WEEKEND

WEEKEND // FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015

UNSEALING THE TOMBS // Jed Finley, Jon Victor, and Victor Wang //Page 3

// Illustration by Ashlyn Oakes

START SOMETHING

B4

SEXY SPECIES

B6, 7

SMALL MAN

B9

SELLING YOUR STUDIES

ANIMAL SEXUALITY

WITH A BIG HEART

Rachel Siegel investigates the potential contraversy surrounding a startup selling study guides and other materials.

The latest and greatest list of 50 things at Yale.

Lucy Fleming tells an old fairy tale with a sexy twist.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

TISDALE

WEEKEND VIEWS

WATCHING THE AUDIENCES // BY CAROLINE TISDALE I was fifteen when I first thought about the way people look at art. In mid-September of 2011, my dad took me to a retrospective of the German photographer Thomas Struth in a small gallery in East London. We walked through hushed, white rooms where large, glossy prints seemed to draw us into their scenes. Struth had photographed intimidating, intricate machinery and seductive, green jungles, and we found ourselves tangled in outstretched mechanical limbs and elegant fronds. But we were most caught up in the photographs that seemed to pose as mirrors in the gallery.

We were captivated, watching snippets of lives that seemed to resemble our own. Struth’s photographs from the early 2000s, a series titled “Audiences,” were life-size photographs of gallery-goers caught in the act of looking. *** I’m now sitting in the Yale University Art Gallery. I’m in the room with the Romans and the Greeks, surrounded by ancient stones and the dull eyes of past powers. Light falls through the tall windows and stripes the floor with shadows.

This is the first room when you enter the gallery, and for that reason it seems that people don’t really stick here. They merely glance around, unsure of what to look at, before moving on to the big stuff: the Titians, the Manets, Van Gogh’s “Night Café” — everything that people know and can marvel at with ease.

The room is pretty empty right now. Everyone seems to have his or her attention directed elsewhere, but maybe that’s because it’s a Friday evening and there are 15 minutes until closing time. There are one or two who wander in and pay a bit more attention to the surrounding relics, like the man who clasped his hands together, smiled and bowed his hairless head to me as I held the door open for a group of accented tourists — “Thank you very much darling.” He idles between busts and portraits with those hands now clasped behind his back, his posture straight and chin lifted while his eyes study Marcus Aurelius through his glasses.

His slow, soft steps are deliberate along with his poise, giving him an air of assurance.

Then, there are those who come through the Ancient Art room just searching for an exit.

Those are the more elderly visitors: white tufts of hair and spotted faces that smile at me.

Their cheeks crease, eyes crin-

kling as they meet mine.

Upstairs in the corridors of European Art, I look for the names that I know, the brushstrokes I can try to decode and identify with. Sometimes, if the surface of a painting particularly intrigues me, I walk up to it and, standing quite close to the canvas, search for evidence of the artist’s human touch. Sometimes a work of art becomes so well known and

revered that it almost seems to have come into this world fully formed, as if no man or woman’s hand could possibly create such an icon.

I can’t remember the first time I picked up a pencil, crayon or magic marker. My fingers have always known the grip of a pen, and my back has always been familiar with the sensation of hunching, shoulders forward, as if poised to

dive into the picture-plane of my creation. I’m comfortable making art, but looking is an entirely different matter.

My knowledge of art history consists only of the few facts I remember from a high school class on the subject, none of which are relevant in small, hushed galleries like that one in East London. There, all that is needed is a single glance from one of the gallery’s employees,

someone who knows that he knows more than I do, and I am left exposed.

If galleries and museums leave artists and art-enthusiasts alike feeling lost and uneducated, why do we keep going back? Why did my dad and I, on a dreary Saturday in mid-September, take the Tube from central London and ride the rattling tracks all the way to a small, out-of-the-way exhi-

bition in East London? *** Crossing the hall, I leave behind the late 19th century for the likes of Hals, Rubens and Uccello. This side of the gallery is empty; I drift farther back in history and away from familiar faces, names, color palettes and anatomically correct figures. A member of the staff dressed in black and blue interrupts my reverie to inform me that “The gallery is closing soon.” I nod and head for the elevator with the guard following slightly behind, padding across the wooden floors with his black, patent leather loafers.

Looking around the elevator, I see many of the same people from Struth’s photographs. There are men and women clutching brochures at their sides, their eyes scanning the interior of the elevator with varying levels of engagement, their clothes not too far from the average styles of 2004 and 2005: blocks of color, garish floral prints and baggy trousers. There are children holding their parents’s hands, and adolescents casting their eyes to the ground.

Nobody moves to interact with the other gallery-goers. They are all wrapped up in their own observations.

I step out of the elevator and into another gallery.

Soft chatter hums in one corner while the sharp report of boot heels against a hardwood floor punctures the still atmosphere. As I glance around me, I see people focusing on what they see before themselves.

They are searching, with eyes that dart to and fro and meander through landscapes of paint; they are searching with bodies that crouch over and lean in and step back to take in the whole scene. And then, at some point or another, a change occurs. The searching eyes widen, a smile shimmers across the cheeks and the back straightens. It has been found, that familiar thing they were searching for, that which they can’t tuck away in a tote bag but which they will hold on to.

With such a souvenir acquired, they will leave feeling like the afternoon at the gallery was worth their time. I’m also looking for something to take home, something I can use myself. I’m looking for those hints of human, a mistake, a structural line, an exposed layer of old paint, an exposed layer of old ideas, ancient people, a different time.

Contact CAROLINE TISDALE at caroline.tisdale@yale.edu .

GARCIA-KENNEDY

// ZISHI LI

10th Middle School Reunion // BY IAN GARCIA-KENNEDY It’s been 10 years since you aced your final spelling test, but now it’s time to go back.

Your 10th Middle School Reunion (only losers go to the fifth) is a time to show that you’ve emerged from your prepubescent cocoon as a magnificent, collegiate butterfly.

Tonight is a big night: time to make a good impression.

9:00: Arrive at the party exactly on time, like cool people do.

9:01: At least they’ve rented a nice room in a big convention center. I’ll never forgive my middle school for that eighth grade graduation we spent at Chuck E. Cheez.

9:05: Furiously text the one person I’ve stayed in touch with, reminding him that we agreed to come to this as a joke and he better fucking show up.

9:10: I hear that the sketchy kid who definitely grew up to be a drug dealer is operating a

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makeshift bar out of his car in the parking lot.

9:10 and 30 seconds: I am in the parking lot at the bar where I do shots with that girl whose foot I stepped on at our eighth grade Winter Formal.

Her toenail literally cracked in half. It was gross.

9:15: Notice that none of the people I was friends with in middle school have showed up.

9:20: Shove a generous handful of cheese puffs into my mouth just as that nice cool kid comes up to ask me how I am.

I spray a fine mist of orange cheese on his face as I attempt to say that college is pretty fun.

9:21: Back in parking lot. Do more shots.

9:28: Aggressively force my way into a conversation with a group of best friends I almost never spoke to. They’re talking about college so I say the word “Yale” as often as humanly possible and then leave abruptly.

9:36: Someone I don’t remember at all starts a conversation with me. After it becomes clear that I don’t know who they are, I immediately blame living in a bubble of Ivy League Privilege (mentioning Yale again) and excuse myself.

9:41: My soon-to-be-exfavorite-person from middle school texts me saying that they will definitely not be making it.

9:42: Parking Lot. 9:50: Invade another conversation. Find out that the kid with the lazy eye also turned out gay.

9:52: Start hitting on kid with lazy eye.

9:53: Kid with lazy eye tells me he doesn’t really “go for desperate.” Well played.

9:57: Talking to this kid who clearly doesn’t remember me, but I’m pretending for his sake not to notice.

9:58: Same kid exclaims out

MASTER’S TEA WITH CALVIN TRILLIN

Davenport Master’s House // 4:00 p.m.

Trillin will talk about food. WKND eats food!

of nowhere “Oh, I remember you. You were the kid who fell off the stage at the Christmas Pageant.” After an uncomfortably long pause I say something bizarre like “Gotta keep on keeping on” and stumble away.

10:00: My relationship with parking-lot-bar-guy has truly blossomed. He looks concerned and says, “You’re kind of a mess, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one,” I respond, and playfully punch his arm before bursting into tears.

10:05: Burst into another conversation that no one wants me to be a part of and yell “I can’t believe I’m getting smashed with the kids from middle school.” At this point I realize everyone else has been sipping their drinks like normal people and I’m the only person who’s drunk. I mutter something about it being performance art and leave.

10:07: The cool kid who used to be mean to me walks in with his insanely gorgeous girlfriend.

10:08: Parking lot with my new buddy.

10:10: Go up to mean cool kid and scream “FUCK YOU!” Then I realize I’m actually talking to his nearly identical twelve-year-old brother, who is tall for his age.

10:15: Mean cool kid’s little brother is my new best friend.

After a renewed bout of sobbing, he has agreed to sit down at a table in the corner and listen to me talk about how no one is genuine anymore.

10:17: My new best friend and I have had a falling out.

10:18: Parking lot. Shots.

10:25: Someone asks me how I’m doing. I scream “I’M AT YALE, BITCH.” 10:27: The cheese puffs are literally the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

10:30: They’ve brought out

pizza rolls. Nothing else matters because now I have pizza rolls.

10:35: I have single-handedly eaten about a third of the party’s pizza rolls and people are judging.

10:36: Realize that a certain column resembles a stripper pole and I try an impromptu spin but go a little too fast and fly off, landing on ol’ lazy eye.

10:37-10:56: ???

10:57: Mean cool kid (or maybe his little brother, I honestly have no idea) asks me if I’m okay. I blame my behavior on caring TOO much about poverty, then mention that I go to Yale now, and then throw up on his shoes.

11:00: I am escorted away from the reunion knowing that I’ve made quite the impression.

Contact IAN GARCIA-KENNEDY at ian.garcia-kennedy@yale.edu .

WKND RECOMMENDS: From the Suprematist manifesto “On the Museum” — “Today’s innovators must build the new era. Not a single rib may touch the old.”

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B3

WEEKEND COVER

PRESENT HOPES, UNCERTAIN FUTURE // BY JED FINLEY, JON VICTOR AND VICTOR WANG

//COURTNEY ELAINE FREDERICK

he boiler room is the best place to hide,” Jack* says, laughing. He’s talking about the games of hideand-seek that he and his fellow senior society members play in their three-story tomb — only, that is, after a multicourse meal complete with rounds of liquor, all free of charge.

For many members of Yale’s landed senior societies, Thursday and Sunday nights unfold in similar fashion. As a member of one of Yale’s oldest and wealthiest societies, Jack enjoys access to a tomb steeped in history. Yale-related paraphernalia — including old books, artifacts and Yale Class Day banners from the 19th century — give its hallowed halls an air of mystique.

There are no dues for membership in Jack’s society: It has its own endowment, which is funded and managed by the society’s alumni.

According to Jack, these alumni remain an important part of the experience, even after they graduate. They are often invited back for large dinners in the dining room, which has many tables that accommodate guests returning for reunions or events.

“T

As for the rest of the tomb, Jack describes it as a large, comfortable space with many rooms in which to study, talk and relax. But he also says it is rife with contradiction.

“It’s an intimidating space,” he says. “Not everyone feels comfortable in there, even after being there for a year. It’s an incredible and completely undeserved privilege to be there. No one deserves to be in a space with so many nice things, riddled with privileges, and yet we are.”

Jack’s experience with society is representative of an “old Yale” tradition dating back well into the nineteenth century. But it is also clear that these experiences are far from universal.

For Alex*, a current senior, Tap Night last year was just like any other Thursday. While many of his friends spent the evening getting drunk with their new society, he was doing homework and trying to distract himself from the disappointment of not being chosen for membership in any societies.

The day before, he had been invited to a last-minute interview.

Jumping at the opportunity to make an impression, Alex left his theater rehearsal in the middle to make the meeting. A few hours later, however, he received an email telling him that he would ultimately not be offered a

spot.

Looking back after a year, Alex said not being in a senior society hasn’t dramatically affected his social life. An ostensible difference is when many of his friends are busy on Thursday and Sunday nights with society obligations.

Many societies meet for over three hours twice a week, a time commitment that rivals that of serious extracurricular obligations. However, Alex is not overly concerned with this change, but spoke rather of the disconnect between him and those of his friends who are members of societies. He observes this division mostly in casual lunch time conversations.

“When the topic of societies comes up during lunch, my friends have the same experience and language that I don’t share because I am not a part of it,” he said. *** This disparity among Yale seniors is exactly the kind of issue that former Yale College Council president Danny Avraham ’15 is seeking to address. Despite the society system’s reputation as a bastion of exclusivity, Avraham has a more egalitarian vision — he believes that senior societies should be open to

// COURTNEY FREDERICK // PROVIDED TO THEELAINE YALE DAILY NEWS

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SCREENING OF “LOVE MACHINES”

WHC Auditorium // 6:00 p.m.

WKND pursues its torrid affair with Russian post-humanist philosophy.

anyone.

Avraham says that senior societies as they stand have a negative impact on Yale’s social scene. He became more acutely aware of this during the few weeks leading up to Tap Night, which took place on April 9 this year.

It was only when he was approached by somebody from outside that he decided to formulate his initiative to alter the status quo. When a high school junior anxiously asked him about the society tap process while he was giving him a campus tour last week, he realized that he wanted to make a change.

The way he tells it, soon after that encounter Avraham developed a proposal for an inclusive society environment on paper. In the proposal sent to the entire undergraduate body by email, Avraham emphasized that the initiative was not, in fact, a hoax.

This is Avraham’s idea: to create as many societies as needed for juniors who want the experience but were not tapped by pre-existing societies. During a recent interview, he spoke of his desire to bring the junior class together.

“All you need is a Google Doc list and an invisible hand,” he said.

Despite the simplicity of the idea and his plans to execute it, Avraham said he has done his research by talking to juniors, seniors and alumni. Through these conversations, he realized that an initiative like this one would address the evolving dynamic of Yale’s social scene.

The shifting landscape to which Avraham refers has to do with the proliferation of senior societies. In recent years, there has been a steep increase in the number of nonlanded societies. Currently, there are at least 40 documented societies, which translates to roughly 600 seniors — slightly less than half of the class. While this democratization has allowed more seniors to take part in society life, it also means that those who are not in societies are more greatly affected by this process, according to Avraham.

“Back in the day, when there were only 100 seniors involved in society life, it didn’t dominate the social scene like it does now,” he said.

“This really creates an unhealthy stratification of the senior class.”

Avraham has formed a coalition of supporters to carry out the plan. Jessica*, a member of a landed senior society, said she supports Avraham’s initiative and that she, along with other seniors, some of whom are in societies, are meeting Friday, April 16, to discuss how to move forward. According to Jessica, “No one really deserves or doesn’t deserve to be a part of a senior society.” She added: “I want to see it implemented in a way that makes juniors feel good, validated, included and wanted.”

In addition to current seniors,

Avraham has gotten alumni on board with his initiative, as well as private donors who are invested in expanding the society experience by funding the creation of new societies. Two Yale graduates, Nicolaus von Baillou ’64 and Terry Holcombe ’64 see the proposal as an opportunity to revive Ring and Candle, a now-defunct senior society that they had been a part of during their time as students.

Despite the society’s dormancy for over 40 years, the two want to start Ring and Candle back up at Yale. Holcombe said he has reached out to Avraham to discuss the possibility of re-establishing Ring and Candle on campus, and that the two will likely be collaborating to bring the idea to fruition.

So far, 161 students have shown interest in Avraham’s initiative and will go through several steps before being placed into a new society next week. They have already filled out a preliminary preference form and will hand in a personal information form today, according to a timeline Avraham sent out to interested students. The questions on the forms ask about the number of gatherings the individual is willing to commit to per week, as well as the society activities he or she wants to partake in. Their placement will be largely based on these preferences. *** Since Avraham’s email was sent out to Yale students, his initiative has generated much debate on campus. The plan to reform a system synonymous with Yale elitism has raised a number of concerns, including the potential artificiality and unknown lifespan of these proposed new societies.

While some students interviewed believe that Avraham’s plan will alleviate the harmful exclusivity of senior societies, others have said the institutionalization of societies will not be as effective as Avraham believes.

A senior currently in an all-women’s society explained that, during the tap process, members discussed what kind of “vibe” the society wanted to give off through their recruitment of junior candidates. Given that established societies engage in time-consuming yet personal interviews with each candidate, and often spend hours debating the composition of the upcoming tap class, Avraham’s plan to assign candidates based on such basic preferences seems almost formulaic.

Avraham is unfazed by these worries about homogenization.

“Some [current] societies think that they have their unique culture,” said Avraham. “But I am very skeptical about that.” He said the unpredictable nature of the tap process, which he labeled “an industry,” SEE SOCIETIES PAGE 8

WKND RECOMMENDS: “The present needs nothing, except what it owns, and it owns what springs up on its shoulders.”

PAGE B4

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND STARTUP

ANONYMITY — AT A PRICE // BY RACHEL SIEGEL

// MICHELLE CHAN

Henry Elkus ’18 maintains that he is not breaking any rules.

As does Idris Mitchell ’18. And Charles Wong ’18. And Summer Wu ’18. And Trey Leigh ’18.

The five freshmen are the brains behind Anon, a website that allows students to anonymously buy and sell study guides and other files, from college acceptance essays to internship applications. What started as a conversation among friends in the HGS dining hall four months ago has led this team of young entrepreneurs and coders to today: The site goes live at 12:30 this afternoon.

That night over dinner, the four friends — Wu had yet to join the team — decided that there was an untapped market for studentproduced study materials. Students who created high-quality study guides, for example, were serving no one by keeping those files to themselves. The Anon creators believed that if offered anonymity, students would be more willing to sell their products and reap the financial benefits. “[Students] have valuable things like study guides [or] essays that got you into the Ivy League or Goldman, but the social climate isn’t at a level where people sell them,” Elkus, Anon’s CEO, said. “Your friend may give you a study guide, but they haven’t realized that there’s a market or they have no real means of going about it.”

As of today’s launch, the site contains roughly 100 study guides spanning topics from Math 120 to Chem 115 to Introduction to Political Philosophy.

While Anon is currently only available to Yale students, the team plans to expand to other Ivy League schools, MIT, Stanford and state schools — according to Elkus, “that’s where the money is” — in the coming months.

But given the immediate reactions from administrators, professors and students interviewed, Anon’s days at Yale may be numbered. One year after the University shut down Yale BlueBook+ — a website started by two seniors last year to improve the interface of the Yale BlueBook website — it does not appear that Anon will be welcomed to campus with open arms.

“I can’t see how this plan is anything but a violation of

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undergraduate regulations,” wrote Yale College Dean Jonathan Holloway in a Wednesday email.

“The fact that the creators of the site are trafficking in anonymity is a clear signal that they are aware that what they propose to do runs afoul of these regulations.” *** Described by Elkus as “a more expensive App Store,” the Anon homepage resembles just that.

Icons depicting a Greek letter and a test tube appear beside study guides for Introduction to Political Philosophy and Physics 165 Lab, respectively. The guides are labeled with a title, a course name and, perhaps most importantly, a price.

Anonymous student “merchants,” who create accounts on Anon, are free to set their own prices, which typically range from two to six dollars. The names of student “buyers” are also kept confidential. Anon receives a 20 percent commission from each transaction, money that will be reinvested in the company.

The team insists Anon is simply the marketplace for such transactions — the creators do not handle the site’s financial transactions themselves. That task, including all banking and processing of credit card numbers, is left to Braintree, a company specializing in online payments. Braintree handles all online transactions for companies like Uber and airbnb — and now, Anon.

“If someone feels safe calling an Uber, they should feel safe using our site,” Elkus said of Anon’s ability to protect credit card information.

Though Anon is their first major project at Yale, the site’s creators are not new to ventures on this scale. Elkus dropped out of school in eighth grade to run Unlimited Ltd., an organization that’s part clothing company, part charity. Wong, while attending high school in Singapore, founded WhatsNext.sg — an Internet startup to help find people things to do in Singapore — and Novo Voice, a social enterprise raising money for child education in Bangalore. He went on to sell both startups.

Wong said he wants to see Anon grow to become the largest

anonymous marketplace for files in the world. Absent the social stigma around sharing one’s own academic work, students will be more open to thinking of their files as valuable commodities, he said.

“We want to see a shift in the way people create files, as well as in the quality and effort that goes into those files,” Wong explained.

While Elkus, Wong, Leigh and Mitchell have spent the past few months — and practically every waking hour of the past few days — working on the business model, Wu’s focus is much more technical. As the team’s only coder, Wu is responsible for making sure the site is ready to run come Friday afternoon. Her responsibilities range from coding the website’s security checks for credit card information, to making sure that users cannot identify merchants and buyers by name.

But whether they come from backgrounds in business or tech, all five team members have one thing in common: they maintain that Anon is not breaking any rules.

Wu said that the company has no tolerance for plagiarism and that users can flag files they deem plagiaristic or inappropriate. At that point, the Anon creators say they will review the document and determine whether it should be taken down. Elkus could only specify that such a review process would occur on a case-by-case basis, and that there is no set list of criteria for how the decision to remove a file would be reached.

Each team member said that any materials uploaded onto the site are the intellectual property of the merchant. Elkus said the team consulted with multiple lawyers — though he did not provide specifics — on student intellectual property rights. So long as Anon users are made to understand that they can’t buy or sell illegal material, Elkus said, Anon is not breaking any laws.

But the issue is not just a legal one. In addition to state and federal law, Yale students are bound by the Yale College Undergraduate Regulations and can be subject to “disciplinary action” for violating any of the Regulations’ 23 official offenses. Item T on that list forbids “selling or distributing for commercial purposes notes, transcriptions, or outlines

ALICE IN WONDERLAND

Coop High School // 8:00 p.m.

“Whoooooooo are youuuuu” — WKND and a caterpillar. “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!” — you on your way to the Yale Undergraduate Ballet Company’s trippy, fun new production.

of class lectures, or any other course materials in any course of instruction.”

It is this specific offense that Holloway said Anon — a site he described as “deeply troubling” — would violate.

But the creators stand behind their product.

Leigh said Anon has a strict policy about reviewing its content and making sure uploaded files are “up to the standards of the honor code.” Leigh said the site is not meant for test answer sheets, lectures or faculty-produced notes.

“I don’t see a reason to shut [Anon] down,” Wu said. “But looking at the [University’s] track record I wouldn’t put it beyond them.”

YOUR FRIEND MAY GIVE YOU A STUDY GUIDE, BUT THEY HAVEN’T REALIZED THAT THERE’S A MARKET OR THEY HAVE NO REAL MEANS OF GOING ABOUT [SELLING] IT. HENRY ELKUS ’18 *** On the first day of shopping period last spring, over 1,400 students had entered their tentative schedules into Yale BlueBook+, a site designed by brothers Peter Xu ’14 and Harry Yu ’14.

The website used data from Yale’s course information database to create amalgamated ratings of professors and classes.

But shortly after the start of shopping period, Xu and Yu were asked by the University how they obtained their information, where they got permission to use it and where the information was hosted.

Two days later, the brothers were told the website would be shut down.

Student uproar followed, with many criticizing the administration for mishandling the situation. Hundreds of users on the site lost their schedules, and Xu and Yu maintain that their offers to negotiate with the administration were met with “radio silence.”

Though it was never disputed that Yale BlueBook+, since then transformed into CourseTable, violated University policy, even the administration came to acknowledge that there had been missteps in the process.

In an open letter to the Yale Community, then-Yale College Dean Mary Miller wrote that the administration “could have been more patient in asking the developers to take down information they had appropriated.” She added that “what we now see is that we need to review our policies and practices.”

And so, in the wake of the administration’s admitted missteps in shutting down Yale BlueBook +, it remains unclear how Yale will respond to Anon’s launch.

Even so, Xu does not cast CourseTable and Anon in the same light, saying the two sites have vastly different missions.

While CourseTable was meant to help students learn more, Anon seems to cater to those who neglect their readings or don’t attend lectures, he said.

Though Holloway said the site would be in clear violation of University policy, he did not elaborate on what consequences the site or its creators would face.

Multiple professors interviewed, including those who teach some of Yale’s largest and most popular courses, agreed.

Expressing concern that students may become less inclined to complete courses readings, attend lectures or seek help from instructors and tutors, professors appear no more supportive of the site than Holloway.

Professor Sam Kortum, who currently teaches “Econometrics and Data Analysis I,” said he found the enterprise “somewhat depressing.”

“My goal is for students to be engaged in class and to put serious thought into answering questions on the material outside of class,” Kortum said. “That goal is undercut if students are just

rehashing someone else’s work.”

Professor Shelly Kagan, who teaches the popular “Introduction to Ethics” lecture, said purchasing work and passing it off as one’s own is dishonest and a violation of University policy.

Lecturer Kyle Jensen, who also serves as the director of entrepreneurial programs at the School of Management, said start-ups frequently change the status-quo and force bodies like the administration to reconsider why certain rules are in place.

“For example, airbnb and Uber can be illegal in some municipalities,” Jensen said. “Their new business models cause us to think about why certain regulations exist, whom they benefit, whom they harm and if they should be changed.”

But Jensen said Anon clearly invites students to violate the Yale College Undergraduate Regulations, though the company itself may not be in violation.

Yet he added that it is not a foregone conclusion that Anon would be detrimental to Yale or its students. At a minimum, it encourages dialogue, he said.

Students had mixed responses to Anon. Although none raised the issue of University Regulations, some were skeptical of the site’s value. Noah Baily ’17 said he didn’t see how he could evaluate the quality of a file before purchasing it.

Jed Thompson ’17 said having to pay for the study guides was not unethical, adding that many students pay for SAT prep books without being criticized.

And so, as the culmination of months of research, planning and work come to the fore, Anon’s future at Yale looks unclear. The site’s creators said if the University takes issue with their project, they would be open to negotiations to keep Anon on campus.

“If [the administration] did have any concerns, I hope it would start with a discussion, and from that discussion we can alleviate any concerns that they would have,” Mitchell said.

“Then they can see what this idea really is at the heart, beyond the website. It’s very hard to see the vision and heart of a company unless you talk to the people.”

Contact RACHEL SIEGEL at rachel.siegel@yale.edu .

WKND RECOMMENDS: “In burning a corpse, we get one gram of powder. Thus a pharmacy’s shelf could hold thousands of graveyards.”

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B5

WEEKEND ARTS

LET THERE BE “LUX” // BY STEPHANIE ADDENBROOKE

In all my crisscrossing of campus, it had never really occurred to me to sit down in front of the Beinecke and stare at its marble tiles for two hours.

Yet this past Sunday night, accompanied by a crowd of onlookers, I found myself doing just that.

What had brought us there? “Lux: Ideas through Light,” a series of towering images and graphics projected onto the facade of the Beinecke and symbolizing Yale’s history and research. As the night wore on, luminescent DNA helices gave way to an explosion of multicolored dots and a tour of the galaxy. Between each segment was a minute-long sequence in which each of the Beinecke’s tiles displayed a different idyllic image of campus: a true celebration of Yale.

And according to those involved, celebrating Yale was a primary intention. Five undergraduates organized the exhibition in conjunction with the Dean’s office: Emily Bosisio ’16 and Laurel Lehman ’17 produced it, while the gifted lighting designers Asher Young ’17, Doug Streat ’16 and Eli Block ’16 curated it. The exhibition was made up of short segments of no more than four minutes, designed by students from across the University who worked with researchers to graphically represent elements of the researchers’s work.

The View From Within // BY SOFIA BRAUNSTEIN Bright vermilions and brilliant yellows brushed in large strokes over a sheet of paper; multicolored feathers stuck into foam, creating the illusion of hair; yarn crisscrossed innovatively to create an imperfect grid — the “Changes in the Face of Autism” gallery offers newfound perspective and a study in vibrancy.

Having a younger brother with his own share of mental complications as well as many close friends with autistic siblings, I have an intimate view of mental illness. I have seen what it does to families and to challenged individuals. But regardless of how familiar I am with mental disability, nothing parallels the understanding one can achieve by seeing how the condition looks from the inside.

“Changes in the Face of Autism” was created by autistic adults from the greater New Haven community with the help of Students for Autism Awareness at Yale and an organization called Chapel Haven.

The gallery, on the second floor of the Slifka Center, contains a mixture of mediums. A long

sheet of paper covers half of one wall, depicting an abstract, dreamlike scene with swirls of color and carefully placed puzzle pieces. Below it, a bicycle tangled up in yarn and decorated with other materials is propped against the wall. Two drawings decorate the wall opposite the gallery entrance: One appears to be a study of a building while the other features multicolored stick figures randomly placed on the page. The rest of the works are variations on one project: sculptures with tubular bodies made of wire and decorated with assorted materials, with a foam head on top.

Although all the works share a vibrancy and a youthfulness, each is highly individual. For each work, I could not help but imagine the personality of its artist. The architectural drawing on the far wall displayed a unique attention to detail and perspective hinting at an artist with a penchant for spatial design. Meanwhile, the large drawing amalgamated many individual brushstrokes to create an abstract landscape with small details that reveal the

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presence of multiple artists: a bicycle or the upper body of a confused, primary-colored child. It belies the artists’ age, showing a very loose perception of the world and a great appreciation of color.

Many people with autism have difficulty communicating and expressing their emotions; society often considers those with autism and other mental conditions to be less capable and less perceptive.

This exhibit offers a useful corrective, showing not only that people with autism communicate and express emotion, but also that they also have a lot to say and feel. Their so-called impediments in no way prevent them from being people.

I truly enjoyed this small, albeit important exhibit.

This gallery could have easily become a depressing reminder of the struggles of the mentally challenged; instead, the kaleidoscopic quality of the artwork beautifully illuminates the world inside of an autistic person’s mind.

Contact SOFIA BRAUNSTEIN at sofia.braunstein@yale.edu .

LA/DY/DA

Whitney Theater // 8:00 p.m.

In which a 19th-century lady is serenaded by women singing Beyoncé.

I wish I had been able to see how these collaborations had happened, and for a long time, I wished I had been given a program. At an exhibition where the goal was to take advanced research and make it accessible to the masses, a little explanation was sometimes needed.

But Lux had anticipated as much. Digital programs synced to the live display were available on small screens throughout the plaza, informing viewers of the people who had designed the current projection and what it symbolized.

Even though I didn’t understand “the point” of each segment, Lux was nonetheless one of the most enjoyable evenings I have had at Yale. It was more than just an exhibition of talent. It was an experience.

Technically, Lux was flawless. I had seen nothing like it. There was one moment where the projection showed bouncing dots trapped inside each individual tile, and another where the squares of a huge Rubix cube perfectly aligned with the Beinecke’s marble squares. Coming from a theater background, I can tell you that getting light cues correct is difficult. Yet I doubt that the curators had the option of running tests until they got it right — projections on to Beinecke in the middle of the day

would hardly go unnoticed. Ensuring that much accuracy without multiple rehearsals astounded me. But my experience was not limited to appreciating the incredible talent on display.

I was once told that art connects people. For a long time, though, this confused me, because art had always appeared to be a solitary experience.

Yet Lux invited people to experience art together. Few people arrived at Lux alone, and if they did, they were bound to see someone they knew.

Just as the creation of Lux demonstrated collaboration across different parts of the University, the audience was also a cross section of the Yale community.

When I stood up on Sunday night, having sat through the entire twohour-long show, it saddened me to know that on Monday the projections would stop. But I knew that I had witnessed something truly special.

If you didn’t get the chance to stop by, I’m sorry, but you missed out. Instead of moping, though, you should join the large group of people asking Lux when they’ll be doing it again.

Contact STEPHANIE ADDENBROOKE at stephanie.addenbrooke@yale.edu .

Yale Dancers Make it Look Easy // BY CAROLINE WRAY Yale Dancers own their bodies.

In their spring show, which runs this weekend at the Educational Center for the Arts at 55 Audubon St., they remind you of this again and again: Their faces radiate self-assurance as they saunter across the stage, or tap their feet in unison, or methodically glide their hands through the air.

I should say: I have approximately no personal experience with “owning my body.” Once, I fell through a hole in the stage at Toad’s. But this made the experience of watching YD — who prove that they can master classical moves as well as playful pop rhythms — all the more thrilling. There is something distinctly empowering in watching this group of confident women sail through emotional ballads, sugary pop numbers and most everything in between.

From their very first moment on stage, the dancers asserted their mastery and general badassery. “Femmebots,” choreographed by Ajua Duker ’15, an electric and high-energy performance to M.I.A.’s “XR2” (a spinning class favorite) opened the show and shook awake any sleepy audience members.

The “badass female” motif continued when the group’s newest dancers performed “New Girls on the Block,” choreographed to the famous femmefatale anthem “Cell Block Tango” from “Chicago.” Flashing the occasional knowing smirk, the girls fired finger guns at the audience and clicked their heels across the stage, owning the undeniably sexy routine.

Some of the first act’s most technically exceptional moments came in its two duets: “Shadow,” choreographed and performed

by Gracie White ’16 and Luyi Chen ’18, and “Catch Me If You Can,” featuring Duker and Kellyanna Polk ’16. These four dancers appeared among the most confident and skilled in the ensemble, and the two duets allowed them to showcase individual strengths while also responding to and working with one another.

YD’s three seniors, Laura Bass, Duker and Theresa Oei, accomplished the impossible with “Closing a Chapter”: a graduation swan song to “Landslide” that did not elicit eye rolling.

Wearing sundresses and slowing down the choreography in a departure from some of the show’s more frenetic moments, the trio performed a subtle number that evoked classical ballet alongside more avant-garde elements.

Another slower, more emotional number came from Eliza Dach ’17, who choreographed “Parentheses” for five others to perform; cool blue lighting provided a stark contrast to risqué routines like “New Girls on the Block.” Any choreography to the Paper Kites’ melancholy “Portrait 19” could have veered into cliché angst. But, again, unbreakable poise and original choreography made “Parentheses” a spellbinding and moving achievement. YD proved that, while owning their sex appeal and energy, they could also access a full range of emotions.

The first act closed with White’s “Never Changing,” an acrobatic solo act performed in and around a large metal hoop hanging from the ceiling. Acrobatic feats have become a signature of White’s and a highlight of most YD shows since she joined the group — and, as usual, White

delivered a mesmerizing performance. It’s hard to imagine a sharper pinnacle of self-possession than White, grinning and extending a hand to her audience while suspended some twenty feet in the air, barely attached to a rope.

I’ve been told that, in any discipline, the true marker of talent is the ability to make a hard act look easy. This was a recurring theme in the YD show. Only after White finished, and other dancers came to clear away the hoop, did I notice how hard she was breathing, like a distance runner or a swimmer. Watching her perform, I failed to realize how taxing those contortions and gymnastic acts must have been. And throughout the show, the only sign I could catch of the dancers’ exertion came just before the lights went down at the end of a song: a quick glimpse of rapidly rising and falling chests.

Never did their faces betray a single sign of toil. They smiled, smirked, even winked and giggled. In spite of the rigor of their performances, they never looked tired, or confused, or concerned.

And so it was easy, watching, to forget that I once fell through the stage at Toads. Or that my party dancing has been described as “totally free and unfettered in, like, maybe the least sexy way possible.” The YD spring show is well worth the trek up Audubon. It is more than just watching very talented people excel. Yale Dancers are so good, and make it all look so easy, that they make you feel like you could keep up. (But, let’s be clear: You couldn’t.)

Contact CAROLINE WRAY at caroline.wray@yale.edu .

WKND RECOMMENDS: “We may concede to the conservatives: burn all the dead eras, and build just one pharmacy.”

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND BLEATS

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND LOVE

Hey Yale, We know our website’s been down (sorry not sorry, YD“N”) but we’re finally unveiling the most important news event of the year, other than the announcement that WEEKEND’s idol/reason for being, Linda Koch Lorimer, is retiring. These sexy specimens descended all across campus this week and were caught in the act by WEEKEND’s trusty band of photographers. Don’t fret if you missed them. Word on the block is that they’re visiting the Yale Farm next week for a roll in the hay. ;) Stay sexy, WEEKEND

YA WEEKEND was rotting in Connecticut Hall and emerged from its sticky cocoon of Durfee’s chicken wings and dirty chais when word got out that a herd of Yale’s sexiest members had congregated on Old Campus. Not that we aren’t used to the sight of shirtless frosh wiping the sweat dripping from their tanned brows and rippling abs, but we were hardly prepared for this sight for sore eyes.

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S T A GO //by

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WEEKEND saw these beautiful people on the way back from penny drinks at Woad’s. They’ve melted the hardened black heart of this SWUGlyfin’ periodical, and we don’t know how to thank them other than offering our bodies and self-worth (we’ll feed you our theses if you want?). Catch these guys while they’re hot; they are single but so ready to mingle.

D N WK

// WA LIU

“Bleat. Bleeeeeat. Blehhhhhht.” These seductive words faintly echoed on Cross Campus, accompanied by the soothing sound of water running on the still-under-construction Women’s Table and the taste of day-old Wenzel stuck in WEEKEND’s teeth. Then we saw her: Nina the Nanny Goat of XCampus. It’s not just that she has the exotic ethnically ambiguous skin of a Yale admissions wet dream — she’s got attitude to boot. “Goats be like up in my muzzle like what?!” said Nina. “And I’m like, ‘Bleat. Bleat the bleat up.’” WEEKEND can only dream of what it would be like to pet her, but, says Nina, “You can’t just come up and pet me. I kick. Hard.

This,” she points a hoof at her face, “isn’t some barnyard shit.”

SATURDAY APRIL

18

CASTING SHADOWS: PERFORMANCE SHOWCASE Beinecke // 1:00 p.m.

A performance by Yale’s premier Black theater croup, the Heritage Theater Ensemble!

WKND RECOMMENDS: “And our present must have as its motto : “All that we’ve made, we’ve made for the crematory.”

“I don’t object to cross-species relationships,” says Billy as we meet him for coffee at Blue State. He rakishly brushes aside a curl that’s wrapped around his horn while we stare longingly into his ocean-blue eyes. WEEKEND highly, highly recommends this midwestern dreamboat, who comes straight from the mountains of Ohio. Unfortunately, Billy the goat is currently taken — sorry, ladies! But don’t worry, there are plenty of other “horny” guys on campus if you’re looking for a good time. Or if you just want to pet something.

SATURDAY APRIL

18

GIOVANNI’S ROOM

Off Broadway Theater // 2:00 p.m.

Giovanni is an Italian bartender in Paris! Gotta love Giovanni.

WKND RECOMMENDS: “New understanding of existence shines from all the world’s parts towards the center. In the world’s cracks, the old culture’s men bear their teeth, gnawing at the new coat’s hem.”

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND COVER

SOCIETY AND ITS DISCONTENTS // BY JED FINLEY, JON VICTOR AND VICTOR WANG

SOCIETIES FROM PAGE 3 means societies often end up with an essentially random assortment of members.

Grace Brody ’16 disagreed with Avraham’s notion that societies at Yale are largely undifferentiated from one another. “The societies that exist started with a specific vision,” she said. She added that the new societies will likely have a generic feel to them, if only because they were created through institutional reforms rather than the more natural process by which most others were formed.

The stark contrast in method raises an unanswered question: whether artificial placement can replicate the organic nature of interviews and discussions to create a “real” senior society.

Sarah*, who graduated last year, has doubts about the plan. She believes Avraham’s system intends to institutionalize moments that simply cannot be reproduced from outside of the society system.

Sarah originally found her society to be alienating, but ultimately it became a source of community and trust. While she felt out of place for the first few meetings with her society — she was abroad when she was tapped and never really cared about the process beforehand — eventually she came around to the idea.

“I never thought that I would be considered eligible for my society,” she said, “because of my race, class, social status and the things I was interested in, which was nothing super mainstream on campus.”

Sarah knew her society’s tomb had not been built with her in mind, and she was very frank with her fellow members about feeling uncomfortable. Aside from Sarah, there was only one other student of color in her class, a black male.

At first she didn’t want to open up to the largely white and seemingly homogenous group of typical Yale students who were with her in the tomb.

“I was very on guard during the first meetings — waiting for a moment to be offended, waiting for a moment that would make me feel different.”

While Sarah felt out of place as a black female pursuing a creative career, her friend and fellow society member Ben* felt out of place being on campus at all, since he had worked off campus for most of his time at Yale.

The feeling of vulnerability, they say, is what brought the members of the society together. “It was during the bios that I had that turning point when I realized this space was for me,” Sarah said.

Sarah and Ben said they couldn’t speak about those specific moments of transformation and feelings of togetherness. But Ben emphasized that, without the security of the tomb and the assurance that nothing leaves its walls, this sense of friendship and selfrealization would not have been

possible.

“The most meaningful and exciting things are these little interactions, organic moments of friendship that happen within society,” Sarah said. “They can happen outside too, but those can’t be institutionalized. Those things happen in the privacy of personal relationships.”

Ben similarly worries that Avraham’s initiative can’t replicate the atmosphere of existing societies, because it places emphasis in the wrong places. Rather than answering the need for community and friendship, the initiative reinforces the notion that societies are a necessary indicator of a successful and meaningful Yale experience.

“This push is a sentiment that comes up every single year. What we found most meaningful is hard to institutionalize,” Ben said. “I worry that the initiative panders to the idea that this is a capstone.”

Sophia Charan ’16, who chose not to join a senior society, believes that by expanding the influence of societies Avraham is actually achieving the opposite of what he set out to do. She said that opening the society system up to every-

Avraham, said she is unworried about the longevity of the newly formed societies. If the society dissolves, then people will be withdrawing in order to return to their pre-existing friendships, and no harm will have been done.

The natural formation and attrition of societies has generally not been recorded, meaning that historical data about Yale’s society landscape is incomplete. There are no records of non-landed societies at Sterling Memorial Library, but a copy of Yale’s Extracurricular & Social Organizations 1780–1960 listed senior societies active at the time of its publication in 1961. Of the 14 listed, seven are now apparently defunct.

Ring and Candle is among the defunct. Von Baillou said he does not know the exact point at which his own society, Ring and Candle, was disbanded. After tapping the subsequent class, he said that he and his fellow society members became largely uninvolved with the organization. “We didn’t keep a close watch on what was going on, and in fact, weren’t invited to do so by the subsequent class,” he said. “We kept our hands off, and

[SENIOR SOCIETIES HAVE] TO FIND A PURPOSE, OTHERWISE [THEY] WILL JUST BLOW AWAY LIKE DUST IN THE WIND NICOLAUS VON BAILLOU

one sends the message that every junior “should be in a society, when in fact I think lots of people might benefit from not feeling obligated to be in one.”

Will Adams ’15, a senior not in a society, said he has mixed feelings about Avraham’s proposal. While he might have joined this initiative this time last year when he was not tapped, he believes that he would not make the same decision now.

“Being in my place now,” he said, “after a year as a senior not being in society, I’m not entirely comfortable with the implication of Danny’s statement: that being a part of a senior society is integral to your social life.” He added that his social life has not changed too drastically since then.

Aaron Gertler ’15, another senior not in society, said he was largely indifferent about the tap process, although at one point, he thought he might be tapped. However, he said that having a group of friends in different class years has made social life just as fulfilling for him.

Others raised concerns about the longevity of these future “artificially created” societies.

Avraham himself admits some uncertainty: The new societies may not last longer than a year or be involved in next year’s Tap Night. Jessica, who is working with

regretted it.”

Despite receiving a basic outline of the programs and traditions, the newly tapped class of Ring and Candle members were left to their own devices. Once they succeeded the outgoing class, they chose what they would do as a group during their weekly meetings.

Besides the loss of internal structure, Ring and Candle’s landed property was also sold and the alumni do not know what has happened to it.

According to Michael*, a current senior in a landed society, the loss of a physical space could dilute alumni’s connection to their societies.

“The physical spaces lend to the longevity of the organization,” he said. “They keep alumni wanting to come back. It’s no longer superficial — the memories, the nostalgia, the friendships. We develop memories around it and attach meaning to it.”

Of course, none of these new societies will have definite spaces.

“Unfortunately that is part of the buy-in, those superficial things — the history, tomb and mystery,” Michael said. “Those are the things that bring people in to make the necessary sacrifices — time and other organizations. Without the status, history and property I think

that it becomes more difficult … to make the same kind of commitment.”

Samantha*, who is a member of a non-landed society, has made some of her closest friends at Yale within her society. Samantha’s society may not have a physical building in which to meet, but she believes the friendships she shares with fellow members are just as valuable as those developed within the walls of a tomb.

Karolina Ksiazek ’15, a senior in a non-landed, all-female society, believes that most non-landed societies are able to mold themselves how they like because they are not bound to a particular space and tradition. “Maybe for the ones with a strict tradition of how they’re run and lots of alumni involvement, the culture is more stable. But for most of them, I think it’s mostly a group of friends, and so the people who are in the group create the culture.”

According to von Baillou, it is imperative that a senior society have its own distinct traditions and culture: “It has to find a purpose, otherwise it will just blow away like dust in the wind.”

Students in societies generally agreed that some degree of autonomy is necessary for the group to shape an experience tailored to that year’s dynamic. But too much autonomy can cause a society to become too unstructured, and eventually, to collapse. *** Regardless of the feasibility of Avraham’s proposal, the fact that more than ten percent of the junior class has responded favorably to the initiative in just a week shows that society culture remains a contentious issue on campus. As Avraham has said, donors have signed on to the plan, not only in a financial capacity but also as mentors.

Despite these efforts, some of the people we interviewed suggested that this initiative is doomed to fail because of the inherent nature of society experience. One senior who is not in a society said exclusivity is one of the big attractions of society. People feel special because they are vetted, chosen and tapped by seniors.

A senior member of a landed society was cautiously optimistic.

“I’m acutely aware that the tap process can be difficult,” he said.

“It was for me. If I had found the experience was just about elevating some and diminishing others, I wouldn’t support [societies]. I’m open to a new way.”

Contact JED FINLEY, JON VICTOR AND VICTOR WANG at james.finley@yale.edu, jon.victor@yale.edu and v.wang@yale.edu.

//COURTNEY ELAINE FREDERICK

SATURDAY APRIL

18

WHITE OLEANDER

Calhoun Cabaret // 8:00p.m.

About a beautiful, murderous poet and her fucked-up, beautiful daughter.

WKND relates.

WKND RECOMMENDS: Still, we have not overcome the Egyptian Pyramids.

Each is a protrusion of the past, like a splinter of old wisdom.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND LILLIPUTIANS

Stamps EMING // BY LUCY FL

The crash woke Joseph John from his sleep. There was not one but rather several crashes, one primary, jarring thud followed by several tremulous echoes that settled into the emptiness of the blue air just before sun-up.

Presently the chickens, somewhat recovered from the trauma, began to cluck and gulp once again. John ordered his mother to stay in bed as he tested each wall of the house for cracks. After breakfast he deemed it safe to inspect the outside of the house, at which point he and his mother discovered the object itself.

It lay by the chicken coop, nestled in a moist indentation of earth: a white column of some hard smooth casing, tapered at one end and flattened at the other to form a spoonlike cavity.

The thicker end was an expensivelooking blue.

“A shell,” John’s mother suggested.

She glanced fearfully skyward.

“Not a shell,” John frowned.

He lingered by the coop as his mother squinted at the sky with a hand over her eyes. It was clear by now, John’s mother decided, that the white column was not alive. She had seen a tortoise once, at the Duke’s fair. Its shell was hard, but pebbled with growth, not so smooth as this, and the creature had breathed slow breaths inside its pinched-up skin.

The white column did not breathe.

She went to touch it but John jerked her back. “Careful!”

She crossed herself in gratitude that the new chicken coop — paid for by her dear boy’s latest weaving — had not been crushed. John was still quiet, hand on his neck.

She kicked the white column over with a cautious, rapid cuff of her boot, and the object was still motionless.

“It’s not alive, Jack,” she whispered.

Its underside was white, too, smooth as an eggshell, but now smeared with mud and grass. The object was utterly tubular, alien. No chicken could have birthed such a thing.

Jack could make out the letter R under a glob of dirt. R. I. T. And a small circular glass window, under which rested a white paper inscribed with a light blue cross. *** Marni had picked the curtains for their sunflower print. She had imagined, standing in JoAnn Fabric with the bolt of sunflower-print curtain-cloth in her hands, that the sharp morning sunlight would soften through the yellow fabric and fill her bedroom with butter-light as the sun rose over the mountain of her husband’s back. He slept deeply, but she had always been grateful that he did not snore. His shoulders shuddered with each exhale.

This morning, Marni had been awake for some minutes — 18, in fact. As she lay on her side, facing away from Pete, with her hand wedged in the under-pillow coolness, she rehearsed the past five minutes, as if to ensure that she had followed proper protocol. Open eyes, pull on robe, drape comforter convincingly over Pete’s back, tiptoe to bathroom, open package, urinate in cup, dip stick into cup, wait two minutes — during which, shuffle quickly back to bedside to grab cell phone and set timer for one minute 40 seconds — close bathroom door and use the flashlight function to read the sign in the yellow-tinged window. A plus sign, as it happened.

“Oh, fuck.”

She tied the belt of her robe and marched over to the window, which was slightly open to let in the summer air. Pete

grumbled from the bed. She slid her wrist through the open slot of the window and in a quick motion, before she could doubt, she tossed the pregnancy test to the bare earth outside. *** At the sight of the cross Jack’s mother crossed herself reflexively.

“God help us,” she muttered.

“Right,” said Jack.

“What?”

“Right.”

“What is it, John?”

“Riiiiiight … aid.”

He was reading, her brilliant son.

She whipped around and pinched his cheeks.

Thus gratified she returned to the Eggshell, as she was determined to call it. The Egg of God, of Christ — for did it not bear a cross? She cried, “Joseph John, run to the friary and call them to come. Speed, Joe! Speed!” He ran along the path and she crossed herself once again as he vanished behind the hickories. “Speed, Joe! Speed!” Blessings, Blessings be upon them, a Gift of God! *** “It is out of my hands, literally out of my hands,” Marni muttered to herself in the cafeteria.

“It’s what?” asked Carolyn Bowers from HR. “Nothing,” said Marni. She moved her tray down the line. Each carton on her tray reminded her of him. He could fit in each, his muscled arms draped over the Styrofoam edges, his legs splayed — relaxed, jovial even — across the sliced melon cubes. Her Jack.

At home she prepared Pete his Scotch and settled him by the television. A quick kiss on the cheek and she had fled to the bedroom, torn open the curtains, pushed up the window. Breathless, she surveyed her sunflowers. Her eyes scanned the green flesh of their roots. As she knew it would be, the white plastic stick was gone.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

He was standing on the windowsill, panting.

“Jack,” she said. He was glaring, though. His stubble had grown out since she’d seen him last; she imagined the tiny roughness of it on her fingertip.

“You threw something. Right Aid.” ”Rite Aid. Yeah.”

“She’s sent me to the friary.”

“The friary? Why?” She scooped him into her palm.

“It’s of God.” “The pregnancy test? Oh. The cross.”

“You haven’t thrown anything before.”

True, she had not. She had always been gentler, cognizant of her size.

A forceful shove would kill him, a squeeze could crush his ribs. She nearly had crushed him, the first time, when he was climbing up her sunflower curtains like an oversized cockroach all those months ago — at her screech he’d fallen: a man, lithe and darkhaired with delicate

eyes and a white linen shirt split to the collarbone, sitting — lounging, really — in the palm of her hand.

“Hello,” he’d said.

Now she set him on the boudoir and sat in her green-upholstered chair (an engagement gift from Pete’s mother).

“Did you mean to crush the house?” he asked softly. His hand rested on the crescent of her thumbnail, tender. “Did you mean to attack me?”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“My mother, then?”

“No, Jack! Did you even read what it said?”

“The white stick? Right Aid. The right aid.”

“Rite Aid. You sounded it out, then, Jack?” She abandoned her severe expression long enough to communicate, through a tiny crinkle by her eye, that she was proud of him. The hours he’d spent in her breast pocket at work had paid off. (“Manaaaaaaagggg,” he would sound out, in her ear, from his perch in the crook of her neck. “Yes, very good,” she’d whisper back, soft enough that Susan, the next cubicle over, could not hear. “Manaaaaaggggmmehhhh... managggmen....” a quiet, rumbling drone as he held on, tenderly, to the curve of her ear lobe, balancing on those nimble booted feet. “Management,” she finally revealed. “Management consulting, Jack. Glencorps Management Consulting. See the pear? Our logo.” And he demanded to know what a logo meant, and she told him, in tiny giggles that subsided into stern throat-clearing when Susan glanced over, perplexed).

“I sounded it out, Miss Marni,” he replied. “Rrr rabbit Iiii ice Tttt table Eee egg Aaaa apple —” “I told you not to call me Miss Marni,” she said. He crossed his arms. It made her feel old, he knew that. She’d be 30 in four days, and he was what? 19? He claimed his mother couldn’t remember but for the rains that accompanied the summer of his birth. It had been months before she could convince him to call her Marnina and even longer — till December, at least — before he called her Marni. She remembered that night, the way he sleepily mumbled “Marni” as he lay in the fold of her nightgown on one of those nights when Pete was far from home.

“I’ll call you what I please,” he said now.

“Jack.”

“You dropped a holy cross on my house.”

“It’s not a cross, Jack. It’s — plastic.” *** Rehearsing the moment, Marni had never considered the complications. “I’m pregnant, Jack,” she’d say,

matter-of-factly, and then demand — what? They had never really taken his assets into account.

Chickens, she knew. And the cow, but he’d sold her to get the alchemist’s sunflower seed that he’d dropped in the wood, that pushed up all verdantly muscular into her sunflower patch one day.

And here he was, unable to comprehend plastic. Her lover, whose entire body measured the length of the pregnancy test itself.

“It’s plastic, Jack,” she explained, again. “It’s not eggshell. It’s manmade.”

That confidence that puffed his small chest up — how she adored it, the way he’d plant his feet on her stomach and recite poetry to her, after one of their Reading sessions sequestered in the corner of her room. She was a goddess, he proclaimed. He listened to her soft descriptions of the tea shop she’d like to have one day, the stamps she’d like to collect. They spent afternoons curled in the warm square of sunlight, her body a castle around his, Jack leaning on his arm, his tiny bicep popping. Every so often he would look up, from The Cat in the Hat, to gaze at her with those limpid eyes. At the end, she’d let him pick a stamp from the glass case. They were the size of paintings in his hands, and his fingers would explore the crenellations. He’d never seen such art.

When Pete’s car pulled into the driveway, she would lift him to the windowsill and watch him climb down the sunflower stalk, the stamp blowing over his shoulder like a square and colorful cape.

“When’s the baby born?” he asked softly. His rage had subsided. He sat, arms crossed, on her powder box.

“November, I imagine,” she replied. She’d counted the months on her fingers. *** Pete had been very regretful to be in St. Louis for Valentine’s Day. He tried not to show it to his wife, as he didn’t want to aggravate her anxiety — the therapist had recommended “taking things slowly” after their intake session, during which Marni confessed that she had been talking to herself. Generalized anxiety disorder, the therapist nodded understandingly. He spoke with Pete a few times, separately, and urged him to “be gentle. It seems Marni’s going through a hard time.” Why, Pete could not say.

So he’d left her a note on February 13, on his way to the airport, and a box of chocolates on the kitchen counter. She’d been very supportive of his trip, actually. Very affirming. It was a good sign.

Jack told his mother he was going to the market that day, to sell his latest masterpiece. The Duke had initially thought the spiked white edges of Jack’s tapestries a bit odd, but the Duchess adored them. No one else in the country made such art! The Duke conceded that the “37” in the corner of each had a certain charm. He ordered the tapestries hung along the Great Hall, the better to impress his royal guests. Even when the Duchess pressed him, Jack wouldn’t reveal how he produced such smooth fabric, which increased the allure of his mysterious work.

Even the castle weavers could not distinguish one thread from the other. Once he had brought a tapestry of a green

lady, an ancient sculpture, who held a burning torch aloft and wore a crown of daggers. The friar blessed it. “Forever,” Jack had woven into the corner.

And on another, “USA First Class.”

The friar declared him touched by Christ.

On the fourteenth of the month, his mother waved goodbye and Jack sprinted to the woods, through the February cold. He wrestled up the great green stem. One mitten fell to the earth, spinning downwards in the freezing wind. In her giant bedroom, Marni had lit candles. She lay on the bed, her breasts draped in red lace.

From where he stood on the windowsill, across the room from her warm dusky-shadowed skin, she could be his size. *** By the time the evening news concluded, Pete was quite anxious. Marni’s voice had crescendoed to a point, and he now heard the distinct hiccups that signaled dry sobs. He clicked off the television — CNN spiraled into a white dot — and sighed. Her Xanax was in the bathroom cabinet. Maybe he should encourage her to take some time off work, get ready for the wedding in July. Glencorps could do without her for a time, yes?

He stood outside the bedroom door.

“You don’t understand!” she said, her voice trembling. “I can’t do this. I meant it. I meant what I said, that you should go. You should go.”

Oh, God. He gingerly fingered the doorknob.

He heard the sound of a pillow being thrown. She gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw that.”

Quiet.

“I can’t have a baby.”

Pete’s fingers clenched. Marni—?

A soft noise. Was the radio on? Her sniffles. That sniffle she made after a long day at work, when her wrists were sore. Marni, Marni.

“No, I don’t think God would—” A pause.

“He can’t know.”

A pause.

“You must go, you must go. You mustn’t come back. No, I won’t throw anything. I won’t do anything. Take them—take them. Take the one with the Canada goose, you’ve always liked that one—” she was babbling now— “and this one, take this one for me, take it, yes, take this 42 cent, this 42 cent, this Forever. Take this Forever for me and go, go, go.”

The sound of the lock on the glass case—and a long, soft wail from Marni—and then the window shut. *** Pete’s mother took some time to come around to the smaller wedding, which she regarded as rushed. Pete ignored her disapproving glances when the baby arrived a mere seven months later. He paraded the newborn around the maternity wing, admiring his son’s delicate features, the way he was so rounded and smooth-skinned and perfectly proportioned even if he weighed only three and a half pounds. Marni lay in bed and dutifully swallowed her antipsychotic medication. How lucky she had been treated, how lucky. How lucky they all were. A new chapter, a new life. Pete resolved not to hold her episodes against her, or to ask why, when he had been weeding the garden, he had found the sunflower patch outside the bedroom window littered with stamps.

Contact LUCY FLEMING at lucy.fleming@yale.edu .

//CAROLINE TISDALE

SATURDAY APRIL

18

YSO SEASON FINALE Woolsey // 8 p.m.

Lions and Prokofiev and Strauss, oh my!

WKND RECOMMENDS: “Care for their integrity is wasted labor, ridiculous to those who swim among the spinning winds, among the clouds and the blue lampshade of the sky.”

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND COLUMNS

STREET STYLE // BY LEAF ARBUTHNOT

I

t’s been a long and heinous winter, but spring has finally burst forth in New Haven. The difference in temperature has not only coaxed daffodils from previously stolid soil, but reminded everyone in town that bodies exist beneath layers of clothing. In the disconcerting warmth, Yalies have been seen rolling up their trousers to reveal dry ankles, unused to the sun’s glare. They have been spotted in skirts, with neither thick leggings nor thermal underwear on to protect their shins from frostbite. They have even been observed walking down Broadway in a leisurely manner, desperate, for the first time in months, to be out of doors.

Jamar Williams: Form meets functionality in the snappy handbag, perfect for swinging at passing children.

Succinct sandals.

Monochrome loosened up with a louchely trailing shirt

Nikita Bernardi: The white tank perfectly puckering up to the ill-fitting jeans. The post-post-post ironic sneakers. The Elle Macpherson sunnies, a throwback to Elle Macpherson.

// LEAF ARBUTHNOT

Anya Richkind: Note the rich plums against the sun-bleached denim. Note the Rita Skeeter specs. Note the smile.

Why to YSO // BY REBECCA KARABUS Yale isn’t cheap. Everyone knows that tuition costs upwards of $60,000 a year. Books cost more than $1,000 a semester (DS, anyone?). Woads costs $5 a week.

You may try to cut out extraneous expenditures, but when your friends want to have dinner at Harvest, all your penny-pinching promises go out the window.

By May — once we’ve accounted for Claire’s cravings and Blue State runs and sales at Urban and late night Yorkside — our bank accounts are nearly depleted.

In my first year at Yale, I wasted a lot of money on impulsive, unsound investments. I did, however, make one investment that stood out from the rest. (No, it did not involve fossil fuels.)

In August, I bought a season pass to the Yale Symphony Orchestra. Though I’m a habitual and foolish spender, this was,

SUNDAY APRIL

19

without a doubt, the best purchase I made all year.

The season pass is worth the $39 (or less, if you’re willing to forego prime seating in the first balcony) purely because it will save you from developing a stress ulcer in an attempt to buy a coveted Halloween show ticket.

While your peers might end up paying obscenely inflated prices to attend the famed spectacle, you will glide into Woolsey on All Hallow’s Eve (for only $15) and sit directly behind the seat reserved for President Peter Salovey (as I did this year).

In addition, you would most likely pay double the cost of YSO’s entire season to listen to the first song in their repertoire at Carnegie Hall or a similarly esteemed institution. Never again will we have the opportunity to enjoy classical music of

this caliber at such a low price.

And on April 18, this year’s season will surely close with a bang, not a whimper. The final show will feature Prokofiev’s lyrical Piano Concerto No. 3 and Strauss’ famed An Alpine Symphony. As YSO violist Katie Martin ‘18 said, “This concert was special to me because it features one of my absolute favorite piano concertos, Prokofiev’s Third, which is joyous and melancholic and spirited and dolorous by turns, allowing our pianist to shine.”

In this year’s first concert, the “All French Program” on Sep. 27, the musicians gave gorgeous renditions of works by Debussy, Saint-Saëns and Fauré.

I spent the first month of my Yale career anticipating this night, and the show was well worth the wait. The symphony began with

POETRY READING

Artspace Gallery // 4 p.m.

Russian and German are in a dead heat for the title of “best language to read poetry about political violence in” at this conference hosted by the Slavic Languages and Literature department.

Debussy’s Prélude de l’aprèsmidi d’une faune, a perfect opening to the program and to the season as a whole. I was transported out of New Haven and into the enchanted meadow where I imagine Debussy’s titular faun resides.

YSO’s second performance was none other than the infamous Halloween show. (I showed up an hour early to ensure that I had the best seat in the house.) As the film and accompanying score began, I realized that this was the closest I would ever get to the heart of Yale. That moment encapsulated everything that the University represents for me: a steadfastly collaborative community celebrating art and creativity. The Halloween show displayed the highest point of student achievement I could imagine.

If the Halloween show was one

high point of the season, YSO’s rendering of Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony in B Minor was another. As a YSO groupie, I had naturally attended a benefit concert at which YSO had previewed the symphony. I was instantly hooked.

I proceeded to listen to the “unfinished” work incessantly until YSO’s next official concert, which began with the YSO premiere of composer Thomas Duffy’s “Heart Throb.” I was initially skeptical of the contemporary work, since I’m a die-hard fan of classical music, but YSO delivered a gorgeous performance of an innovative and striking piece, whose piercing, pulsating rhythm had *my* heart throbbing with excitement. I brought a non-Yale friend along to enjoy my beloved Schubert with me, and the two of us were nearly in

tears by the time YSO finished the “unfinished” symphony.

The final peak of an extraordinary season was Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. Having read Petrarch, Milton and Wordsworth, I was familiar with the authors’ quests for the sublime — I found the object of their pursuit in Woolsey that evening as YSO graced the audience with one of the most beautiful and powerful love themes in history. Despite the melody’s universal renown, YSO brought out something new in a piece I had heard hundreds of times before. I sat through the concert with my eyes closed, tears welling up behind my lids. I had no idea that an undergraduate orchestra could ever have that effect on me.

Contact REBECCA KARABUS at rebecca.karabus@yale.edu .

WKND RECOMMENDS: Need we Rubens or the Pyramid of Cheops? At the heights of our new understanding, does the pilot need a lascivious Venus?

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND THEATER

Breaking the Fourth Wall: Activism at the Long Wharf // BY STEPHANIE ROGERS

According to the American Public Health Association, the annual New Haven homicide rate has tripled in the past five years. Of the 20 New Haven homicides committed in 2013, half of the victims were under 24. But these statistics can’t encompass a single human life, let alone the many lost each year to gun violence. At best, the names of the New Haven victims, most of them young men of color, are headlines.

At worst, they receive no public attention or collective respect. While today’s journalists shed light on racial tensions in America, they do little to commemorate individuals.

But “brownsville song (b-side for tray),” now showing at the Long Wharf Theatre, does commemorate an indi-

and joyous monologue, one filled with hope.

Catrina Ganey as Lena, Tray’s grandmother, gave one of the production’s best performances. During the talkback, audience members called her the “perfect black grandmother”. She is sassy and compassionate, with a nononsense parenting style — Ganey brings the audience into Tray’s world.

While warning us from the onset that she is not the beginning of Tray’s story (since she wants her grandson to speak for himself), her love and devotion propel him through the narrative, and into our hearts. She reminded me of my mother.

In my time at Yale, I have seen a number of Long Wharf Theatre productions.

TRAY WAS NOT JUST A HEADLINE, OR A NUMBER. HE WAS A BROTHER, A GRANDSON, A FRIEND.

// T. CHARLES ERICKSON

vidual, providing a fictional young black man with a voice.

The main character, Tray, and his sister have lost their father to gun violence and their stepmother to addiction.

With his passion for boxing, his interest in school and the support of his grandmother, Tray has a bright future. Unfortunately, he happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and, like so many others, ends up as an empty space at the kitchen table.

While thousands of families may share this story, “brownsvile” insists on making this a unique and personal narrative. Rather than speaking for all victims of gun violence, playwright Kimber Lee asks us to withhold judgment and take the time to understand the people behind the names.

Instead of following a strictly linear plot, the play interweaves scenes from before and after Tray’s death. With this stylistic choice, Lee creates powerful relationships between characters and a compelling narrative arc. During a particularly poignant moment, I broke into tears. And then, seconds later, I began to laugh as Tray embarked on a hilarious

I have probably seen more Long Wharf productions than 95 percent of the student body. However, this piece was the most powerful one I’ve seen to date, not just because of the story itself, acted out in an enclosed, dark theater, but because of the social justice movements operating beyond the theater’s walls. The Long Wharf reached out to over 100 civic groups. Since tickets prices are a barrier between the arts and lower socioeconomic groups, the theater provided tickets at reduced prices (as low as five dollars). Children and families from across New Haven have been able to experience and relate to Tray’s story.

In other words, the Long Wharf Theatre brought together a wide array of people, from regular theater goers to those more familiar with Tray’s upbringing. “Brownsville” offers hope to all audience members, and a final message — a life cannot be assessed by its end. Tray was not just a headline, or a number. He was a brother, a grandson, a friend.

Contact STEPHANIE ROGERS at stephanie.rogers@yale.edu .

La/Dy/Da: How to be a lady // BY EDDY WANG

Quiet jazz music fades as Isabel Archer enters the world of “La/Dy/Da.” The stage, three times as wide as it is long, is blue and a bit dull in luster, reminding one of twilight, that period before the dark, between one day and another.

The set consists of three stage platforms, spaced out in a row; behind the platforms stand three canvases of trees, their leaves rectangles of orange, pink and white. Isabel, in a blue knee-length dress, sets her chair between two of the platforms, smiling at the audience.

Isabel Archer, played by Miranda Rizzolo ’15, has arrived in England to stay at her uncle and aunt’s for the first time.

“La/Dy/Da,” an adaption of Henry James’s novel “The Portrait of a Lady,” tracks Isabel’s journey as she is chatted up by one man after another, in her room, on the front lawn, and — plot twist — in a reality TV show called “The Proposal-Off.” They all love her, or so they say. Even her cousin Ralph, played by David Gore ’15, fancies her. Within days of Isabel’s arrival, Ralph’s father dies, and the young successor promptly gives his cousin half

of his inheritance. Finally, after many professions of love, the protagonist leaps into the arms of Gilbert Osmond, an American living in Italy, played by Ben Symons ’15, Rizzolo captures Isabel’s naive exuberance and then transitions convincingly into her dark, postmarital life. Even in silent moments, she engages with the audience by way of her strong gestures and revealing gaze. Symons plays Osmond and the other male suitors with a magician’s skill, changing personality and demeanor on a dime. He expertly incarnates minor characters in quick succession, while also developing the cruel, manipulative character of Osmond. The director, Gabrielle Hoyt-Disick ’15, combines scenes with one central focus and scenes that span all three of the platforms, taking full advantage of the long stage.

After Isabel marries Osmond, the piece takes a turn, moving from optimistic innocence to a darker place.

Her chair is her cage; up in the Whitney Theater’s balcony, characters often watch her in groups, disdainfully bringing

opera glasses up to their eyes.

Rizzolo’s expression changes — there is pain in her eyes, and she seems suddenly older.

“La/Dy/Da” is a blend of the classic and the modern, as well as a devised piece of theater (and Hoyt-Disick and Rizzolo’s senior project). In other words, it’s a collaborative creation, inspired by the ideas of cast and crew alike. Great chunks of James’s text are kept, sometimes rearranged, and nicely combined with fresh material.

In one scene, women in blank tank tops and tight yoga pants serenade Isabel to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.” In moments, the play is slightly lewd — for example, one character makes indecent jokes about adulterous women. This is a critique, a commentary on the objectification of women.

Osmond’s best weapon is his twisted, devious rhetoric, which shackles Isabel to slavish subservience. Still, Isabel eventually makes her way up to the balcony; however, even there, she cannot escape the theater.

In fact, as she reaches the balcony, once a place of power and dominance, the tables turn — her small chair becomes the

focal point. Other characters hijack her stool, making it the new seat of authority. Isabel must come to her senses, find her own value and independence, and make the choice that is best for her, even if it falls short of her ideals.

Contact EDDY WANG at chen-eddy.wang@yale.edu .

// RUOXI YU

SUND AY APRIL

19

SILENT FILM GALA

WHC Auditorium // 7 p.m.

Harold Lloyd in “Never Weaken” (1921) and “Grandma’s Boy” (1922) with live musical accompaniment!

WKND RECOMMENDS: Need we a closet of braids, that traditional garb, when today’s tailors make clothes out of metal ?

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, APRIL 17, 2015 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND BACKSTAGE

ARTIST OF TRAUMA AND CHANGE: MARY KARR // BY CORYNA OGUNSEITAN

M

ary Karr, a poet, essayist and memoirist, came to the Divinity School last week to speak at a colloquium hosted by the Institute of Sacred Music

about “Art Born of Trauma.” It was a natural choice — Karr often writes about religion and her traumatic childhood in eastern Texas; her memoir, “Liar’s Club,” which addresses the latter, was a New York Times best seller for over a year and was named one of the best books of 1995. Her bestknown essay, “Against Decoration,” criticizes modern poetry for its attention to form for the sake of form. For Karr, writing is supposed to be about feelings and moving the reader.

Karr has also taken an interest in religion. She has described her spiritual history as a journey “from black-belt sinner to lifelong agnostic to unlikely Catholic.” Karr currently teaches English Literature and Creative Writing at Syracuse University. WKND sat down with her to talk about God, art, and why and how we write.

// DEBORAH FEINGOLD

A: I have written about God. I was an atheist my whole life and converted in my thirties. I’m Catholic. Everyone’s surprised I wound up Catholic. I think it’s deep. When my son was little, he asked me to go to church and I said why and he said the only thing he could have said: to see if God’s there. So we did this thing I called God-a-rama: we just went to any church or temple where somebody we knew had a practice. I would sit in the back and grade papers, and then I just got lured in. I think it’s the simple faith of the people, of liberation theology, of working for the poor.

All religions are charitable, but I just happened to find myself in the company of this wad of Catholics. They got me.

Q: You’ve written that “poetry is the same as prayer” — can you explain this idea?

A: In both places you’re reaching out from despair, in hope of finding something sacred. I can’t remember who said it first, but I always think art of any kind should disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed. I think religion should do the same thing.

I think I put my hope and despair in poetry, whether I was reading it or writing it. I do both: I write and read poetry, and I pray as well.

Q: What’s the work you’re most proud of?

A: I’m not particularly proud of anything. I’m just not. I mean, I don’t really think an artist can have an opinion about his or her

work. I do the best I can do, and whether it succeeds or not is about my detaching from it.

Q: Do you enjoy creating it?

A: No, I don’t.

Q: Why do you do it?

A: It’s just something I’m supposed to do — I don’t know how else to explain it. I’ve been writing since I was five. The best days, you can’t feel your ass in the chair: you lose self-consciousness. It is absorbing to me.

It takes all of my intelligence and what little I can muster. I can’t think of any great writer who says they enjoy writing. When I was younger I enjoyed writing, but I think as you get older you don’t enjoy it anymore.

Q: Can you imagine not writing?

A: No. I’ve been doing it for 55 years.

Q: Do you have advice for people who want to be writers?

A: Read. Read, and read, and rewrite. If you can avoid writing, I would suggest you do. I don’t think it’s that healthy of a lifestyle. You’re by yourself all the time, and in your head all the time. It makes you narcissistic and self-conscious and selfinvolved. I always say my mind is a bad neighborhood, you know — you shouldn’t go there alone. I would recommend doing something else, if you don’t have to do it. But most of us don’t have a choice. I was talking to Louise Glück, and I said if I had a choice between being a writer and being

happy I would choose being happy. She laughed and said, “Don’t worry, you don’t have a choice.” We’re not moral titans; we’re not Oprah. I think God wanted me to be a writer. I think a lot of young people have an idea of being a writer that’s really different from the reality of being a writer.

Q: How did you get to where you are?

A: I grew up very poor. Most writers are from upper middleclass families. But I was 40 years old before I could make a living.

People who were way dumber than I was were making a lot of money ... They try to teach heroin addicts not to disassociate; if you’re a writer, you’re in a constant state of disassociation. If you look at most writers, if you read a lot of writers’ biographies, they’re not nice people.

Most writers, we do heroin, we sleep with your daughters. It doesn’t have to be that way — we’re God’s creatures, we’re just odd creatures. I take my husband, who’s a businessman, to a dinner party with other writers and no one even asks him what he does.

Q: Why do you write memoir?

A: For money.

Q: Would you rather be writing something else?

A: I would rather write poetry.

If I didn’t have a kid who needed to go to college, I wouldn’t have written a memoir. I was a single mom living in Syracuse, I didn’t have a car, I had to take a bus for an hour and a half to pick him up after school. It’s a good reason to write for money. The poetry and the essays and stuff: that’s labors of love. Nobody cares if I write those except me. They’d probably give me a million dollars to write another memoir, but I’d rather eat a bug.

Q: Who is one of your favorite poets?

A: Christian Wiman, who invited me, is one of my favorite poets.

His

“

poetry is really felt — it’s not someone just showing off, it’s genuinely about a struggle. He has a terminal disease, and he writes a lot about God. Q: What are you working on now?

A: I’m writing a script for a TV show based on my memoir.

The script is due — what’s today, Wednesday? The script is due Friday.

Q: Have you started?

A: Oh yeah. I’m almost done.

Contact CORYNA OGUNSEITAN at coryna.ogunseitan@yale.edu .

I ALWAYS THINK ART OF ANY KIND SHOULD DISTURB THE COMFORTABLE AND COMFORT THE DISTRUBED.

“

Q: Why did the Yale Divinity School reach out to you? You’re an author!