have the opportunity to develop ‘self-reliance and resourcefulness.’”

The organization has found that cookie sales have been a way to promote these values. Janet Zelenak, the current Director of Product Sales at the Girl Scouts of the Jersey Shore, explains, “the key to the Girl Scout cookie success is that it is the only girl-led business that helps girls to develop five major and very important skills that they will use throughout their lives. They are goal setting, decision making, money management, people skills,

counterpoint / march 2019

and business ethics.” While the idea of empowering young women through entrepreneurship is not unique to the Girl Scouts USA, cookie sales certainly are.

The cookie itself is extremely important, since it reflects the history of young women’s “empowerment” in America.

In the early twentieth century, baking not only reflected the role of women as homemakers but emphasized the tradition of homemade production and consumption of food in the pre-World War II era. Changing with the times, the cookies became manufactured in mass quantities.

By the late 1930s, when production began to boom in the U.S., so did the corporatization of cookies. As more women were entering the workforce, the shift in the Scouts’ focus went from baking to selling cookies, even granting prizes to those who sold the most.

Since the Girl Scouts incentivize cookie sales, they participate in instilling values of American capitalism early in life. The cookie-selling program is all about teaching young women and gender-nonconforming people how to sell large quanti-

Images:

BY OLIVIA FELDMAN

ties of cookies so they can receive material prizes. With rhetoric about teaching life values to young women and gender-nonconforming people, the Girl Scouts advance the American concept that in order to be a productive civilian, you need to create and push capital. If you aren’t making money, then you’re failing.

Because the cookies are a seasonal item, Girl Scouts absorb another business lesson: supply and demand. The cookies are always in demand because their supply is not readily available. Marketing is also important to the competitive aspect of cookie sales. Since prizes are given to those who sell the most cookies individually, knowing your market and where you can optimize your cookie sales is an important skill to learn, even as a Daisy (the youngest group of Girl Scouts).

Cookie sales teach young girls to sell themselves to the public. When there is so much pressure to sell a massive amount of cookies, members must rely on the

image of the sweet and “pure” Girl Scout. They sell an idea of themselves almost as much as the cookies.

Furthermore, this practice reflects the use of feminine bodies, especially in American media, to sell products. Members of the Girl Scouts are subconsciously pushed to tie their personal worth to the material worth of the product.

The tradition of the Girl Scout cookie is a uniquely American one.

Morphing with the values and social scene of the twentieth century, the sale of Girl Scout cookies became a way to teach a growing body of empowered women how to be young capitalists—how to sell both themselves and a product. The pressure put on Girl Scouts to compete with other troops forc-

es young children to learn to be creative in their entrepreneurial ventures--even in selling themselves. Something as seemingly harmless as a cookie teaches our young Scouts that their bodies are being judged by the world.

Olivia Feldman ’21 (ofeldma2@wellesley. edu) is aiming to understand why and how everything in the world works.

counterpoint / march 2019

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CAMPUS LIFE

looking for the bright side Content warning: depression began showing signs of depression in elementary school, but it would take me years to understand what they meant. My mom recognized these signs and, drawing from her experience with her own mental health, tried to give me strategies to improve my state of mind.

Every night before I went to bed, she made me tell her three good things about my day. I never took the practice seriously, and eventually I fought her on it so much that she gave up on enforcing it.

By high school, I was definitely depressed. For a number of complex and personal reasons, I didn’t seek any form of professional treatment. My mom, once again recognizing my mental illness, tried to help. She constantly told me that I would feel better if I made more of an effort to focus on good moments and spent less time reiterating my sadness and bitterness. Like many people who find themselves in a pit of despair, I found this advice belittling. I couldn’t just make myself happy, I said. I wasn’t just mindlessly unhappy, I was unhappy about my circumstances, and I couldn’t magically improve them. If everything around me could change, then I could be happy, but

I

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I couldn’t make it happen on my own.

I decided that high school was going to be horrible, no matter what I did, and I might as well just try to hold out until college, so I made no conscious effort to get better.

However, by senior year, I realized that I had, without trying, taken on a more positive outlook on life than most of my friends. I noticed that every morning, I came into school in a neutral, or sometimes even good, mood, only to be brought crashing down by my friends bitching about absolutely nothing. They didn’t have any rationale for their complaining. They were just miserable and taking it out on everyone around them.

Even though I refused to admit it for a long time, I began thinking that my mom might have been right. Maybe I actually could improve my own state of mind.

I still believed that my depression was only situational, so I thought it would disappear when I started college. I was meeting new and interesting people, I was finally being academically challenged in a good way, and I was living on a beautiful campus. What did I have to be unhappy about? It took me months to realize that I

counterpoint / march 2019

was still depressed. A pretty campus isn’t a miracle cure for a mental illness. And this time around, my depression was so much more terrifying because I no longer had the vague hope that going to college would cure it all.

I still shied away from therapy, so I started genuinely acting on my mom’s advice for the first time. I began focusing on the good things in my life as much as I could. It was one of many strategies I developed over my first few semesters at Wellesley. I’ve kept a journal since middle school, but I originally used it to vent.

Now, I started writing only when I was in a relatively positive mood, trying to capture all the best experiences I had. I learned to notice when I began sliding into negative patterns of thought, and I started trying to lead myself back to a more neutral mindset. In addition, I made a lot of other small changes that are harder to quantify or put into words but which led to a healthier outlook on life.

It took time and effort, but I learned that, to some extent, I can influence my own mood. I don’t believe in repressing my emotions; I think sadness and misery and anger are all very important. Still, I

Images: Adina Dinca on flickr (left), yeahwrite (right)

B Y E LY W I L L A R D

can’t feel like that all the time. Becoming happier with the situation I was in once I got to college certainly helped, but I think that most of my current mental stability is down to my own work, and my mom’s encouragement, because Wellesley turned out to not be the paradise I thought it was during orientation. I’m still dealing with depression. That doesn’t just go away. But I feel much better in my day-to-day life.

I find myself seeking out fun experiences rather than counting up negative ones.

When I have a really good day, I can honestly enjoy it, instead of thinking of it as a momentary reprieve from hopelessness, like I did in high school. Not every day is wonderful, but I have become more capable of getting through the really rough patches.

But this year, I’ve started feeling the same way I did every morning in high school when my friends would heap their negativity on each other. It’s no secret that many, maybe even most, Wellesley students are stressed and unhappy a lot of the time. I understand the reasons for that feeling, and I feel that way too. However, I do wonder if some of it couldn’t be improved just a bit with a different state of mind.

I want to be absolutely clear: I’m not begrudging the people who do the thank-

less work of criticizing Wellesley as an institution and culture for reinforcing systems of oppression and ignoring the needs of students of color, trans and gender-nonconforming students, and lowincome students. Those issues absolutely need to be raised and heard, both by the administration and by more privileged students, and I don’t consider drawing attention to Wellesley’s failings (or societal failings off-campus, for that matter) “negativity.”

And it’s always good to be able to whine and rant from time to time, even if we’re complaining about more trivial matters.

Hey, I’m venting as I write this right now.

But we shouldn’t be voicing unhappiness 24/7. That’s not healthy for anyone. Even when I hear people expressing positivity, it’s often couched in an expression of broader negativity. How many times have we heard someone compliment a friend by saying that they make the hellhole of Wellesley slightly more bearable, or ending a pleasant dinner with, “Well, we’ve all got a lot of work to get back to so we should stop wasting time?” We may exist in a culture that encourages us to feel stressed and discouraged, but that doesn’t mean that we need to reinforce those concepts in ourselves. Why can’t we experience moments of joy without cutting

them short by reminding each other of our obligations?

Sometimes I feel, and I know I’m not alone in this, like I’m supposed to feel guilty for having a good week instead of a stressful one, or for taking some time to mindlessly enjoy something instead of working all the time. There’s value in expressing our struggles so that our friends and classmates know they aren’t alone, but there must be a way to do that that doesn’t make misery the default state of being.

I don’t have an easy answer for how to fix this. I’m not going to tell anyone to write down three good things at the end of the day, because honestly, I still find that annoying. I’m not going to pretend that I understand what any other person is going through and tell them that their mindset can be adjusted the same way and on the same timeline that I adjusted mine. But I think everyone should try to hold onto happiness, whatever that looks like for you.

We all deserve joy in our lives. It shouldn’t be something that gets put on hold until after high school, or after college, or after we get a better job, because we will always have struggles in our current stage of life and look aspiringly on towards the next one. Especially in an environment that lends itself to stress and discouragement, we should build up those moments when we feel lighter. When we laugh hard, or remember how much we love a friend, or just feel truly relaxed.

Even if it’s a brief moment, if we enjoy it fully and remember it once it’s passed, the stressful, depressing times won’t feel quite so all-consuming.

Ely Willard ’20 (ewillard@wellesley.edu) is trying to resist disillusionment and stay optimistic in a frightening world.

counterpoint / march 2019

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CAMPUS LIFE

No Cultures Left to Appropriate

Her decision is part of a larger trend in which Asian cultures are decontextualized and commodified for the sake of aesthetics.

A

riana Grande’s Japanese tattoo has recently gained international attention, but not for positive reasons. The hand tattoo, inspired by her music video titled “7 Rings,” was supposed to be a translation of the song’s title in Japanese. The full Japanese translation is “七つの指輪,” as shown repeatedly in the music video and in promo materials for the song. However, when Ariana got the tattoo, she shortened the phrase to “七輪” due to the pain of getting the tattoo. Unfortunately, the phrase no longer translates to “seven rings,” but instead, an idiom that means “small Japanese charcoal grill.” Originally, Ariana responded to internet backlash by tweeting that she was “a huge fan of tiny bbq grills” and was fine with the results. However, after conversing with her Japanese tutor and a sympathetic fan on Instagram, she attempted to correct it by getting the missing “指” character inked underneath the original tattoo. The new character was placed in such a way that the new tattoo now says page 8

“small Japanese charcoal grill finger.”

To her credit, Ariana Grande has been studying Japanese since 2015 in order to connect with her large Japanese fanbase.

Her tutor, Ayumi Furiya, has also come out in support of her decision to learn the fundamentals of the language instead of memorizing “basic phrases” that could be used in response. Furiya has also noted that Ariana has not been able to dive deeply into her Japanese studies because of her time constraints; she only knows the basic phonetic alphabet, hiragana, and therefore had not advanced far enough to begin learning the system of adopted Chinese characters, known as kanji. Regardless, Ariana Grande failed to verify the meaning of 七輪 despite having access to her tutor and even Google Translate (which accurately translates 七輪 to either “tambourine” or “earthen charcoal brazier”).

Ariana’s mistake in itself would not have blown up if it was an isolated incident of mistranslation. Yet, her mistake

counterpoint / march 2019

is one that has been repeated throughout history by many other non-Asians. She is not the first person to get a nonsensical tattoo in an Asian language that she barely knows and has failed to research. Her decision is part of a larger trend in which Asian cultures are decontextualized and commodified for the sake of aesthetics.

Whether it’s fashion, pop music, or traditional noodle dishes, the same cultural products that many Asian American children have been bullied for are now cool and cute trends that every person wants to participate in. Such cultural appropriation comes from a place of privilege and hypocrisy that only white people can truly access: picking and choosing which elements of non-white cultures they want to consume without having to navigate the gauntlet of racism.

Historically, Asians have never been accepted as part of American culture. There is a lingering notion of the “perpetual foreigner” that disallows Asian Americans from entering the Western space without

Images: instagram.com (left), twitter.com (right)

B Y C A I T LY N C H U N G & MIDORI YANG

assimilation. Many Asian Americans have their own stories of being denied access to their heritage. Immigrant parents often give their children Anglicized names, pushing their ethnic names aside as middle names or forfeiting them altogether; they regularly refuse to teach their children their native language for fear of bullying and ostracization. These kids grow up trying their best to fit in, asking their moms to pack a more “normal” lunch after getting asked why their cultural food smells weird by non-Asian classmates.

From early childhood, they’ve learned that in the public sphere, the whiter, the better. But in the privacy of their homes, they still could not completely escape their cultural heritage. While taught to assimilate, they’re still surrounded by artifacts from their families’ culture. Because many grandparents, and even parents, cannot speak English, many immigrant families need the help of their children in order to survive in the new world (such as helping with taxes, translating documents, or ordering in restaurants). This inability to fully escape from their heritage, while not quite being a part of the larger American population, creates a void of cultural ambiguity where a child may not feel “Asian” or “American.”

This cultural identity limbo leads

Asian Americans to be ostracized by both groups with whom they identify. Asians who have always lived in Asia often discredit the opinions of Asian Americans and their interpretations of Asian culture.

Americans then use these arguments to further invalidate our grievances. For example, many of Ariana’s Japanese fans describe the tattoo incident as “funny” and “cute.” In incidents like Hollywood’s Ghost in the Shell (a live-action adaptation of a Japanese animated film featuring a Japanese main character), many Japanese fans, including the director of the original movie, announced their support of Scarlett Johansson in the main role. Their praise stood in direct contrast to the laments of Asian Americans who wished for representation in a major blockbuster film. Our opinions, when voiced against the white population, are often ignored or blatantly mocked as “sensitive” and “reaching” by both Americans and those in Asian countries.

Cultural appropriation like this is decidedly an Asian American issue and not an Asian one. When those living in Asia, who are thought of as more “authentically Asian,” tell Asian Americans that our experiences don’t matter, it further reinforces how we are not “Asian enough” to have a voice in the argument. Japanese people in

Asians who have always lived in Asia often discredit the the opinions of Asian Americans and their interpretations of culture.

Japan don’t understand what it feels like to be a minority and to never see yourself reflected in the media around you, a concept that extends to many other immigrant communities. As of 2018, Japan is 98.5% Japanese. Japanese people have never experienced an environment where their culture is not the dominant one and where they are the “other” because of their race. Many fans view gestures of appropriation like Ariana’s as a sign that an outsider is taking interest in their country, and are excited by the prospect (although a fair share of Japanese netizens were also confused by the tattoo). Ariana’s tutor has said, “Japanese is not a common language in the world. It’s not necessary for her to learn Japanese—she just really wants to. I appreciate that. It makes her Japanese fans so happy.” Unfortunately, not all Japanese Americans consider Japan their country, and celebrities’ fleeting fascination with Japan and other Asian cultures in general does nothing but further exotify Asianness.

The collective memory of many young Asian Americans today still consists largely of microaggressions and cultural isolation. The Chinese Exclusion Act, Japanese internment camps, the TydingsMcDuffie Act, and many other anti-Asian policies lie not so far in our past. Today, especially with the rise in Korea’s and Japan’s cultural power, Asian culture is now deemed cool enough to become part of the mainstream, ranging from food to fashion to music. But this relatively recent acceptance does not suddenly give white people permission to step into a cultural space that is not theirs. When a pop star like Ariana Grande carelessly treats an Asian language as an accessory, it’s simply playing into a long history of white people appropriating a culture that does not belong to them. Though some forms of acceptance have come through the recent popularization of Asian culture—food in particular—white Americans still hold the

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power to decide what is accepted into the public sphere. Sushi, banh mi, pad thai, boba, KBBQ, and countless other dishes only make up a small percentage of Asian cultures, but are touted by the white majority as shining beacons of Asian food.

This same concept extends to all facets of popular culture, such as anime, music, video games, and many more. And yet, Asian Americans rarely make these choices themselves—we do not get to own our own culture, but white Americans can come and go as they please.

As demonstrated by Ariana and many celebrities before her, it is easy to fall into the trap of appropriating and misrepresenting Asian culture through ignorance.

But there is still hope! Non-Asians are not barred from engaging with Asian culture by any means. However, there are respectful ways to do it. What many people are missing from their interpretation of Asian cultures is an understanding of the deeper historical context that surrounds these trends. Like any culture, mainstream Asian culture is just the surface level on decades of culture and counterculture that have evolved and adapted to varying circumstances. Many non-Asians entering Asian culture may feel that they are obligated to constantly apologize, possibly by acknowledging that they are an outsider (“I’m not Asian, but...” or “I didn’t grow up with this culture, but from what I’ve learned…”). But this sentiment does not have to manifest as guilt, and can instead be turned into a desire to learn about all facets of the culture they wish to enter and an effort to engage with its negative aspects as well as the positive—idealizing a culture to the point of ignoring its flaws is still fetishization.

Cultural appropriation in its many forms do not just apply to Asian Ameri-

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cans, but to many other minority groups.

Listed below are some resources that are a good starting place to learn about the differences between respectfully engaging in a foreign culture and cultural appropriation: • “The Chun Li Challenge is the Latest Example of Pop Culture Stereotyping Asian Culture” by David Yi for Teen Vogue • “White People Need to Learn How to Appreciate a Different Culture Without Appropriating It” by Alisha Acquaye for Teen Vogue • “The undying trend of cultural appropriation” by Amma Aburam for gal-dem We hope that you, unlike Ariana, take the time to consider these complicated sociopolitical and cultural histories before you engage with our cultures.

Caitlyn Chung ’20 (cchung5@wellesley.edu) and Midori Yang ’19 (myang5@wellesley. edu) spent way too much emotional energy on this and are Really Tired. It’s now up to you to do your own research. Thank u, next.

counterpoint / march 2019

Images: R S Iyer

CAMPUS LIFE

POLITICS

SABARIMALA Of Law and Faith

BY VEEKSHA MADHU

I

n September 2018, the Supreme Court of India declared that the Sabarimala Temple’s practice of barring women of menstrual age from worship was unconstitutional. The ruling has since invoked fervent constitutional, political, religious, and socio-cultural debates. At the heart of the issue lies the Temple’s gender discrimination, which is based on an ancient legend. According to the tale, the Temple’s deity, Lord Ayappa, is celibate, and therefore the presence of women between the ages of ten and fifty

would “distract” the Lord. Social activists opposing the Temple’s rules have argued that the exclusion of menstruating women is perpetuated by upper-class Hindus to impose patriarchy. When the Supreme Court handed down their decision, they rightfully upheld the constitutional right of women to worship and recognized patriarchy as an oppressive factor in the religious structure.

Despite the Supreme Court ruling, right-wing groups have continued to prevent the entry of women into the Temple.

In early January, two women broke the cordon of protestors and entered the Temple. The Temple was subsequently shut down for a “purification” ritual, which is otherwise performed when a death occurs inside the Temple premises. Following social ostracization and threats to their lives, the two women appealed to the Supreme Court for protection.

The Sabarimala case has stirred a range of thoughts and emotions within me. As a practicing Hindu, I have often faced gender discrimination. Exclusion during my menstrual days is still practiced in my family. In my opinion, when a biological process is labeled “impure” and used to enforce segregation, it not only violates human dignity but also legitimizes the numerous and bewildering taboos around menstruation. After all, there has to be something wildly witchy about people who bleed for several days without dying! Close observation and inconclusive debates with members of my faith have led me to believe that patriarchy within Hinduism enforces regressive notions of purity and pollution. This is used to treat half of humankind as inferior. Furthermore, holding women accountable for the celibacy of the deity reinforces feelings of guilt and shame. It demonizes women as beings who take away a man’s magical powers.

Patriarchal hegemony uses several guises to oppress women. For too long, I had

internalized these oppressive structures of my faith. Lately, I have begun questioning my family’s practices in an attempt to reconcile my feminist and religious values. I sought a safe space where my God did not shame me for being a woman. My liberal parents have often encouraged me to explore the philosophy of all religions, rather than be steadfast in the practice of one. However, even for such liberal minds, the practice of exclusion during menstrual days required negotiating. I am still not allowed to pray or walk around the holy space in my own home while menstruating. They feared that flouting well-entrenched norms would invite the wrath of the Gods. The potential consequences of backlash and social hostility made it easier for my family to conform than to unlearn.

Indian political leaders have been quick to pander to their voting bases, rather than throw their weight behind dismantling exclusionary religious structures. The onus then falls on community members to engage in knowledgeable, open conversations to overcome resistance to change. Gender roles have evolved in families and at workplaces. Our communities and faith must be reflective of that change by creating gender-equal spaces. It is a disservice to the followers of the faith that religious leaders resort to sanctum sanctorum of beliefs. As Hindus, we must aspire to build a community where reason and law are properly employed while faith is properly understood.

Veeksha Madhu ’22 (vmadhu@wellesley. edu) hopes to create dialogue so that Hinduism can become a faith for all its followers.

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CHEESEBurger?

I delicately clutched the food of the anti-Christ in my trembling hands.

The cheeseburger was already raised most of the way to my mouth, but those last few inches were mercilessly tormenting me; one simple bite held the potential to ruin my life and not a soul in the restaurant seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation. For many, the act of eating a cheeseburger would be decidedly mundane, yet there I was in a burger joint, my life flashing before my eyes. I could only imagine what I looked like to the other guests at the restaurant, perched stiffly on my high-backed wooden chair, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slightly open, holding the cheeseburger away from my chest like a bomb. At this point, I could still get off unscathed—I could choose to place the burger back on the plate, just eat the french fries, and pretend this never happened. But I’d already gone through the trouble of recruiting my friend Maddie as emotional support, gathering all my courage to even step foot in a restaurant where someone who knows my family could see me reading the menu and ordering the burger. At this point the guilt would be there anyway, whether or not I ate the burger. page 12

I was eight when my parents sat me down to try and explain how we were “upgrading” from Reform to Orthodox Judaism as a family, which in theory sounded like a fresh, new adventure. At the time that only meant no more play dates on Saturdays or Wendy’s chicken nuggets. However, my life was flipped upside down. I was pulled out of my public school and sent to a Jewish one where I knew nobody. Soon after, my mom, who had recently taken to wearing a wig to cover her hair (as is often done in Orthodox tradition), took all the clothes from our closet and donated them to Goodwill, leaving me with skirts that covered my knees and shirts that hid my collarbone and elbows. After a few months at my new school, my performance in class remained poor, so my parents decided I would begin remedial religious school three times a week at the local Chabad House, otherwise known as the place that had a giant, glowing menorah out front year-round.

It was there in the basement of the synagogue that I was forced to pray to some glorified, all-knowing God before they even served us dinner. Most of the time I just mouthed nonsense while squinting at my prayer book, trying to mask the sound

counterpoint / march 2019

BY ANONYMOUS of my growling stomach with loud yawns, which were frowned upon by Rebitzen Mizrachi. She was Rabbi Mizrachi’s wife, who was assigned to teach the girls because apparently eight-year-old children can’t bury their sexual urges for a few hours to talk to God in a co-ed setting.

I was twelve when the budding feminist in me balked at the fact that I couldn’t chant Torah at my bat mitzvah because it wasn’t modest for a woman to participate in the Shabbat services. Instead, I was consigned to the basement with the other women to give a short speech about the role of a Jewish woman in society and her duty to her people. My own dad didn’t even get to watch me give my speech.

I was seventeen when, unless I repented for my dreadful sins (such as doing my schoolwork by literal flashlight on Friday nights Harry Potter-style and giving my first blowjob to a non-Jewish guy in the backseat of my ancient Acura TL), I’d soon be going straight to hell without passing “Go” or collecting my $200. With the pressure of college mounting, I spent countless nights paralyzed in bed, wondering (and praying to a God I’m still not sure I believe in) how I was going to pay for a secular college, even if my parents al-

Images: imgur.com/gallery/R4hbqjj (left), Bundo Kim (right)

IDENTITY

lowed me to go. I was overwhelmed daily by copious amounts of guilt that chipped away at my slowly-cracking resolve. The guilt, however, stemmed not from the fear of God (who had better things to worry about than an angsty teen), but from the imagined look of disappointment on my parents’ faces I knew I’d see when I broke the news to them about where I’d applied to college.

But for just a surreal minute, heart pounding wildly, I sat across from Mad-

die, hesitantly examining the long-forbidden delicacy, intoxicated by its aroma. I could just see Old Man God sitting on his magnificent golden throne, sharpening a lightning bolt with which to strike me down. I was Eve and the cheeseburger was the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.

If I ate it, there was no going back. I lifted the burger to my lips and held it steady for a moment. With my eyes squinted shut tightly, I took a big chomp and held the bite in my cheek, not even tasting the

burger, just waiting in horror for the inevitable strike of lighting. After a long moment, I swallowed with an audible gulp and slowly cracked open an eye.

Shockingly enough, I was still alive.

For information about publishing articles anonymously, please contact the Editors-inChief (senglis2@wellesley.edu or myang5@ wellesley.edu)

to the idea of love in my head

BY NICOLE NTIM-ADDAE

I

wonder if you have ever met a person that makes you think of God. Did he use my secrets, my thoughts, my to-do lists, and my dreams to create you, or did my imagination do that for me?

Are you a gift or a test? Why am I not sure? You see, I think of you and God in the same sentence because you are both conundrums to me. You both make me feel whole, like the inside of my mind has been revealed and I am healed and I am saved in your grace.

But I do not know you.

At least, not in the way I want to know you. I know that you are intelligent. I know that you are compassionate. I know that you are a good friend. But I don’t feel it in my own right. You humor me, even hang out with me, but I see no teeth. I feel no growth. And I don’t typically feel love with men, period. I feel as though I am in stasis with men, pretending to be one person, while actually being another.

With you I can’t pretend. And I don’t think you would want me to. With you, I feel understood.

But you do not know me.

And I don’t think you want to get to know me. You are an opaque room which

has clear dimensions, but the furniture inside is covered, without shape or form.

I meet your representative at the front desk who greets me with pleasantries and not much else. I like these conversations, though. There are moments when we dip below the surface, but that only happens once in a blue moon.

I need more to be happy. Even if we are only friends.

Friends reach out just to talk. They share memes. They like your posts. They engage, fully, not on autopilot. They come with news. They ask for news. They want to get to know you better. Best friends make sacrifices (I don’t expect that from you, but it would be nice), and they accept sacrifices. And you do none of these things. I am used to carrying the weight in my platonic and romantic relationships, but I’m on hiatus indefinitely. If I am to enter a relationship, it has to be on equal terms.

Which is a level you are not reaching because you are not real. And I prefer to keep a dream intact, rather than will it into a nightmare.

But with you, I just want you to stay in my mind, not as a nightmare or a dream.

Not evil, not great, not even good enough, just good. And yet with this note I know I could replace your name with anyone and it would fit. You are only an idea.

Yours sincerely, A Dreamer Nico Addai ’20 (nntimadd@wellesley.edu) is a rising senior studying neuroscience and sociology. When not dreaming, she’s eating and plotting the demise of American capitalism.

counterpoint / march 2019

page 13

IDENTITY

To the Boy I wanted to be.

I must have been very young at the time. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I do remember that my little sister had just been born and had rightfully ascended to the highest throne in the family—my mother’s lap. It was around this time that I developed a liking for my father who, for a long time, had just been a stranger that lived in our house. I saw him leave early in the morning after he had brewed his coffee and then I saw him later in the evening when he came home.

My father is a quiet person. A hyperactive child, I really didn’t notice him because he never talked to us, reprimanded us, or even winced at whatever my sisters and I did. My mother, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy ranting about everything we did. My sisters and I knew the only way to gain her favor was to crawl onto her lap.

I remember when people saw me with my father, they would pat me on the head and give my cheek a pinch—things they didn’t do to my father even though they said I looked a lot like him. The strange thing is I remember people calling me his ‘little son’ whenever he brought me with him to community meetings. The community meetings, the river, and the fields, these were the landmarks of my childhood in Aweil before I moved to Kenya.

I am convinced that the reason people seemed to like calling me a boy was because I was pretty good at being one. I climbed trees, played in the dirt and mud, fought with the boys, and never quite mastered the art of sitting with my knees page 14

counterpoint / march 2019

locked. I was, in every imaginable way, a bad girl. What people did not know, however, was that being a bad girl, for me, was the closest I could come to becoming a boy. Even at such an early age, I was aware of the fact that being a girl meant being constantly restricted, while being a boy meant having the freedom to be wild. It was because of this that I wanted to be a boy.

Community meetings were almost always exclusive to men. I don’t recall my mother ever attending. So when my father allowed me to go to these meetings, everyone seemed convinced I was a boy even though the braids that my mother had forcefully knotted on my head should have indicated the opposite. In my South Sudanese society, children sit at their elders’ feet. At meetings, I would sit on the ground with a horde of other kids, mainly boys, as the adults discussed serious matters above our heads. On the ground, we played with pebbles, drew in the dirt, and modeled figures out of the mud. My mud figures were never aesthetically appealing.

I knew this because after each meeting, the adults would praise the best-modeled figures. Mine never received accolades.

On days when my father was in a particularly good mood, he went fishing at the river after the community meetings.

He’d come back at sunset with a bundle of fish for us to eat for dinner. I loved eating fish and still do. But I was always curious about the intricate complexities of things.

I wanted to know how to fish, so I convinced my father to take me fishing. He made a fishing rod for me and showed me

Images: Jonathan Zerger (left), Sharon McCutcheon (right)

BY ADHEL GENG

how to put the bait on the hook. I was not successful in my first attempt. The second time my father took me fishing, he showed me how to lay a basket trap for the fish. I was short and tiny, so I could not go in the water with him. There were many more river trips that followed these first fishing lessons. My father would quietly hum a song nearby, and I would sit on the river bank with my lanky hook, not necessarily fishing, but just staring into the still water, wondering why my father never talked.

My father loves nature, and now, come to think of it, maybe he was always in communication with plants but not with us. My childhood memories of my father are filled with images of him planting trees. I remember one time he planted a mango tree and nominated my sister, Awut, and me, to water and care for it. When the plant died, we all mourned. At the time, my family lived on

about two acres of land, most of which was allocated to farmland. My parents grew corn, sorghum, and vegetables, and reared livestock on this land. I loved the planting and harvesting periods and I have very sentimental memories of them.

During the planting period, both Mama and Baba went out to the fields all day to supervise and sometimes cultivate.

My two elder sisters were always left in charge of me and my younger sister. We would play all day and eat anything we wanted. When it was the harvest period, we were allowed to go to the fields. The sugarcane would tower above our heads; we loved chewing cane in the fields. Life was simple then. Maybe it was because I had not started school, or maybe it was because my parents were simpler folk than my Uncle. Either way, school came and changed everything for me.

I was six years old when my parents decided that my play days were over and

that it was about time I started school.

I do not clearly remember how they informed me but they did not tell me that I was going to live with Uncle Bellario. I was only a child to them. I could not understand their plans for me—that is what I say to myself. Either way, the question of why they decided to send me to school far away from them has always haunted me.

Nevertheless, I’ve also internalized the art of not talking about what I truly feel. After all, I was never offered that opportunity, even at home. On the day I left home for school, I wore a dress for the first time in my life. It was soft and luxuriant and as white as cotton wool; I had never in my life seen anything of a purer whiteness or greater beauty. I intuitively felt the need to protect it from dirt, and to this day, I still see myself seated calmly with my little hands clasped.

I do not recall how I bade farewell to my sisters. I see flashes of many people

counterpoint / march 2019

page 15

from the neighborhood coming to kiss my forehead. No one talked to me although I was definitely the center of attention. I sat on my mom’s lap, and she held me even tighter. I can still feel the excitement mixed with sadness in the air.

My sisters were crying and although I could not understand why, I knew that I was not going to see them for a very long time.

As a six year old, the amplitude of the change to come was beyond my imagination. Even as I climbed into that Land Rover, and sat through the long road trip to Rumbek, the town we were to fly out of, it still did not occur to me that my life was never going to be the same. Uncle Bellario was in the front seat, talking on his phone most of the time, in a language that I later came to learn—English.

Throughout the journey, I never spoke to him directly. I feared him for the simple fact that I knew he was a doctor. I knew that Uncle Bellario injected people, and that

page 16

scared me to death.

I have many early memories with Uncle Bellario; from the English tutoring at the dining table, to the Saturday office trips, and the outings we took. He was like my father in so many ways, but also different from him. For one, he never shied away from talking. He was always the one talking in the living room surrounded by his friends. He was very loud, but most of all, he was very strict and had much to say about how my cousin and I behaved. He was also, unlike my father, a dominant figure in my life. He was very involved—intrusive sometimes. From Day One in Nairobi, my lessons with him started.

When we had just moved to Kenya, I didn’t know any Eng-

counterpoint / march 2019

lish, yet I was scheduled to start school.

Being an overachiever himself, my uncle did not want my cousins and me to be lagging behind in school. He hired a tutor and also made time to assess our learning.

Uncle Bellario ruined many weekends with his impromptu quizzes. He believed that the best proof of understanding was in acing a quiz, so he quizzed us on everything that the tutor taught us. He was the one who made sure we mastered our alphabets, and that we spoke only English in the house. He was also the one who first taught me how to draft a schedule that I could stick to, and how to make goals I could actually achieve. Slowly, but without my notice, I started to take charge of my own life. Maybe that was how the boy I had once wanted to be slowly started to disappear.

For the first few years in Nairobi, Uncle Bellario was both a mother and father to me and my cousin, Mathiang. He was, however, a very busy

Images: fancycrave on Unsplash

IDENTITY

and important man, and sometimes he could not be with us. He occasionally brought me and Mathiang to his office.

While he completed paperwork, we went to the kitchen. The kitchen was our favorite place. It had large saucepans with very shiny surfaces and spoons that reflected large images of our faces. We played there without restriction, until the chef banished us. We could not be prevented from having fun, so we ventured outside to play on the grass until we ran out of ideas.

Of all the other occasions that Uncle Bellario made time for us, Christmas of 2004 was the most memorable. Uncle Bellario had made it a tradition to go to Mass in the morning and eat out after church. That day, we went to church and afterward we went to Uchum, our favorite restaurant. We ate an incredible amount.

But what I still laugh at is Uncle Bellario’s reaction to the masala tea that he accidentally ordered, which my cousins and I assumed he had had before. When it was brought to our table, he sipped it and declared that it had perfume. I remember how hard we laughed at him because, for us, this was the one thing that we had knowledge of that he did not.

To my cousin and me, Uncle Bellario was the most learned person we knew. He could cut through people’s bodies and stitch them up, he could compose very beautiful poems that were featured in newspapers, he could play soccer, and he could command a room. That is why, on that Christmas day when he called masala tea ‘perfumed tea,’ we laughed at him for not knowing. His involvement in our lives and growth also meant that we looked up to him and in some ways wanted to be like him. I developed a special interest in wanting to be like him, and just like I did with my father, I made myself his disciple. I hung out with him in the evenings while he wrote his poems so that he could ask me to recite them for him. I pretended to

be reading when he was reading, so that I could look like him. He began to notice my efforts and sometimes called me from my room to recite his poems and tell him what I thought about them. He also began buying books for me. When I was nine, he brought Ben Carson’s Gifted Hands for me to read. I read the book over and over again until my little mind was able to understand all the hard vocabulary. I was especially intrigued by how Carson seemed so much like my Uncle.

Like Uncle Bellario, Carson made a name for himself through sheer hard work and dedication. I was inspired by how young Carson, through self-talk, brought himself out of the black hole of academic failure to become a renowned neurosurgeon.

I remember declaring at nine that I would become a doctor.

Next came the Hardy Boys book collections and the Nancy Drew mystery series which he encouraged me to read and re-read. I developed a keen interest in mysteries and puzzles from reading these books, which is why I love challenges and competitions. I always pursue anything that is said to be hard. As far as I can remember, Uncle Bellario encouraged me to do just that.

As I look back, I try to see how my life would have been if I grew up under the instruction of my father instead of that of my uncle. I wonder if I would have been the same person that I have grown up to be or if I would have ended up as someone totally different. Would my current self recognize the other self? I still haven’t resolved the mystery of what would have become of the little boy I wanted to be. I am, however, very aware of my femininity and that being a girl does not mean being docile. Uncle Bellario taught me how to break through societal expectations and still remain an admirable girl. He taught me how to be defiant in a culture where a girl is an easily ignored figure. I remember him teaching me how to walk with my

chest out when my breasts started poking out of my chest. He made me feel proud about growing into a woman. I remember those evenings when our living room would be transformed into a runway and Uncle Bellario and I would walk across the living room with our chests out, necks high and arms elegantly swinging. He taught me how to stare into people’s eyes when they were talking to me. He told me this was the only way a man would know that I was not intimidated by him.

I wonder if my father would have taught me all of this, but I also know that I do not have to compare them. Each of them is unique, and each fathered me in their own special way.

I consider myself one of the luckiest girls in the world. I had two loving fathers who both contributed in some way to my growth. When my society told me I should have been looking up to the women in my life, I instead chose to look up to the men. To them, I owe the woman I have become, and everything I dream of becoming.

My story is not over yet. I keep building on things I learned from my childhood, and I add new things that I learn from my experience. I have learned to appreciate my unique upbringing. As I look back on my life from a college room, I am amazed at all that has happened. So much has changed too. My parents have grown older, and my sisters are married and have little kids of their own now. Uncle Bellario passed away a few years ago, but I still go to school, because education is still of paramount importance in my family.

Adhel Geng ’22 (ageng@wellesley.edu) credits her family for shaping her into the person she is today.

counterpoint / march 2019

page 17

IDENTITY

A udrey's for the Weekend hey arrived around six, and I was ready to go. I had my school bag slung over one shoulder and a bag of clothes over the other. I’m sure I looked ridiculous.

We’re here.

Or, here-ish.

This is what Audrey texts me as I stand outside Lulu. So specific.

They find their way to the parking garage, and Audrey, Bill, and Jeffry jump out of the car. It’s been at least a year since I’ve seen Audrey’s little sister, who we call Bill (in reference to Bill Nye the Science Guy). I get a hug from her first, the sixth grader who can confidently hold a conversation with any college kid. Jeffry gets a hug next, then Audrey, who is being berated for her inability to send a clear text message. She hugs me, and Jeffry opens the trunk of his car to reveal that it is full.

Not we-can-shift-some-stuff-to-makeroom full, but literally full.

“What the heck do you have in there?”

I ask, and learn that they not only have Bill’s suitcase and Audrey and Jeffry’s weekend bags, but that both Audrey and Jeffry have decided that they are taking all of their laundry home, instead of doing it at school. They will be teased mercilessly about this by Bill, their parents, and me.

We eat at Lulu. Audrey and Jeffry, fellow college students, are in awe of the vegetables and other options we have.

page 18

They are impressed by how clean everything is and the fact that we have whipped cream available all day.

Dinner is a breath of fresh air. Bill ribs Jeffry for eating cupcakes wrong—I mean really, scooping off all the icing? Insane— while Audrey enjoys her greens.

The car ride is peaceful. Bill and me ride in the back seat, and she knits as we shuffle through playlist after playlist. One thing I miss most about home is driving, the peace that comes from rippling air and the open highway. As we drive toward Northern Massachusetts, that familiar feeling lulls me into a nap, the car clunking along as the sun sets.

There is no other way to describe Audrey’s house than home. Dogs meet us at the door when we enter. There’s the wiener dog Suzie, automatically mad at anyone who dares disturb her; poodle puppy Edgar, happy for attention and more things to chew; and AJ, still asleep in the corner. Shoes litter the entryway and announce that lots of people, live here.

The kitchen table is made of reclaimed bowling alley wood and is covered with paper, a bowl of bananas and avocados, and a half-full coffee press. Two red-eared slider turtles swim in their enclosures, and a hedgehog dozes in the room to the right.

Jeb, another sibling, and Mrs. Carrie are reading in the living room. A fire is roaring. The rooms are painted orange

counterpoint / march 2019

and white, yellow and purple, and there are musical instruments everywhere. Kaleb is practicing his saxophone upstairs.

Jeffry makes his way to his house nearby and Bill, Audrey, and I indulge in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. We fall asleep on the couch and make our way up to Audrey’s room late in the evening. Bill and I are sleeping on futon mattresses on the floor, and the calm violet of Audrey’s room lulls us back to sleep.

Audrey and Bill are cursed with the inability to sleep in. They wake up some time around nine, while I sleep till noon.

Well-rested and showered, we catch a ride into town with Jeb and Audrey’s dad.

We eat lunch at a delightfully hipster restaurant on the main street where we can watch people walk by. A surprisingly large number are smoking. We hit up a yarn shop next, trying to find new yarn for Bill. We marvel at the intricate garments these experts have created. Then we marvel at how expensive they are!

After the yarn store, we make our way to a record store, thumbing through records and CDs, cassettes and DVDs. No Dixie Chicks CDs to be found, much to my dismay.

Jeffry calls to say he just got off work and can come pick us up. We meet him on a side street and wait patiently while he debates the pros and cons of falafel or Mexican food for lunch. He chooses

Images: pinterest.fr (left), newengland.com (right)

T

BY GABRIELLE SHLIKAS

falafel and marches across the street towards the restaurant. I stare aghast as he makes his way across the street, not once looking for incoming cars. He’s just special that way. Audrey, Bill, and I look both ways and follow. It is here that I am introduced to falafel, a food that I am still a bit suspicious of.

We walk around town, stopping in stationery stores and candy shops, bookstores and antique shops. After dinner Audrey has a brilliant idea to dye Jeffry’s hair. Shockingly, he agrees. Hair dye in hand, we head back to Audrey’s.

I am nominated to do the dyeing, as I am the only one in the group who has ever dyed their hair. Face masks come next, and we all watch with glee as Jeffry smears a charcoal sugar scrub over his face, his hair slicked back with color as we wait for the timer to go off. Bill, Audrey and I opt for sheet masks, and we all wait with bated breath for Jeffry’s hair reveal. It comes out great.

Bill falls asleep as Audrey and I do homework, editing an essay of Jeffry’s that contains only two made up words. Sun-

day is the universally-recognized day for homework, and Audrey and I sip away at tea and coffee as sunlight and rain battle outside. We sit in the living room and get to work, medical ethics for her and sociology for me.

Jeb drops us off at Jeffry’s after a quick lunch, and I see his house for the first time. A large orange structure with a few sheds out back, the place is strange and fantastic. The inside is all carved wood and wonderfully weird furniture, and Audrey and I wait for him to get cleaned up after working on a table out back. Once Jeffry is ready we grab his bags. I notice the picture frames, papers, art supplies, and canvases, all hallmarks of his original art. It will be interesting to see what paint stain he gets on his jacket next.

We get into the car with a minimal amount of mud on our shoes, the ground leaving our toes cold through out sneakers. An argument about Elliot Smith leaves the car divided into camps, but the battle lines are redrawn when a debate about Kerouac breaks out.

The highway provides a great atmo-

sphere for the music that plays as we make the trek back to Boston. The cold gray sky is ominous. Audrey and I eventually wrestle the AUX cord from Jeffry, playing the musicals of our choice.

We enter on the far side of Wellesley (why does everyone’s GPS take them that way?) and make it back to Pom, the most serene weekend in my time at Wellesley coming to a close. Till next time, Northampton.

Gabrielle Shlikas ’22 (gshlikas@wellesley. edu) can’t wait to visit Northampton again.

counterpoint / march 2019

page 19

IDENTITY

Eulogy To What I Must CHOOSE To Let Die

I

am creating a list of what I must burn to kill the part of me that loved her.

It reads, in part: • a long sleeve green T-shirt from a place I have not been • the skin that is not quite neck, not quite shoulder • my favorite album • a faded orange couch • one curry-stained comforter • every shade of blue nail polish • the warmest hat I own I began 2019 burning a man in effigy.

It was raining and my lungs hurt from screaming the last 60 seconds of 2018 into the sky. At the stroke of midnight, we lowered the paper mache man into the fire. The moment before he caught, we all held our breath. I think we were afraid that we were foolish to expect that nature would grant us symbolic rebirth.

Could we truly trust that dousing newspaper in lighter fluid would make it flammable, when we so desperately wanted it to be? Did the act of wanting make the result impossible? Of course, the paper mache man did ignite, spectacularly and completely. Yet, I found myself unable to look away from the man who lowered the construction of himself into the flames.

How would it feel to build an extension of yourself that you knew must die? Did he, too, feel out of control when the wind picked up and the rain turned to hail and flaming newspaper whipped through the page 20

air around us? Did he, too, feel a pain in his stomach as he watched what he tried to control devolve into chaos?

It was then that I realized that I know what it feels like to create something fated to end. I watched her touch all of the things I now must burn, knowing that they would return to me covered in her fingerprints. I assumed that it would not be too much to clean, once it was over.

I have tried to douse them in soap, then peroxide, then bleach. I can still see the outline of her touch on everything I own.

So it’s not that I want to burn any of these things. All but one of the items predate me having ever met her. Yet I watched, day by day, as she touched everything I owned and when she was done, I would give her more. Did I expect her to reject a gift, tenderly given? Of course not. I made her mess mine, and mine hers.

If a lifelong smoker could go back and know which cigarette was the one that gave them lung cancer, would they still smoke it? I was asked this question once, in service of some grander point about economics or politics or philosophy, I don’t remember. But I have thought about the premise at length in the years since, and I have come to think it is absurd. The kinds of things that make us wonder if we could go back to the point of no return very rarely afford us the opportunity, and honestly, I think few of us would turn back.

counterpoint / march 2019

I think I know what our point of no return was, and it was the second night we met. We sat at a table all night (the table is gone, now. Burned?) and talked about everything and nothing, before breaking away from the friends we came with and watching a movie together on her laptop.

Some part of me thought about what it might mean to kiss her, this girl I knew, but only barely. She told me later that she thought about it, too. What if we had just kissed? Would we have spoken again, or would I be a funny hookup story she told at the parties we would never attend together?

I’ll never know, because before anything had the chance to happen, a friend came in, panicked, and sat between us as she sobbed. I always wondered why that wasn’t enough to scare her off, but it wasn’t, because she kept coming back to my room and and getting drunk and staying until 2 am crying and laughing and shouting about the cruelties of the world.

I loved every one of those nights.

The bonfire will be held at dawn in the courtyard outside my window. I will thank every item before it meets the flames. We will have a party when we spread the ashes out onto the lake, and she will be invited.

For information about publishing articles anonymously, please contact the Editors-inChief (senglis2@wellesley.edu or myang5@ wellesley.edu)

Images: sola.ai/lorenzo_white (left), Taneli Lahtinen on Unsplash (right)

BY ANONYMOUS

my name

M

y name carries “wisdom,” the wisdom of generations lost in translation. “Sophia” means wisdom in Greek, but I’m not Greek. The Spanish spell it “Sofia,” but I’m also not Spanish. My mom chose Sophia because only certain names sound right with a last name that sounds like “sack.” She told me later that it was for Queen Sofia of Spain and my other sisters were similarly named after royalty. Her name, Reina, or “queen” in Spanish, fits this narrative. But the narrative confuses me.

What am I? I’m at a disconnect with my name and its roots: not quite old enough to reach deep underground, yet they connect with my would-be life in Cuba. Sophia sounds harsh in Spanish, like someone hurling chanclas, or maybe like the groan of someone who’s frustrated. With a name like “wisdom,” you’d imagine I would know better. But I don’t.

In my Cuban life, I would be married with a child on the way. In my real life, I am studying. In Cuba, I could be preaching to God. In my real life, I am quiet and wear my chain with St. Jude on the pendant, my name in script beside it.

I’m still puzzled as to how, when I was nine, wisdom was associated with religion, so I asked myself: should I be religious? I answered, “I’m not sure.” My whole life since has been a sequence of “I’m not sure” or “I don’t know,” and it terrifies me. Somewhere along the line, I became afraid of living my life unlived, so I sought adventure. I sought the great unknown because I was tired of not being in control of my life, my history, and my name. So I took action, knowing for once that even though a queen is told to

BY SOPHIE SACO

sit quietly, my crown will stay put even if I run uphill through my struggles, shouting to the skies.

My story, however, is mine to tell and that’s what matters. My narrative is complex, but also simple. I used to hate my name; I went through phases of nicknames and various aliases to avoid being called “Sophia.” I confuse people because how could I hate such a beautiful name?

It’s through reclaiming my name that I will water myself with fountains of books and knowledge to better reach my roots and complete the picture of my life because I refuse to be another “just.” Just a victim, just a survivor, just a speck of dust.

I was on the backburner for eighteen years, but I refuse to be a speck of dust any longer.

Though I have crawled out into the light, I see vestiges of that dark place in my speech, my most prized possession.

Most days

I’ll say, “Just call me Sophie,” afraid to bring up negative memories of how he would whisper, “Sophia,” tugging at my shirt, or how my mom would yell, “Sophia!” annoyed at the dirty room. Nasty boys gave my name a bitter taste that lingered on my tongue

for years. I was afraid of even whispering my name, terrified of giving it power. For years I wanted to hide behind a name that wasn’t associated with bitter kisses and messy memories; I wanted a clear conscience and a name that wasn’t smeared.

My mother made me question my name, wonder how such a harsh name fit a sweet girl. The harsh “a” sounds like a crash of lightning in my ears, worsening my relationship with the name.

I was consistently told I had changed, no longer the bouncing baby of her memories. My name was despicable to me, an entity I wanted to ignore until I found that one letter could change the whole meaning and feel of my name. From “Sophia” to “Sophie” I could hear the shift in tone, the lilt that made me giggle rather than curl into myself. The “e” sounded like a song; “Sophie” became my swan song, my final performance, my final evolution. But it isn’t my final form. I thought I had gone beyond the toxicity of my name, that I could hide behind someone else. But like Shakespeare said, “say forever and a day,” because the day when I accept my name will be the day forever ends. And it did.

When I came to Wellesley and heard how Sophie didn’t quite fit within the context of such strong women, how they took the difficulties of life in strides, I came to the conclusion that I could tackle my trauma, I could reclaim my name. I realized that I wasn’t only sweet—I could be strong, I could be powerful. I love “Sophia.” I am Sophia Saco.

Sophie Saco ’22 (ssaco@wellesley.edu) will be a Sophia again in the near future.

counterpoint / march 2019

page 21

MENTAL HEALTH

SELF ADVOCACY at WELLESLEY F

page 22

counterpoint / march 2019

BY ANONYMOUS

co-workers gave me a much-needed hug and wisely directed me to go inside a different building. I continued to struggle across campus, asking students who were sledding how exactly they did it. No one invited me to join so I waved down someone who was driving a snow plow. “Do you know what dining hall might be open right now?”

I found myself in Tower Court, lost in the corridors and asking where the kitchen was, but it was closed. Finally, I found a room with a view of the lake and I sat on the couch next to a sheet of paper that said “Russia.” I looked out the dark window across the lake with a deep void inside. In that moment, I was waiting for a meeting that was not real: the one about the end of the world, where Lake Waban swallows the campus. Looking around, I grab a grey mug and wish for tea, but instead, I light a cigarette and then another.

Nothing happens. No fire alarms ring. No sound at all, except for my racing heartbeat.

Confused, I go to a nearby door and see that it’s an RA’s room. Knocking timidly, I tell them, “I don’t know what year it is, I’m trying to forget some things. Can you call someone?” The Stone Center sends campus police and I am secured to a stretcher, hauled into an ambulance— without my cell phone, backpack, or computer—headed to Newton-Wellesley hospital. I refuse to sign my last name and I give myself over to lucid dreams of the colors red and blue. I dream of atoms

Images: vvnniephoto.com

Content warnings: suicidal ideation irst generation and low income students are uniquely positioned to know that on college campuses, help is rarely handed to you; you must seek it out. From figuring out how to navigate office hours to learning to advocate for ourselves by asking professors for accomodations, we must develop the skills necessary for self-determination. We begin to combat learned helplessness—or the sense of powerlessness which comes from failure and struggle—with the deep survival instinct of relying on community.

These are skills that translate beyond college and into the workforce, and even further into handling personal health challenges.

The skills I learned from three years of self-advocacy became my lifeline during Wintersession 2019. After three years of spotty therapy attendance and struggles with PTSD, general anxiety, and depression, I broke down. During one particularly bad snowstorm, I was reminded of losing my mother the year before. As I staggered through the snow, feeling it soak through The Wrong Pair Of Shoes™️, I found myself calling on the strongest support system I had: workers from the grounds crew and the cafeterias. I stopped to see a former co-worker shoveling the chapel stairs: “I don’t know what year it is, I’m trying to forget. Is the chapel unlocked?”

I found myself standing at a different door than I had the year before, but it was still locked. One of my previous

splitting and I assign the colors purple and pink to hospital staff. The green curtain hides my shame. There is a TV in front of me that looks like it’s highly protected, bolted in by plexiglass. I cannot move, nor can I form a coherent sentence to ask them to turn it off.

My mind brings me back to another hospital transport, an overnight visit for “low blood sugar”—that’s what we call “drinking too much without eating” at Wellesley. I suppose it’s dangerous, but I would have much rather ordered $20 of Dominos to my room than paid $50 for the ambulance. Although an IV does do wonders for a hangover.

I spend four more days in this state.

Refusing to sign my name, wandering around disoriented, asking basic questions about how to take care of myself. In intake to the hospital, I’m asked how old I am and I say , “I don’t know, my birthday is in May though. How about you?”

Carmen, my nurse, says he’s 100. For a moment, I believe him. That evening, I’m so out of it that he needs to help me select my food with a crayon on a menu.

As I come to over the next few days, I feel trapped. I look at the glowing red EXIT sign. It no longer represents suicide to me—it represents the outside world.

Red becomes less and less a color of panic, and more a color that signals the way to the East 3 wing from Usen 3. I have to prove to these folks that I can rejoin society as fast as possible. I refuse to contact my emergency contact, although I should.

I’m embarrassed; this is something I need to handle alone. As soon as I get access to a computer in a 30-minute block, supervised by another nurse, I send an email to my class dean, Rebecca Garcia, and the first generation coordinator, Karen Shih.

Both were also first-generation.

The hospital does not provide nail clips, and it is obvious how long some patients have gone without clipping their nails. There is a clothes closet, comprised

of random items from which you hope to get something close to your size. Most patients wear makeshift gowns while washing the few outfits they have every two days. It seems that only the nurses and I understand the importance of wearing shoes, everyone else seems to resign themselves to shoelessness during their stay.

Dean Garcia visits multiple times and graciously brings me a suitcase of my belongings, a laptop on loan, and a book from my shelf: The Color Purple. Karen Shih, after returning from a trip to visit family, kindly brings in fruit and a chocolate dessert, both of which taste like heaven after how many days??? of hospital food. I am still learning to eat three meals a day.

Sandra Acevedo helps me schedule therapy and transportation and keep track of appointments. Dean Garcia helps me with class registration and contacting my professors about absences. All of them have checked in with me since my stay in the hospital. Others at Wellesley have offered kind words of support and my professors have been incredibly accommodating. Don Leach advised my Resident Director to reach out to me, and further supported me in connecting with the House Presidents and telling me about events in my dorm.

None of this would have happened without a strong network of support and years of learned self-advocacy. Self-determination means utilizing communication networks for self-advocacy, building habits for academic success, and gaining awareness of resources one will need to thrive in college and beyond. Without the opportunity to do individual research in lieu of certain courses which were challenging for me due to my mental health, I would not graduate on time.

These courses helped me discover new passions and introduced me to opportunities such as MIT wintersession courses.

This course offered me the opportunity to learn a skill I could not learn during

the school year, while also applying my understanding of algorithms from sitting in on CS 230 Data Structures, which I dropped for my independent study.

During two independent study courses—taken prior to my hospitalization—I was undergoing a neuropsych evaluation.

Fortunately, Wellesley Disability Services is also a wonderful resource. This evaluation would not have been possible without the knowledge I gained from other students with similar diagnoses, who directed me to Jim Wice to request a referral. One student told me, “the worst that can happen is that you learn more about how you learn.” It was true; I learned a lot about myself as a student through the testing. When I was going into Boston to get the results and had to leave class early to catch the bus, I mentioned where I was going and another student offered empowering encouragement about taking the neuropsych evaluation. As a student with depression and PTSD, I am fortunate to have accommodations for these conditions now: a single dorm room, extra time on exams, and the option to take tests in a separate room.

Although I had preexisting supports, they could not help me navigate Wellesley specifically. I am unspeakably thankful for the folks in Wellesley’s administration, staff, and professors who have proved to be incredible supports. Although my experience is unique, I hope that it can be a lesson in the importance of fostering self-advocacy in students as early as possible. Building relationships with administration and staff empowers students to seek out help when it’s needed, not after it’s too late.

For information about publishing articles anonymously, please contact the Editors-inChief (senglis2@wellesley.edu or myang5@ wellesley.edu)

counterpoint / march 2019

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Content warnings: depression, suicidal ideation

L

ast October, I was lying in my bed, pretending I was still asleep while scrolling through my Twitter feed.

I heard knocking at the front door, and then my mother answering the door.

Although it was ten in the morning and the sun was radiating heat through my window, leaving me sweating, I closed my eyes and pretended to be comfortably asleep. My mother entered the room.

Mamá looked annoyed, and then she told me why: “The neighbor came by and told us to bring the dogs inside. They’re barking too much, according to them.”

Ah, yes, my neighbors. Two people who I knew from high school. One of them was a few years older than me, and I had never really interacted with him. The other one was a girl who I had taken a few classes with, occasionally interacting with her when she was hanging around our mutual friends. They’re both the kind of people who loved partaking in the fetishization of Japanese people and culture. You know, the kind of people who were bullied in high school, but you always thought in the back of your head that they kind of deserved it. In high school, I really felt like losing it whenever she would call someone “senpai” unironically. And now they were married to each other, renting the house next to mine, and threatening to call animal control on my dogs for being dogs.

A ver, acompáñame a escuchar esta triste historia. I wasn’t supposed to be home last semester. I wasn’t supposed to take a semester off from school, never ever.

Whenever I would bring up taking a leave of absence to my advisor, she wouldn’t even hear me out: “You’re getting out of page 24

counterpoint / march 2019

there are dogs

BY ALICIA OLIVO here on time if it kills me.” (Well, I’m not.

And she’s still alive. So I guess everything turned out fine in the end, anyway.) My 2018 was supposed to look like this: take kickass classes in the spring, direct a show and make a positive space for people of color on campus, travel to Ireland, intern in L.A., come back to school, be Upstage president, challenge racism on campus, walk across that stage at the end of the year knowing I would change Wellesley for generations to come— You get the point.

Spring 2018 was kind of a mess. I made the biggest accomplishment of my life so far—directing Real Women Have Curves—and also fucked up, big time. I ended up not finishing any of my classes spring semester, despite my best efforts.

Maybe I shouldn’t have directed that semester, but if I’m being completely honest, it was the only thing that was keeping me alive. The summer was great, though not without its low points. I think about what happened that summer a lot, regretting my actions and wishing I didn’t have to remember what I dealt with. Learning that your community can be just as harmful and hateful as your oppressors is a lesson that needs be learned, but still fucking sucks, you know?

From 2017 to the beginning of this year, I had a finsta. During the triumphant return of Remix in early September of last year, I was tipsy and waiting in line to get into Alumnae Hall. I think there was a DJ set going on, I’m not sure. I was tipsy and almost immediately abandoned by the friend who had come with me to the event. I opened up my drafts on Instagram and posted, “I’m going on leave.”

Images: Alicia Olivo ’20 (left), brightsideofdesign.wordpress.com (right)

where there's barking,

MENTAL HEALTH

Something along those lines. I deleted my finsta in January of this year since it was essentially a two-year-long documentation of depression, anxiety, OCD, and suicidal thoughts, plus the occasional unfunny meme. All I could think about was being back home, laying under warm covers on the creaky bed in my old room, eating my mother’s warm soup that she makes maybe like five times a year and that I missed every time she made it because I was at school, vaguely miserable and overwhelmingly busy.

There are a lot of things from the past two years— the height of my depression—that I can’t remember anymore. Maybe it’s for the best. Trying to remember what happened last year is so frustrating. There are these blanks in my memories of what I talked about, who I was friends with, what good times I had. I might be getting over my depression, but the effects might be on the permanent side. Lord knows how I tried to remember while I was home, thousands of miles away from some of my closest friends.

My loved ones and mentors have always taught me to be strong and unchanging in the face of adversity. What if I don’t want to be strong anymore? Can’t I just be human for once? I was so scared when I started telling people I was going on leave. Half of them didn’t even think I was being serious, including my advisors.

One of them said that they never thought things could’ve been this bad. The funny part is that my academic dean had been pushing me to take a semester off for years, and I was only acting on it then because I genuinely felt like I wouldn’t kill myself if I didn’t have access to a therapist

and/or psychiatrist. (My health insurance was suspended while I was on leave, so I couldn’t have gone seen someone, anyway.)

Being home wasn’t bad. If anything, it was healing, which is weird to say once you’re back in the city that made you feel like you wanted to die in the first place.

Not doing much often leads to reflection, as little as I wanted that to happen. Leaving home was never just about my weird neighbors, or the fights I had with my family, but it was the lingering sadness I carry about myself even when I’m deeply happy with my life. I was foolish to think that moving from Texas to Massachusetts would change that. And I was even more foolish to have been lying to myself about this for so long. Wellesley has given me much, but most things are neither purely good nor bad, and that’s something I have spent a long time learning for myself.

My leave of absence wasn’t all perfect.

Sometimes I felt like a financial burden on my family, especially since I was unable to snag even a part-time job. My parents would be annoyed by my sedentary lifestyle (but I did join the local gym for two months, so there’s that). It was nice, however, to be around people who wanted you to be alive above all else for a change. No expectations of greatness, or even mediocrity. It’s okay to be yourself rather than be defined by whatever accomplishments you think are important.

At the end of the day, being alive even one day past age twenty is an accomplishment for me.

Maybe 2018 wasn’t the year I got shit done, but maybe it ended up being the year I finally got over myself. This doesn’t

mean that I don’t care about the same things that I used to; I just can’t be bothered to kill myself over them anymore.

I feel happier. Lighter. Giddy, even. It’s kind of ridiculous, but I’ll take it.

My neighbor, the girl who has her name on Facebook in Japanese because she’s cool and quirky and not at all racist, called animal control twice last fall, right after my father and I had gone over to their house to reach a compromise for both families. We had agreed to only let the dogs outside after ten in the morning, even though the hours dogs are allowed to be outside and making noise run from six in the morning to ten at night.

She still called them anyway. My family left one of the dogs in Mexico last month.

My sister cried a lot, and I cried over the phone, too. Everyone thinks it’s for the best. I hope my dog is happier there, and I hope my neighbors can finally get over themselves, too.

A lot of the time, I’m not quite sure what I’m saying, what I’m doing, what I’m writing, where I’m going. I think I’ve done a great job of covering that up all the time, but acting is exhausting. Don’t let yourself act for too long. You’ve got to live as yourself sometimes.

Alicia Olivo ’20 (aolivo@wellesley.edu) misses their dog.

counterpoint / march 2019

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MENTAL HEALTH Content warnings: body image and mentions of anxiety and suicidal ideation ast spring—my sophomore herself—this tendency to embrace, rather spring—I got fat. Truly, properly than repress, her physical desires—makes fat. By mid-April, bright red stretch her the most liberated, well-adjusted marks fanned across my hips and breasts. character in the book. She doesn’t care at My formerly-thick, now-enormous thighs all about the the fact that she’s fat, not bechafed holes in the crotch area of my fa- cause she doesn’t care about herself, but vorite pair of jeans. My BMI was, and still instead because she assumes that people is, undeniably in the “overweight” range. will want her the way she is.

I could barely force myself to look in And people absolutely do want her the the mirror. way she is.

And the more I hated myself, the more As cliché as it sounds, Molly thinks I binge ate. Idly but frequently, I thought she’s beautiful, so everyone else enthusiof suicide. astically shares this view. Molly eats whatThat semester, I was reading Ulysses for ever she wants and doesn’t worry about it, an English class. I had been too anxious— and so she gets to commit adultery at four for no particular reason, just mentally p.m. with the much sought-after Blazes fried—to commit to the novel. I viewed Boylan. reading it as a chore instead of as the I wrote my final essay for that class on stimulating, enjoyable challenge it should the use of the word “cream” in Ulysses and have been for me. Finally, at the end of how it pertains to female sexuality, parApril, when I had just about given up on ticularly Molly’s. Writing that essay was myself intellectually, writing myself off as the best body image therapy I could have dumb as well as fat, I was able to fall in asked for. Just as watching a thirty-yearlove with the novel, its creative language, old interview with Princess Diana helped its self-involved, ever-so-realistic charac- to wrench me out of my bulimia in high ters. Most of all, I fell in love with Molly school, reading a hundred-year-old novBloom. el taught me to love my body. I started Molly Bloom—the self-possessed to like the way I looked again. I started adulteress whose iconic, triumphant to like myself again in general. College monologue constitutes the novel’s fi- made me fat. So what? College is a lot of nalé—is portrayed as attractive not in carbs and stress, so if you’re built a certain spite of, but because of, her weight. She way—or, more importantly, if you are ofisn’t obese, but she’s soft and curvy and ten kept awake or made unable to focus self-indulgent—and, as many characters by all-consuming, persistent cravings— comment throughout the novel, decid- you’re bound to put on a few pounds. But edly fat. The way she carries her weight you’re still you, and if you value yourself makes her desirable, and she’s very aware and carry yourself with that confidence, of it. And, because she likes herself so people will find you attractive. It’s truly much, she lets her body have the things it that simple. wants. She sends her doting-and-cuckoldAnd if you don’t believe me, go read ed husband all over Dublin to buy her the Ulysses. Because let’s face it: you probably food she likes (particularly cream, which I haven’t. learned during my semester abroad is an absolute delicacy in Ireland), letting her Maggie Roberts ’20 (mrober12@wellesley. body’s cravings, both sexual and edible, edu) is the eccentric woman in your dictate her actions. This leniency with neighborhood who feeds all the feral cats.

Thank You, Molly Bloom

BY MAGGIE ROBERTS

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counterpoint / march 2019

Images: whattocooktoday.com (left), gobindsadan-rus.info (right)

L

CROSSWORD

ACROSS 1. This brother starred in the same Broadway musical as Daniel Radcliffe 7. Hit Jonas Brothers song “Lovebug” is said to be inspired by this movie starring Ellen Page and Michael Cera 8. Number of seasons in the Disney Channel sitcom, J.O.N.A.S., starring the brothers 9. It’s up for debate whether or not this band member actually sings 11. Nick starred as this character in the 2001 Broadway production of Beauty and the Beast 13. A Wrinkle In Time is this brother’s favorite book 14. Disney Channel Original Movie starring the Jonas Brothers

and Demi Lovato 16. Taylor Swift song from Fearless album that is allegedly about Joe Jonas 18. Nick plays this many instruments 20. Jersey Jo Bro’s home state 21. Jonas Brothers’ security guard and friend featured on “Burnin Up” 22. Documentary starring Kevin and Danielle Jonas following their marriage in 2012 25. Middle Jonas Brother’s fiance stars in this HBO show 26. Kevin’s statement accessory in the band’s early years 28. Band Joe was a part of during the brothers’ hiatus 29. Nick was diagnosed with this disease while on tour in 2005

DOWN 2. Title of the brother’s debut album, and all of our responses when we found out the band reunited 3. Comedian who ‘kidnapped’ brothers to launch a week long takeover of his late night show 4. US show starring Priyanka Chopra Jonas 5. Kevin’s eldest daughter is named for this flower 6. This magazine featured the Jo Bro’s on the cover of their 2008 issue and it became one of the company’s highest selling issues of the decade 10. Debut song of the Jonas Brothers’ return 12. Before Joe became a musician, this was the future occupation

he had in mind 15. Name of the family in the animated movie that Kids of the Future was written for 17. Kevin’s wife 19. Forgotten brother often referred to as “Bonus Jonas” 21. Band that originally sang “Year 3000” (Did you know it was a cover?? We didn’t.)

23. “Oh how the ____ have turned” 24. We all have secrets...bet you didn’t know that Kev’s first name isn’t actually Kevin 27. Outfit every girl wanted to wear after hearing Joe sing about it on “Burnin’ Up”

counterpoint / march 2019

page 27

POLL

March Madness: Dining Delirium

Pomeroy Tower Bates Ordering in Stone Davis Leaky Beaker Emporium Lemon Thai Singh’s Cafe Upper Crust Domino’s Starbucks Peet’s The Hoop El Table

Lulu Lulu Bates Ordering in on the weekend because Stone D is closed

Lulu

Emporium Emporium

El Table

Lemon Thai Lemon Thai Domino’s El Table

Starbucks El Table El Table

AVOCADOOOOOOOOooooooooo • leaky beaker is the best because Ashraf is the best. send tweet • I’d just like to take this time to admit that I am a junior and I have never been to Pom • Ashraf is King. Don’t disrespect him • I wish there was good cheese in the dining halls :( like, GOOD cheese :( not the plastic abomination that blinds me with its vibrant orange tinge >:( cheese should not be this way !!! • El el el el el el el • Delbra who works nights at Lulu is my favorite person at Wellesley College and she deserves a #shoutOut • let’s not forget free food left out in sage lounge • ive never eaten at el table • Lulu’s deli makes better sandwiches than El Table, the atmosphere is better at El Table though • but the gayest is definitely El Table • Stone Davis should’ve won, y’all haters • Shout out to Ashraf who thanked me for finding the Leaky Beaker tucked away in the trailers • bold of you to say lulu isn’t a powerhouse!!! • emporium may win my flex points but leaky beaker + ashraf wins my heart • If you’ve ever interacted with the dhall staff in Bates, you know it’s the place to be • everyone who works at el table is hot

Image: kisspng.com, whicdn.com (background)

Lulu