This WEEKEND

WEEKEND // FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013

UNDOCUMENTED BUT UNAFRAID //BY YANAN WANG

One Yalie’s decision to break the silence. PAGE 3

INGESTING

B4-5

INTROSPECTIVE

B9

ILLNESS

B12

HIDDEN GEMS

THE QUIET ONES

EASTERN MEDS

WEEKEND taste tests under-the-radar joints in New Haven.

Jackson McHenry explores the psychology of a rare breed at Yale.

Turning to a Neti Pot in your time of need — and embarking on a feversih personal journey instead.

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

AVERBUCH

WEEKEND VIEWS

BLANK PAGE // FICTION FEARS // OF LEMONTREE GIRLS AND SAD YOUNG MEN // BY MAYA AVERBUCH

CARNEY

“How do you decide what to write about?” a girl in the front row of my writing class asked John Crowley. “You could tell an infinite number of stories.” If only she could have seen the look on my face.

I shared her uncertainty, but instead of losing myself in a garden of forking paths, I imagined myself at the entryway, paralyzed by another question: How do you come up with anything at all?

Back when my world seemed made up of mischievous fairies, long-lost princesses and cackling sailors, my parents would lie down next to me each night and read from the slender storybooks that lined my shelves. The one I remember best involved a beautiful young woman who emerges from cutopen lemons, but disappears unless she is given water immediately.

Sometimes, I would ask for something new. Out would come some fantastic tale that, when my father was narrating, usually involved various kinds of dwarves. When my parent started to nod off in the dark and stopped talking, I elbowed them roughly and demanded, in my absurdly high-pitched voice, that they finish. I was soon wellequipped to invent thrilling plots for my collection of Beanie Baby friends.

By the time I had outgrown my pink polka-dotted turtleneck, I was writing some of my stories down.

My third-grade writing book, which sits on my mother’s shelf, includes a truly awful tale about a girl being saved from a jellyfish by her valiant dog, and a sap-fest featuring my own version of Cyrano de Bergerac.

The one from fifth grade includes a melodramatic poem about an elephant in the sunset and a pitiful figure clinging to the last threads of life before he is consumed by illness; at 10, I sought depth. My ninthgrade teacher once noted that he never assigned fiction because the one time he did — and here his face contorted in disgust — the results were horrendous. Hardly any fic-

tion assignments followed, and I graduated with a short story about a girl named Lilah who struggles to fall asleep in much the way I did (I took “write what y o u know” quite literally), and a superhero story with a disappearing cat, a one-page mimicry of a scene in Bergman’s “Wild Strawberries” and a not-so-subtle reference to Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” (the search for depth continues). If anyone asks where the original is, please reply that it’s gone with the let’s-hear-itfor-the-bullshit wind.

Nonfiction was my haven. I was never a diligent diarist, but the personal essays I wrote for school let me speak plainly, to write about the things I thought I knew and the thoughts I knew I had. Teachers would sit, pen in hand, and read the narratives about my summer travels, journalistic insecurities and failed romantic endeavors, and their encouraging comments suggested genuine interest. Not once did I have to search for something less real, a story almostbut-not-quite based on dreams or pulled from the nebulous land of invention. There was a comfort in having the material ready in front of me and simply being expected to shape it. The task was not to replicate reality but to present a version with a storyline.

a mustache?). I thought of abusive parents, life-ruining cancer and scandalous affairs before beating myself up for sounding like a Hallmark movie. The task, it seemed, was to create an untruthful reality, an elusive other dimension in which events that might have happened, but never did, play out. But without the absurdity of talking gnomes, I was not afforded impossibilities; there needed to be something inherently familiar in the setup of the room, the movement of the characters and the words that emerged, though I had never witnessed the scene I was describing.

Sitting in “Intro to Creative Writing” this semester, I look at the other students in the room and wonder how much of themselves they place in their fiction. I wonder whether their dialogues are based on conversations they have sort of had and whether their characters’ thoughts are based on their own. I squirm and look down at times, feeling as though I know their secrets, even though they have never shared them with me.

We were told to write about an unspoken central tension, so I lay on the couch and asked my suitemate what people avoid discussing (she: sex changes), then brought it up at a dinner with a friend (he: girl gets her period? girlfriend has

When I painstakingly reached the end of my required one page, I brought it quietly to a friend and asked what she thought the plot was. “Woman goes on vacation”?

Wrong. Woman leaves husband.

Rewrite. I sat under the fluorescent lighting in my library computer room for three hours, until long after everyone had gone to bed, and tried again. I rearranged sentences, picked through paragraphs and wondered about the implications of the word “oh.” No matter how much I love curling up under the covers with a novel, fiction confounds me.

Alone in a room with a single virtual page, I felt dangerously helpless. Yet there’s something thrilling about seeing how far you can get, how vivid a sad young man can become by the end of a page. For now, I wait to see what the professor says when he hands back my juvenile attempts. Chances are I’ll be back in the computer room soon, thinking of lemon-tree girls, ugly dwarves and the unsaid things nestled in those personal essays; from there, I hope, the fiction will come.

Contact MAYA AVERBUCH at maya.averbuch@yale.edu .

// KAREN TIAN

We Need To Separate Its Vertebrae, Its Meat // BY ABIGAIL CARNEY

The last time I was here, a bulbous ’60s-era television placed inside a teepee was playing lesbian porn. Two 7-foot beast men, one with a wolf snout and the other in an Adidas tracksuit, stood on either side of a drum. Underneath the chatter of the art students drinking wine around me, I noticed a slow beat. The canvas drawn over the mouth of the drum slowly turned rosy, like the lining of a womb. A silhouette became visible, and I realized that though the beast men were made of metal and clay, the drum was alive. There was a person inside that drum in the mezzanine of Green Hall, the student gallery at the Yale School of Art. Months later, I stand on the first floor of the gallery, and look down at the art now in the space that once held the drum. A computer home page is projected onto the wall.

Surely this live feed of a grey desktop cannot be art, and that fuzzed white noise is not, and the eight Saran-wrapped cardboard shapes overlaid with orange, yellow and blue fat extension cords are trying to be. I walk down the stairs. Projections of the footage from two security cameras run side by side on the wall across from the desktop screen. As I approach the boxes stacked and folded into the shape of alien chrysalises, I can see brand names through the clear and green Saran wrap. These boxes once held wine bottles or oranges or the Sony Dream Machine playing out the white noise. On the wall to my left, there is a photo collage of rotting wood, mushrooms and maggots. No one else is in the gallery. The Dream Machine goes quiet, but a televi-

F R I D AY SEPTEMBER 13

sion tells me about the “aeroplanesized” whale shark pulled out of the sea in Karachi, Pakistan, and beyond that, another monitor set up inside a plastic fern emits almost comical moans. The works of art talk to each other across the gallery.

Last time — once I realized there was a man in the drum — the teepee, the beast men, the hide covering the floor and the Technicolor prophets on the walls melded into meaning. There was not one exact tenor, like we are animals trapped in capitalism. But I carried the terror and wonder of it for months.

Later, having first left the new exhibit with lots of wondering but little meaning, I bring a poet-economist friend. He tells me, “I can’t do this, this is cardboard. Seriously, I hope this isn’t art. … I think people just forgot to move out, or like, just threw shit down here.” He thinks intentionality is important.

He tells me that if someone reads one of his poems and finds a meaning he didn’t intend, he likes to correct them. He says that for many modern artists, “I guess their vision becomes muddled, because what they’re trying to get people to feel, it isn’t, it isn’t that successful.” My friend could provide an exhaustive account of what each of his works mean. He stops and admits that he could never call the art in the gallery worthless — without knowing the artists’ goals, he believes, he cannot offer judgment. Were each of these works explained to us, he wants me to understand, we might find the person inside of the drum.

When I return a third time that afternoon, by myself now, the desktop is open to a Web page where you

can Google search for an image by drawing one. A Rothko is displayed in a computer window open on the right of the desktop screen. Back on the search page, the cursor recreates the work. It draws an orange rectangle, overlays its top half with a mustard one and then, below it, produces a taller crimson block. Will Google give us the painting? Results for “visually similar images” include a saffron iPad case, a yellow iPhone case, a mustard leather diary and a marigold workbook from a company called Forge. I notice that the desktop toolbar reads “Houman Momtazian.” This work must be his. The cursor begins to recreate the Rothko again. Now I realize it’s a loop: Computer imitates art imitates iPad case.

I CAN’T DO THIS, THIS IS CARDBOARD. SERIOUSLY, I HOPE THIS ISN’T ART...

That night, the Art School students gather at 36 Edgewood to watch the new first-years present their work. I try to guess which one is Houman so I can ask him about his exhibit at Green Hall. An Iranian woman plays a film in which her smooth hands sort through forms and passport photos as she coos, “Do you understand my art?”

“Do you understand my art not?”

It’s another loop. Her accent makes the “not” sound like “now” the first five times I hear it. I imagine there’s substantial commentary about “now art” perceived as “not.”

I want to ask around for Houman, but I’m too nervous. These students, with 3-inch-tall platform shoes and graceful muscles from their dancing days, talk about the cardboard boats they built to shipwreck lesbians they were once in love with on islands. Perhaps they wouldn’t all exactly understand Houman’s Rothko imitation loop, but they would know how to talk about it intelligently. Instead, I walk out of the presentations early and Google Houman. He is a graphic designer. The unexplained cardboard sculpture must be outside of what he is comfortable with, too.

As Houman sits inside with all the other art students, I email him.

Houman Momtazian agrees to talk to me about his work and lets me into Green Hall at 12:53 a.m.

He is from London, about 5 feet 4 inches and is wearing dark jeans.

His voice is elegant and euphonic enough to make me self-conscious.

He has wild eyebrows and a welcoming laugh. As we walk toward the basement, I explain to Houman that in this gallery without placards, I knew the installation was his because of the computer toolbar.

He says, “Oh, yes, just this film is mine,” pointing at the screen displaying the Rothko Google drawing. Instead of it all coming together now that I’m next to the artist, I am assured that these are disparate works of art. Houman explains to me that on a certain day the students all bring the work they want

“INTRODUCTION TO HISTORY PAINTING” WITH JOHN WALSH

Contact ABIGAIL CARNEY at abigal.carney@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

YUAG // 1:30 p.m.

Walsh, director emeritus of the Getty Museum in L.A., shares his wisdom.

to show into the gallery. Then Sam Messer, the associate dean, curates them. Maybe someone brought in the man and Sam put him in the drum.

The clips about the whale shark in Karachi are still running. It is a huge animal — one and a half Houmans would fit between its eyes. A newscaster narrates the three-day exhibition where the actual shark was displayed. “People at the exhibition are climbing onto the fish and crushing its bones and there is no one to stop them.” The whale and the Rothko were not meant to be conflated, but as Houman tells me how he is fascinated by “people who go to the MOMA and buy postcards of art, or who have reproductions of Rothkos in their living rooms that aren’t just white bordered prints, but are on canvas, with texture,” I think of people knifing off pieces of whale shark meat.

Houman Momtazian tells me, “I’m interested in mimesis, imitations … and that Google made an algorithm for understanding art.”

His film continues to loop. Nearby, a biologist in Karachi explains that now, “We need to separate its vertebrae, its meat.” Google cannot find the man in the drum, but it understands Rothko as an individual yellow block. The biologist will understand the whale shark by examining each of its individual parts. And I turn to notice the Dream Machine again. Its muddled rhythm complements the ceaseless creation of the orange and mustard and crimson.

Sharding in Trumbull Saybrook Solidarity!

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND COVER

‘NO CUADRA’ // BY YANAN WANG

he first time he arrived in the United States, three-year-old Juan Cerda ’15 was on a truck tire floating across the Rio Grande river. Cerda’s parents had decided that wading through the waters would be easier than crossing the desert. From there, they trekked to El Paso and then took a plane to Dallas. All in all, Cerda has spent just four years of his life in Mexico — three as a toddler, and one as a child waiting for his mother to receive cancer treatment. But for almost all of the 16 years he has lived in America, Cerda has had no permission to live in this country.

His status is one that is shared by 11 million others in the country. When he graduated from Grand Prairie High School in 2011, he became one of 65,000 undocumented students who graduate from US secondary schools each year and among the 7.5 percent of undocumented high school graduates who move on to college, according to data gathered by the Immigration Policy Center. While Yale does not keep official numbers, University Director of Financial Aid Caesar Storlazzi ’75 MUS ’84 estimated that there are at most 20 undocumented students currently on campus.

T

ing members of society. For a country that had yet to see its students, workers and public figures alike come out as hidden “aliens,” the DREAM Act seemed to be calling for a kind of high and lofty wish-fulfillment: It provided a steady, albeit complicated, path to permanent resident status where none had existed before.

In 2010, four Miami-Dade County college students — Felipe Matos, Gaby Pacheco, Carlos Roa and Juan Rodriguez — embarked on a 1,500 mile journey from Miami, Fla., to Washington, D.C. to raise awareness about immigration reform and advocate a halt on the deportation of undocumented students. The walkers called their project the Trail of Dreams. Along the path, they were joined by a range of immigration reform groups and allies.

June of the next year, Pulitzer Prizewinning writer Jose Antonio Vargas published a column in the New York Times entitled “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant.” In a personal retelling of his journalism career, Vargas revealed his struggles to reconcile his American upbringing — and subsequent deep-seated belief in his own “Americanness” — with his Filipino birth and the lack of documentation he had to support an American identity. Coming out as the first openly gay student in his San Francisco high

WHEN I FOUND OUT ABOUT [MY UNDOCUMENTED STATUS], MY ENTIRE WORLD KIND OF FLIPPED UPSIDE DOWN. AND YET IT WAS ALSO RIGHT SIDE UP FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER. Dark-haired and lean, Cerda arrived at our meeting in the Berkeley North Court Common Room in much the same way that most Yale students do: slightly out of breath and a little flustered, apologizing for being late.

It had been a busy day, he said. Folding into a leather couch, Cerda began to recount the number of people with whom he had talked about being an undocumented immigrant. The list included his family, his high school history teacher, one Yale professor and a handful of friends.

“I try to keep my status a private thing,” Cerda said.

I asked whether he was comfortable, then, about revealing it to the greater Yale population. A beat passed before he nodded. “Yeah,” Cerda smiled. “People should know.” *** When the DREAM (Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors) Act was first proposed in the Senate on Aug. 1, 2001, few Americans understood what the life of an “illegal” immigrant might entail. For most people, it was unimaginable that individuals with neither valid drivers’ licenses nor Social Security numbers could survive as function-

school, he wrote, had been an easier task than coming out as an undocumented immigrant.

Following this disclosure, Vargas became an outspoken advocate for immigrant reform in the United States, publishing a Time magazine cover story on the issue in the summer of 2012. Shortly afterward, the Obama administration came out with some news of its own: Through a memorandum known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), undocumented immigrants who arrived in America before they were 16 years old (and had not yet reached 31 years of age as of the announcement) were now protected from deportation and eligible for temporary work authorization.

When Obama’s executive order was put in place on June 15, 2012, Cerda was rewiring a chandelier. While most of his classmates at Yale had obtained internships or gone abroad for the summer, neither was an option for Cerda without documentation. For many years, he has gone door-to-door with his dad, selling and installing electrical wires for newly built homes.

Spring semester freshman year had been difficult, Cerda explained, because everyone was applying for summer internships, many of which were unpaid

AUGUST 1, 2001 The DREAM (Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors) Act was first proposed in the Senate.

F R I D AY SEPTEMBER 13

or would require l e g a l paperwork.

“I couldn’t explain to my suitemates that I couldn’t do what they were doing — that it wasn’t possible for me,” Cerda said. “When you don’t have papers, you take whatever you can get.”

But that day, Cerda’s father received a call from his uncle, who was watching the news of deferred action unfold on television. His father quickly brought his cellphone up to where Cerda was working upstairs. When he learned of the memorandum, Cerda said all he felt was shock.

Pulling out his wallet, Cerda grinned at me. “Wanna see it?” he asked. He gingerly took out a small, plastic identification card and placed it flat on the table between us. A few days later, another undocumented student — Jordy Padilla, an engineering major at the University of New Haven — would do the same thing, with the same degree of pride. The red-and-blue employment authorization card could not grant them reentry into the United States, but they could use it to obtain a Social Security number for work purposes, which they could then use to obtain a driver’s license.

“It’s the most treasured I.D. that I have in my pocket,” Cerda said. “If I ever lose it, I’m in serious trouble.”

Cerda began gathering the paperwork for DACA as soon as he heard the news. He sent in his application a month later, and received his work authorization that November. “Money was tight,” he said, before he was able to obtain part-time work. Now he is employed as a Student Tech, a position which he described as “one of the best on campus.”

Just a few years ago, before DACA, the issue of undocumented immigrant status had been much more veiled. When David*, a Yale senior, first arrived on campus in 2010, he was told by workers at the Yale Office of International Students and Scholars to stay under the radar. “Don’t tell anyone,” they said. “Wait until [something] happens.”

When David asked them what his options were, they laid them out to him bluntly: “Worse comes to worst, you’ll have to leave the country.”

“I still remember this very clearly,” David said. “They told me, word for word: Ten years isn’t such a long time.”

The figure was in reference to the waiting period generally imposed on undocu m e n te d immigrants who return to their home countries in the hopes of eventually re-entering the United States with legal papers.

On June 27, the United States Senate passed the Border Security, Economic Opportunity and Immigration Modernization Act of 2013, a comprehensive immigration reform bill that would create a path toward legal status for millions of undocumented young people like David and Juan. Section 2103 of the bill addresses the DREAM Act and its provisions for individuals who entered the country as children, but whether the House of Representatives will move on the bill remains uncertain. *** Step onto any corner of campus, and it’s not difficult to find an immigrant story. Look a little further, and you’re likely to find an undocumented immigrant story.

David was unaware of his status until he was 15 years old, when he went to open a bank account. As identification, his father handed the teller a Latin American passport with the image of a baby-faced David — it was the passport with which he had boarded a plane for the first and last time.

For several years, David had been confused about his parents’ approach to certain situations: They were extremely careful with the police, they were always diligent about paying taxes, they vehemently came to the defense of immigration when the subject arose. Growing up, David felt an uneasiness which he could not explain. There was a sense of “no cuadra” — that things didn’t quite square up.

“When I found out about [my undocumented status], my entire world kind of flipped upside down,”

SEE UNDOCUMENTED PAGE B8

JUNE 22, 20 1 1 Pulitzer Pri ze-winning journalist Jose Anton io Vargas p ublished “M Life as an U y ndocumen ted Immigrant” in th e New York Times.

JANUARY 1, 2010 Four Miami-Dade County college students embarked on a 1,500 mile journey from Miami, Fl. to Washington, D.C. to advocate for the passing of the DREAM Act.

PLAYWRITING MASTER CLASS: TARELL ALVIN MCCRANEY

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Iseman Theater // 4 p.m.

Nothing like a Friday class.

David said.

“And yet, it was also right side up for the first time ever.”

For other students, the stories of David and Cerda are the stories of their family and friends. Omar De Los Santos ’15 was born near Los Angeles, but his parents arrived in the country from Mexico without documentation in the late ’70s. Karla Maradiaga ’15 grew up among family members and friends who were undocumented. As a child, her mother took her to immigrant rights protests and told her, “Remember that you were one of the lucky ones.”

“I’m not undocumented, but my story and my past are not that different from those of people who didn’t come here legally,” Maradiaga said.

“Where I grew up in Seattle, it was rarer to be documented than it was to be undocumented.”

Immigration status as a piece of one’s identity appears seemingly innocuous for most of childhood, right up to the first moment when you are required to fill out official paperwork.

For some undocumented students, that moment occurs at the D.M.V., when a driver’s permit, that coveted rite of passage for American teenagers, is denied them. For others, that moment takes place in front of a computer screen or a stack of papers — it is the moment when, while other high school seniors dream of going away — undocumented students realize that college may have to wait.

Padilla described his first three years at nearby Wilbur Cross High School as “just like any other high school success story.”

“I knew that I was undocumented, but I didn’t really think that it was

Pooping in Berkeley Saybrook Solidarity!

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND FORAYS COFFEE

No Juliet for this Romeo // BY YUVAL BEN-DAVID

contact, talk up Baudrillard, and things would evolve. But the only action you’re getting is from the paintings on the walls — artistic visions of nubile manga-women with flowers for heads. It’s kinky and heteronormative; you’re mad but couldn’t care less anymore.

It’s easy to see corporate conspiracies at Café Romeo. But it’s THERE WAS JUST even easier to discern the End of ENOUGH AVOCADO Irony — the sunny day when Lena Dunham is no longer the voice of a TO REMIND ME generation, and there are no more corporate conspiracies.

OF MY PERCH Remember the last scene in IN THE NEW Weeds, when pot’s legal and ENGLAND LIBERAL Nancy opens a coffee shop chain (of the Amsterdam variety)? The CONSPIRACY. gang resettles in suburbia; there’s no swagger to be swung because The paper containers here, all’s normalized. Things just are. like the ones for fries at baseball Café Romeo’s kind of like that. games, spell exactly the kind of There are thousands of places American Exceptionalism your like this in America, with their Uncle Pootie-Poot over at the stainless steel tables and stainKremlin recently put out of fash- less steel chairs and wavy stainless ion (or maybe just out of its Pro- steel ceiling panels. The color palette is earthy: a sprig of brown and zac-guzzling misery). pancakes.

Turns out you really aren’t that olivine green: Oregon office-space The bluecool. chic. Maybe the folks at Romeo berry satisfies with fat fruit You came to Café Romeo think they’re cool, but I suspect that gave the cake wanting to say, “Fuck the patri- normalcy buoys them. An M&M a starchy sweetness. archy!” You made a beeline dispenser sits like an afterthought Both blueberry and for that East Rock café as if in the back, swaggering so slightly. chocolate chip were for the promise of another These cafes are sad and sweet well endowed with their life: authentic, with- and have no poetry. They serve respective mix-in, with a out QR requirements, soups and sandwiches; salads and one in which we all (sometimes, like at Romeo) pizza, morsel in nearly every piece. get to live off cam- too.

The pancakes, like the pus and cook up donuts, are substantial: three If Blue State at midday is all quinoa dinners. North Korean pageantry — a hunto a plate, each the diameter of You thought dred stern undergrads highlightan outstretched hand. But, like you might ing in unison — this is all happythe donuts, they are too bland for find your go-fuck-yourself, Walden Pond their abundance and colored not TA there. self-reliance. Each customer is bear-fur brown but a light, blasé Yo u ’ d an island; there’s peace and quiet, gold, though objections to color m a ke none of the camaraderie born of are purely a matter of personal t h e e y e Blue State’s cramped corridors. preference. All pancakes were soundaccompanied by a bowl of pack- t r a c k It’s a scene for the dabblers. aged butter and “maple syrup,” r e p l i e d What matters is that the grub’s good. The coffee was realer than actually a foodservice concoction with a blarBook Trader’s, less acidic than called “Breakfast Syrup,” both of ing of “We are Blue State’s, more full-bodied which were disappointing and Family.” There artificial accompanists to a meal is a strong sense than most. I had the Cobb Salad Wrap. The vinegar was balnot prepared to perform alone. of displaced cheeranced; everything worked iness inside Orangin concert. And there was eside that, despite its just enough avocado to efforts, most resembles LET THINGS remind me of my perch an industrial cafeteria.

FALL APART AND in the New England A curly-haired companion of mine noted perliberal conspiracy.

GAPPED CENTER ceptively that the restaurant, CEASE TO HOLD. in both arrangement and smell, Contact YUVAL recalled a hockey rink. My own BEN-DAVID at yuval.benOmelets are available as well, memories of rink-side birthday though we did not try them. Ser- party feasts, serving doughy pizza david@yale. vice was attentive and timely, appreciable only by an indiscrimedu . although we visited shortly after inating child, sprung immediately a n the early-morning opening and to mind. end avoided the lunch scramble. And In appearance Orangeside does a n d prices are reasonable — pancakes not aspire to be a fine-dining c l a s s here will cost less than what- diner, or a college student stan- b e g i n s . ever you are currently paying dard. You will sit, eat and leave. If L i ke a l l for breakfast. Our five-item bill there is sentimentality to be found of us, new totaled only $18.15 and paid for in your meal, it will come not from f r i e n d s h i p s far more food than we were able to the décor but the two people who need some form finish. have, without complaint, agreed of nourishment.

It is a diner, with sizable por- to meet you at 7:15 that morning so tions emblematic of American that you do not have to dine solo.

Contact JENNIexcess, even if the space is wanting You get along, and you will talk for FER GERSTEN at in neon signs and checkerboard quite a while as you eat. Perhaps it jennifer.gersten@yale.edu . floors. The left wall is painted a is fitting, then, that the portions bright leaf green, the right Trop- are so large, even if they do lack icana orange, and the result is a even a hint of culinary intrigue. crash of kitsch. A sparkly sign by At the very least they will last you our booth read “FAMILY,” while until your conversations wend to // TASNIM ELBOUTE, JENNIFER CHEUNG

It turns out Café Romeo doesn’t just peddle fancy Norwegian water bottles. They sell whole grains, too.

The better angels of your nature might be zooming in on that “Go Lean.” But that’s a Kashi trademark, and Kashi’s owned by Kellogg, and your anthropology professor wouldn’t really want you eating that. Oh no. Because breakfast is a site of power relations, she said, and Kellogg is a multinational corporation. And yeah, that’s bad. The world is flat and you’re a brat.

But alas, vegan peach coffee cake!

Thanks to you, cows a n d birds // BY JENNIFER GERSTEN will

BRUNCH

Squaring Off

Shape matters. After the winter holidays I often find myself gnawing the heads off reindeer sugar cookies long fallen out of Santa’s employ, while unformed shortbreads of equal staleness are left to a dignified death in the dumpster. It could be that though I’ve been a vegetarian for three years, I’ve a mutinous appetite in need of redress, but there’s a more universal explanation for my discriminatory chow-down. Children, forget what your mothers told you: It’s the outside that counts.

At Orangeside Luncheonette on Temple, that’s a belief both upheld and embraced. Its specialty, encased in glass that reflects the fluorescently colored walls, is square donuts: their four baked sides, intersecting at four baked right angles, form the most convincing evidence yet that the circle may indeed be squared. If you have come to break your fast from a night of exhaustive sleep, consider taking a moment in your diner booth to ponder their novelty.

But then be hungry, take a bite; let things fall apart and the gapped center cease to hold. The Boston Cream fools with its quotidian chocolate frosting, but conceals within a tunnel of crème that snakes around all four angles.

The crème itself is surprisingly light, hardly landing on the tongue before its artificial flavor takes off.

The Snickers special, crosshatched with a caramel and chocolate drizzle and sprinkled with peanuts, was one-note, though its namesake is a piquant triad.

Butter crunch, sided with sharp, crispy slabs, was cloyingly sweet and uncomplicated, lacking the anticipated fattiness of flavor.

For all donuts sampled, the cake texture was uniformly gluey and thick like an overstuffed pillow.

If a pastry is to be heavy, let it be complex enough to justify further investigation by bite. The ones on our plates ceased to surprise after our first tastes.

If it is still curves you crave, Orangeside offers a selection of

F R I D AY SEPTEMBER 13

roam free. Not that you’ll care when all that sugar piles into your flab and you contribute to the nation’s obesity epidemic. And what would Michelle Obama say about that? I’m sure a woman biceps really knows how to wag a finger.

YEMA PRESENTS: COLLEGE NIGHT ON BROADWAY

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Broadway // 5 p.m.

You will find (0) deals.

Taking a dump in Branford.

Saybrook Solidarity.

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B5

WEEKEND FORAYS

DINNER

Ravioli Romance

BAR

Firehouse 12: a fire-free escape // BY ALAN SAGE Firehouse 12 might be a little too “28” for the average Yale undergrad.

My compadres and I agreed there was something about our experience at the bar, located at the corner of Crown and Orange, that screamed to us a median age of 28. Perhaps we sensed a dwindling joie de vivre among the mélange of FES students, townies and stray seniors trading in more exuberant suite parties of their past 3 years for a Dark and Stormy ($9) on a Wednesday night. Of course, some go with Firehouse 12’s trademark “East Rock” ($9), a mixture of bourbon, amaretto and ginger beer that goes down strong on the first sip but leaves you with a nice sweet aftertaste.

Whatever you decide to drink, you’ll have plenty of time to work up a thirst on a walk over to the Ninth Square (last number, I promise), an unlikely enclave of high-end restaurants and shops perched along Orange Street south of Chapel. Across the street cardamom rose water lattes and kale chips present a suitable pregame option at Greenwell Coffee.

Artspace hides just around the corner.

While the bar’s name pays homage to its building’s previous incarnation, today’s Firehouse 12 fights flames with cool live jazz on most Friday nights ($12-18 tickets). You can trust Firehouse 12’s music selection, since the space houses a recording studio upstairs. When we descended into the cozy, basement bar on a regular weeknight, the DJ was spinning smooth jazz tracks, and not the smooth jazz considered synonymous with elevator music, but enchanting saxophone melodies suited for the Village Vanguard. Indeed, the bar’s cavernous walls and futuristic lights — parts look like a rock-climbing wall — better complemented the new age

tunes played later in the evening.

The bar wasn’t packed, but an eclectic crowd was taking in the evening. A girl in a tank top sipped a PBR at a nearby table, and a small business-casual cluster mingled on the far side of the bar. One guy in a plaid shirt was sitting at a table reading the New Yorker over a draft beer.

F R I D AY

FILM CULTURES COLLOQUIUM AND SCREENING SERIES

SEPTEMBER 13

Yalie-dominated venue, everyone seems rallied around a cause: a love of fraternity(ies), youth or the Dubra coursing through their bloodstreams. Yale often feels like a constant community so sharing a drink with strangers passing in the night can be refreshing.

Or you could just wait until you’re 28.

Contact ALAN SAGE at alan.sage@yale.edu .

TODAY’S FIREHOUSE 12 FIGHTS FLAMES WITH COOL LIVE JAZZ ON MOST FRIDAY NIGHTS We debated the purposes of all the evening’s visitors. “Date spot?” Maybe, probably on the line: the man and woman seated just to our left looked like they were battling with this very question. “Good for large groups?”

A few had set up shop by the more secluded tables, but Firehouse 12 probably isn’t the spot for your wildest night. Or you could always follow the example of our literary friend and bring your favori te ca m p u s publication (obviously WEEKEND).

O n yo u r

// BY LEAH MOTZKIN

Walking onto the patio of L’Orcio, a contemporary Italian restaurant on State Street, I felt as though I had been transported into a romantic fantasy world. A few blocks away from Yale’s familiar campus, the restaurant is an ideal place to go when you want some privacy. It is superb as a date spot: there are plenty of sparkling lights to set the mood; the portions are big enough to share; the cocktail menu boasts all sorts of aphrodisiacs for the over-21 set. And I know the full romance this place holds first hand.

No, unfortunately for me, I did not figure out a way for the YDN to pay for a hot date.

Rather, I got to witness one. That is right, I went to L’Orcio with one of Yale’s sexiest couples — Maia Eliscovich ’16 and Rohan Misra ’16 — to scope out just how intimate this charming bistro could be, and on that front, it did not disappoint.

Beyond the romance and intrigue the restaurant provides, L’Orcio did not entice me to return — either by the 20-minute walk or $9.70 taxi — any time soon.

When we sat down at the restaurant — which was Zagat rated for 2012-2013, so props for that — the hostess looked at us a bit more suspiciously than graciously. OK, we get it: you don’t normally have three people on date night. She did not ask us whether we would like to be inside or out, and just led us onto the patio. As previously described, the patio is gorgeous, but Maia and Rohan deserve their options, especially on a night as warm and buggy as ours was.

The menu had a typical range of Italian

classics, as well as some upscale options.

The insalate choices all looked amazing, and this vegetarian really wanted to see someone eat the handmade lobster ravioli. We all started off with a “Piatto Locale,” which boasted mixed cheeses, honey and lavender-walnut bread that were all locally sourced. The presentation was not particularly noteworthy, but all three cheeses were delicious.

Our waiter was just as mediocre as the hostess. He was far from attentive. As college students, we were younger than their normal guests, and it was clear that they were not especially keen to attract a Yale clientele. But judging by how busy the restaurant was on a Wednesday night, they do not necessarily need to.

Maihon (Roia? couple name TBD) decided to go vegetarian so that I could share with them, and we settled on three pasta dishes for our entree — the Sorrentina, the Norma, and the Ravioli di Pesto.

When Maia took her first bite of the Ravioli di Pesto she remarked, “I really like it.” Rohan found the Norma, which was Cavatelli pasta in an eggplant sauce, to be a little bland though he enjoyed the al dente texture. My Sorrentina, ricotta gnocchi in tomato sauce, was very fresh, but perhaps a little too soft.

Overall, the food was authentic but not necessarily good enough to lure me that far from campus. For next time, I’ll maybe try to find my own date. Yorkside, anyone?

Contact LEAH MOTZKIN at leah.motzkin@yale.edu .

// TOMAS ALBERGO, WA LIU

ave rage night at a

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Whitney Humanities Center // 7 p.m.

Watch “Battle of Algiers” and “Caché.”

Gotta be worth more than that 57th screening of “Clueless.”

Crapping in Calhoun Saybrook Solidarity!

PAGE B6

WEEKEND MEETS

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B7

THE GREATS

THE PRIZE OF A LIFETIME

JAMES SALTER: novelist, traditionalist, seeker of clarity

T

he Beinecke Library did not see it coming. Acclaimed novelist Donald Windham passes away and leaves most of his estate to the University in order to establish a literary award. Today, Yale is home to some of the richest prizes in existence — the Donald Windham-Sandy M. Campbell Literature Prizes. Recipients have each won an unrestricted award of $150,000 and have been welcomed on campus this week with promoted events and special tote bags to celebrate this watershed moment. WEEKEND was able to sit down with two of the prizewinners — novelist James Salter and nonfiction writer Adina Hoffman — to parse through their careers and acquired wisdoms.

// BY ALEC JOYNER

// WA LIU,

At 88, novelist James Salter has written five novels, sixteen screenplays, two short story collections, and a memoir— and as of this week, has received one of the best-funded awards in the literay world, something he likens to a lifetime recognition plaudit. Salter’s WindhamCampbell prize citation states that his “elegantly natural prose has a precision and clarity which make ordinary words swing wide open.” WEEKEND caught up with Salter on Thursday about the award, his writing methods and how many people (hint: none) he’ll show work to before he’s done with it.

Adina Hoffman: Narrating Nonfiction

Q. Have you enjoyed all of the events surrounding the prize?

// BY THERESA STEINMEYER

This week, the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscripts Library celebrated nine accomplished modern writers with the inaugural Windham Campbell Prize.

Among this year’s recipients is nonfiction author Adina Hoffman, who embraces her American and Jewish roots to write with a unique world-view. Harold Bloom called her most recent book, Sacred Trash, “a small masterpiece.” WEEKEND had the chance to meet up with Hoffman to discuss her work, her prize, and what it means to write great nonfiction.

Q. Yesterday, you received the Windham Campbell Prize for your nonfiction work.

How does that feel?

A. Terrific, obviously! Period, full stop.

Being a writer is often a very lonely job.

You’re alone at your desk most of the day and much of the time you have no idea if what you’re writing will be of any interest to anyone else at all, so it is wonderful to have this kind of affirmation and support.

Q. What do you believe makes a great nonfiction work?

A. That’s a very hard question to answer.

There are all kinds of things that make a wonderful nonfiction work and not every wonderful work of nonfiction has those things. I would say first and foremost a rigorous attention both to fact and to language.

Q. What inspires you as a writer?

A. The world inspires me. I started my writing life as a fiction writer but I quickly understood as a young writer that there was nothing I could make up that would be nearly as fascinating and rich as the world around me. I tend to write about the Middle East and so it was my initial encounter with Jerusalem and the incredibly fascinating and surprising range of characters who lived on my street that made me want to write about real people, and not to attempt to make things up. I believe that the imagination works in all kinds of ways and only one of those ways entails fabrication of plot and character wholesale. I’m

S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

much more interested in the depiction of reality as I encounter it.

Q. You’ve written many works concerning Jerusalem. You have a unique perspective as an author who has lived in both the United States and the Middle East. Is there a work that you are perhaps most proud of?

A. I’m proud of all my books in different ways. The book “My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness,” which is the life and times of the Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali, is one that I’m very proud of. It was a huge undertaking, and when I began, I did not realize just how huge of an undertaking it would be. I thought I was writing about one remarkable man and a remarkable writer, but it turned out that I was really writing about his whole world. He became the anchor for a much larger story about his village, which was destroyed in 1948, and about the world that he lived in after 1948. He remained in Israel but was a Palestinian, so I ended up writing about him as both an extraordinary figure and an ordinary figure.

Q. Can you tell us a bit about your writing process? What is it like to take these stories that you have experienced and researched and to bring them to life in a nonfiction work?

A. There is no recipe. Each project is different and it is hard to give a general answer.

The book that I am writing now, which is about Jerusalem during the British mandate, has entailed a great deal of archival research, but that’s really just the beginning because once you have all this material in hand—all of these letters and diaries and photographs—you then need to figure out how to turn them into a compelling narrative, again not by making things up, but by really using the glue of your imagination to piece all the different parts together. It’s very hard to describe the writing process per se—you simply feel your way. You try to be extremely rigorous with yourself. You don’t take no for an answer and you don’t settle for easy answers. I have to say that it’s not just the material itself that interests me; it’s really

what is done with the material. To be a writer, a good writer, means to bear down on every single word and every single sentence and every single paragraph so that a work of art emerges. And I do believe that it is possible to write artful prose that is also documentary.

Q. What has this prize meant to you? What about it have you appreciated?

A. The money is fantastic. The award is new, so you don’t know what it means in terms of prestige, but it is certainly already well known. And it is an odd award, since it seeks out writers at the beginning of their careers, almost debutante writers, as well as any other writer in English, so it’s a rather uneven selection of candidates. And you don’t know — in one sense, it’s like the MacArthur or Guggenheim because it helps people along early in their careers, and in my sense, in my case, it’s not like that. It comes at the end of the career. It’s more like an award for lifetime achievement.

So it’s a bit hard to categorize, but I think it’s going to become very well known, and very much envied.

Q. What would your advice be to aspiring writers at Yale?

A. Work very hard, read a great deal, and be honest with yourself about what you want as a writer. There are all kinds of ways to be a writer. I think that often one thinks of certain forms as being more worthwhile or valuable than other forms, but that’s not true at all. One of the first questions you asked was about what makes a good work of nonfiction, and I think there are as many possible kinds of works of nonfiction as there are writers and the same is true of fiction, or of playwriting, or of poetry.

Q. The Windham Campbell Prize comes with a $150,000 grant. Do you have a future project in mind or plans on what you’re going to do with the grant?

Q. At your Master’s Tea on Wednesday, you talked about an early manuscript you wrote that was “much too obscure” and “pretentious.” When you write, do you think about accessibility, and do you think about who you write for?

A. I’ll write this book that I’m writing now, which is about Jerusalem, and I will use it to live on and to write with. I’m not planning any expensive skiing vacations. This is money that will allow me to sit at my desk and work very hard. There are no guarantees, and winning a prize is wonderful, but it doesn’t mean that the next chapter will be any easier. It does take a certain pressure off financially. It also is a kind of confirmation that something you’ve done in the past has worked, but you’re still left alone with the page at the end of the day. Not to sound ungrateful— I’m incredibly grateful for this prize—but I think it’s necessary also to remain humble.

A. I think about both of them. But you don’t think about them every moment, the way a religious person might have God in their heart every moment. It depends what your ambition is. Do you want to be little known and highly regarded by arcane readers? I think generally speaking the ordinary ambition is to be available to readers — perhaps a certain level of reader in some cases, but, anyway, available. I think you want to be open to readers, deeply. That’s a conventional ambition. Do I have particular readers in mind? Well, it happens that I do. I usually think of a couple of people that I think might like this, might appreciate it.

Contact THERESA STEINMEYER at theresa.steinmeyer@yale.edu .

Q. Do you show anyone your writings before you’re done writing?

// BRIANNA LOO, KEN YANAGISAWA, JOYCE XI, AMRA SARIC

YALE BELLY DANCE SOCIETY AUDITIONS

A. Not my editor. Actually, no one.

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Broadway Rehearsal Lofts // 10 a.m.

Because, yes.

A. Well, reading can be pleasant. The audiences were receptive here, and that made it a pleasure.

Going to the loo in Davenport Saybrook Solidarity!

S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

Well, I let my wife [the playwright Kay Eldredge] read completed manuscripts, not pages. Not chapters. So I’m untampered with, unhindered in the writing. And she’s the first one who reads it. She’s a writer and I value her opinion highly. It causes temporary hatred, but it goes away. From a critic, it’s senseless to have friends or your wife or girlfriend, or husband as the case may be, read it and praise it. When you want a reader, you want to know what their response to it is. So it hurts a bit when it comes from somebody who presumably likes you and then says this about it, that stings, but other criticism is useless. Praise is useless.

Q. You said Wednesday that “writing is drawn from everything you know, and the act of ‘making up’ is drawing —” A. Well, I said “making up” assuming that it was understood that you don’t just make things up. Creating, or godlike assembling, would be more like it.

There are some things you make up, I suppose, but the percentage of madeup, chemical additives, so to speak, to the real story, to the real material, is small.

Q. Do you think of yourself as having an authorial voice that’s distinct or consistent? Or does it depend on what you’re writing?

A. I would say rather than that, generally speaking, when you read a couple of paragraphs, you know who wrote them.

In my case. I don’t know what that is. I suppose in part it’s vocabulary. In part it’s rhythm. In part it’s pace, which is a little different than rhythm. In part it’s stance. In part it’s point of view. In part it’s structural things. All those may be not be present in any one paragraph, but they’re all elements that might be, what can I say, flickering there that, as a reader — if you’ve read the same writer, in this case me, before — you’re able to say, “I know who wrote that.” If you choose to call that voice, okay. But I’m not sure that voice covers the whole thing.

Q. Another thing you said yesterday is that you think of “A Sport and a Pastime” as a sort of long prose poem. I’m wondering what you think the place of what some people might call poetry, or poetic language, is in a prose form or in something like a novel.

A. Well, there are a lot of poems that are only prose that has been broken into lines, fancy lines. I heard Harold Bloom lecture yesterday on Walt Whitman, and as you’re reading Whitman, it sounds […] rather prose-like, rather straightforward in several sections. Beautiful prose. So I don’t know where this line that separates the two is. When I said that “A Sport and a Pastime” is rather

ANGLES ON ART: “DEMISE AND TRANSCENDENCE: THE ETERNAL PARADOX” YUAG // 3 p.m.

Look at art, solve the riddle.

a prose poem, I meant that it’s rather rhapsodic without being sweet, without being sentimental, and it has its ecstasies without being insane. And all together, it is somewhat compressed.

It is a succinct book. […] I said “prose poem” not really for accuracy but to show the sector of writing that it more or less lay in. Accurately, it is a short novel, of some intensity.

Q. What do you think of the word — a word that I think gets used a lot critically, in reviews, usually positively, to describe prose writing — “lyrical”?

A. I think there are lyrical and there are narrative writers, and I’m probably a little over on the lyrical side. I don’t like the word because it has a certain fancy suggestion. I’m actually a masculine writer. In fact I’m often faulted for having a somewhat retro masculine view of things.

Q. Is that a criticism that bothers you?

A. Well, you can’t do anything about it.

As I say I’m past changing or improving myself, or correcting and reforming myself. So it’s odd to find sort of opposing descriptive adjectives — “lyrical,” “masculine” — what is this? A dancing football player is what it sounds like.

But I’m not either of them. They’re just words. Somebody said, “That’s what I think is a useful word here.”

Q. Is there a way that “masculine” does resonate with you, apart from the criticism, in your writing?

A. Well, I’m usually writing from a masculine point of view. I mean all writing is solipsistic. You only know what you know. You can’t be expected to know more than that. And what I know is reflected in my biography. A reader doesn’t necessarily know my biography — a reader knows nothing, merely opens the book. But I think my biography explains, in a way, some of the aspects of the tone of my writing and the point of view of it. Am I sensitive to it? No, because there’s no point being sensitive to who you are. Well, you can be ashamed of who you are, but I haven’t reached that point yet.

Q. Are you thinking particularly about the Air Force and your time there?

A. Well, that’s part of it but not all of it.

I am a figure of the past. That is to say, I grew up in the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s. So you can’t expect me to be “with it.” You can only expect me to be a good writer, or to be a writer that you would like to read, but as for being contemporary, that’s asking too much. I don’t want to put that too strongly. It’s not as if Rip van Winkle came and got a prize here. I was listening to Tom McCarthy talk today. He’s a dif-

ferent kind of writer coming from a different conception of writing. I would say my view of writing is traditional. It [my writing] is narrative, it is not nonsensical, it is definitely not postmodernist, for instance. That’s really the best way to describe it. I’m really a modernist writer. I’m not a postmodernist writer, although I recognize what’s going on.

I’m not blind to it, but I don’t write that way. It’s non self-referential, it’s not jokey, it’s not intricate, it’s not cynical, it’s not highly ironical, it’s not intensely self-involved. It’s none of those things.

What is it? I would say, essentially out of the modernist tradition.

Q. Do you feel like you’ve changed as a writer over time? Is there anything that you feel age has brought you in terms of your craft, your art?

A. No, I don’t think age informs you in terms of your ability to write in any way.

I’d say age is maybe a big help in having learned a lot of things. But the great energy, the desire and the newness usually come early. Not to say great works aren’t written late. Thomas Mann wrote late, Picasso painted late. There are a lot of late achievements. But the real heart of the order is right in the 20s, 30s, 40s, maybe 50s.

Q. I hesitate to ask you because I know you’ve been asked before, but what do you think of the conventional designation of being a “writers’ writer”?

A. I’ve complained about that enough and let it go. But it implies writing too good for your own good. Well, I don’t think that’s so. It further implies a certain wastefulness, that you’re just writing for other writers. Well, I’m not doing that. So I’ve stopped addressing it. People are going to continue to say that as long as they continue to read other people’s reviews, and they say, “Huh, let’s see who this is. Oh, all right, famed as a writers’ writer.”

Q. How about being a “great writer of sentences”? Do you think, structurally, on the level of the sentence when you write?

A. No. We talked about this this morning, with three sections of [Introduction to] Creative Writing — [John] Crowley, Richard Deming and Lanny Hammer — they wanted to talk about the sentence. So I merely described the way I normally write, on a piece of paper. I don’t normally pay that much attention to sentences. I try to get down what I’m thinking about. [When I’m revising,] I’m looking at sentences. Do they sound right to me? Would I be ashamed at writing such a rotten sentence?

Grammatically, is it okay, and if not, am I entitled to disregard grammar here?

Is there any rhythm to this? Are they short and long? […] How much do you polish them? Not too much, or they’re

going to be distracting. You don’t want to write sentences that are going to be too good for the paragraph, or too fine for the page.

I think they should be good enough for what they’re supposed to be doing and where they are. Do I mind being told that I write great sentences? It’s like being told you’re a writers’ writer, [as if] what you have to say has nothing to do with it.

Q. For young writers in particular, do you think that the process of finding out what you’re trying to say is not necessarily an act of writing?

A. It’s not necessarily writing. I don’t mean experience. No, no. I don’t mean knowing things. There is a problem when you’re very young: You feel you don’t know anything. Who is going to listen to this, and how can this be interesting? There are prescriptions for this.

I can give you examples of things written about nothing that are fantastic.

There’s a story by Isaak Babel and it’s about him sitting in his grandmother’s house one afternoon while she’s making tea. That’s all. You can’t stop reading. And it doesn’t have that much in it, but it’s all there. It digresses a little bit.

It’s wonderful. You read that, and you say, “I have all that. I could have written that — if I were a writer. If I were Isaak Babel. I’m not, but I see that there are a lot of things lying around.” To finally learn what you’re really looking for, and how to make use of it — you can’t do that immediately. Advice won’t help you.

Prescriptions won’t help you. Reading, you may discover a way to do that. You can’t write if you don’t read. You can, I suppose, if you’re that solitary genius from Texas who doesn’t even know how to read, but he can tell you stories all day long — maybe. But what we think of as literature comes out of people who’ve read things and then go on and write things.

Q. Do you think that the common advice of going out and collecting experience, travel, whatever, is deleterious, is misguided? I know you’ve been a traveler yourself and an advocate of travel as a worthy pursuit for a writer.

A. I think it’s great. It frees you, liberates you. You’re not in your own country. You see things that you really marvel at one way or another. Your language is not being spoken around you, and in a way becomes [something] you’re more intensely aware of when you sit down to write. […] But you don’t have to travel.

You can stay at home if you like.

Q. At your grandmother’s table.

A. Yes, I think you can do that. I think you’re missing a lot, but you can do that.

Contact ALEC JOYNER at alec.joyner@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS: Doing a No. 2 in Ezra Stiles Saybrook Solidarity!

PAGE B6

WEEKEND MEETS

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

PAGE B7

THE GREATS

THE PRIZE OF A LIFETIME

JAMES SALTER: novelist, traditionalist, seeker of clarity

T

he Beinecke Library did not see it coming. Acclaimed novelist Donald Windham passes away and leaves most of his estate to the University in order to establish a literary award. Today, Yale is home to some of the richest prizes in existence — the Donald Windham-Sandy M. Campbell Literature Prizes. Recipients have each won an unrestricted award of $150,000 and have been welcomed on campus this week with promoted events and special tote bags to celebrate this watershed moment. WEEKEND was able to sit down with two of the prizewinners — novelist James Salter and nonfiction writer Adina Hoffman — to parse through their careers and acquired wisdoms.

// BY ALEC JOYNER

// WA LIU,

At 88, novelist James Salter has written five novels, sixteen screenplays, two short story collections, and a memoir— and as of this week, has received one of the best-funded awards in the literay world, something he likens to a lifetime recognition plaudit. Salter’s WindhamCampbell prize citation states that his “elegantly natural prose has a precision and clarity which make ordinary words swing wide open.” WEEKEND caught up with Salter on Thursday about the award, his writing methods and how many people (hint: none) he’ll show work to before he’s done with it.

Adina Hoffman: Narrating Nonfiction

Q. Have you enjoyed all of the events surrounding the prize?

// BY THERESA STEINMEYER

This week, the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscripts Library celebrated nine accomplished modern writers with the inaugural Windham Campbell Prize.

Among this year’s recipients is nonfiction author Adina Hoffman, who embraces her American and Jewish roots to write with a unique world-view. Harold Bloom called her most recent book, Sacred Trash, “a small masterpiece.” WEEKEND had the chance to meet up with Hoffman to discuss her work, her prize, and what it means to write great nonfiction.

Q. Yesterday, you received the Windham Campbell Prize for your nonfiction work.

How does that feel?

A. Terrific, obviously! Period, full stop.

Being a writer is often a very lonely job.

You’re alone at your desk most of the day and much of the time you have no idea if what you’re writing will be of any interest to anyone else at all, so it is wonderful to have this kind of affirmation and support.

Q. What do you believe makes a great nonfiction work?

A. That’s a very hard question to answer.

There are all kinds of things that make a wonderful nonfiction work and not every wonderful work of nonfiction has those things. I would say first and foremost a rigorous attention both to fact and to language.

Q. What inspires you as a writer?

A. The world inspires me. I started my writing life as a fiction writer but I quickly understood as a young writer that there was nothing I could make up that would be nearly as fascinating and rich as the world around me. I tend to write about the Middle East and so it was my initial encounter with Jerusalem and the incredibly fascinating and surprising range of characters who lived on my street that made me want to write about real people, and not to attempt to make things up. I believe that the imagination works in all kinds of ways and only one of those ways entails fabrication of plot and character wholesale. I’m

S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

much more interested in the depiction of reality as I encounter it.

Q. You’ve written many works concerning Jerusalem. You have a unique perspective as an author who has lived in both the United States and the Middle East. Is there a work that you are perhaps most proud of?

A. I’m proud of all my books in different ways. The book “My Happiness Bears No Relation to Happiness,” which is the life and times of the Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali, is one that I’m very proud of. It was a huge undertaking, and when I began, I did not realize just how huge of an undertaking it would be. I thought I was writing about one remarkable man and a remarkable writer, but it turned out that I was really writing about his whole world. He became the anchor for a much larger story about his village, which was destroyed in 1948, and about the world that he lived in after 1948. He remained in Israel but was a Palestinian, so I ended up writing about him as both an extraordinary figure and an ordinary figure.

Q. Can you tell us a bit about your writing process? What is it like to take these stories that you have experienced and researched and to bring them to life in a nonfiction work?

A. There is no recipe. Each project is different and it is hard to give a general answer.

The book that I am writing now, which is about Jerusalem during the British mandate, has entailed a great deal of archival research, but that’s really just the beginning because once you have all this material in hand—all of these letters and diaries and photographs—you then need to figure out how to turn them into a compelling narrative, again not by making things up, but by really using the glue of your imagination to piece all the different parts together. It’s very hard to describe the writing process per se—you simply feel your way. You try to be extremely rigorous with yourself. You don’t take no for an answer and you don’t settle for easy answers. I have to say that it’s not just the material itself that interests me; it’s really

what is done with the material. To be a writer, a good writer, means to bear down on every single word and every single sentence and every single paragraph so that a work of art emerges. And I do believe that it is possible to write artful prose that is also documentary.

Q. What has this prize meant to you? What about it have you appreciated?

A. The money is fantastic. The award is new, so you don’t know what it means in terms of prestige, but it is certainly already well known. And it is an odd award, since it seeks out writers at the beginning of their careers, almost debutante writers, as well as any other writer in English, so it’s a rather uneven selection of candidates. And you don’t know — in one sense, it’s like the MacArthur or Guggenheim because it helps people along early in their careers, and in my sense, in my case, it’s not like that. It comes at the end of the career. It’s more like an award for lifetime achievement.

So it’s a bit hard to categorize, but I think it’s going to become very well known, and very much envied.

Q. What would your advice be to aspiring writers at Yale?

A. Work very hard, read a great deal, and be honest with yourself about what you want as a writer. There are all kinds of ways to be a writer. I think that often one thinks of certain forms as being more worthwhile or valuable than other forms, but that’s not true at all. One of the first questions you asked was about what makes a good work of nonfiction, and I think there are as many possible kinds of works of nonfiction as there are writers and the same is true of fiction, or of playwriting, or of poetry.

Q. The Windham Campbell Prize comes with a $150,000 grant. Do you have a future project in mind or plans on what you’re going to do with the grant?

Q. At your Master’s Tea on Wednesday, you talked about an early manuscript you wrote that was “much too obscure” and “pretentious.” When you write, do you think about accessibility, and do you think about who you write for?

A. I’ll write this book that I’m writing now, which is about Jerusalem, and I will use it to live on and to write with. I’m not planning any expensive skiing vacations. This is money that will allow me to sit at my desk and work very hard. There are no guarantees, and winning a prize is wonderful, but it doesn’t mean that the next chapter will be any easier. It does take a certain pressure off financially. It also is a kind of confirmation that something you’ve done in the past has worked, but you’re still left alone with the page at the end of the day. Not to sound ungrateful— I’m incredibly grateful for this prize—but I think it’s necessary also to remain humble.

A. I think about both of them. But you don’t think about them every moment, the way a religious person might have God in their heart every moment. It depends what your ambition is. Do you want to be little known and highly regarded by arcane readers? I think generally speaking the ordinary ambition is to be available to readers — perhaps a certain level of reader in some cases, but, anyway, available. I think you want to be open to readers, deeply. That’s a conventional ambition. Do I have particular readers in mind? Well, it happens that I do. I usually think of a couple of people that I think might like this, might appreciate it.

Contact THERESA STEINMEYER at theresa.steinmeyer@yale.edu .

Q. Do you show anyone your writings before you’re done writing?

// BRIANNA LOO, KEN YANAGISAWA, JOYCE XI, AMRA SARIC

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A. Not my editor. Actually, no one.

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Because, yes.

A. Well, reading can be pleasant. The audiences were receptive here, and that made it a pleasure.

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S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

Well, I let my wife [the playwright Kay Eldredge] read completed manuscripts, not pages. Not chapters. So I’m untampered with, unhindered in the writing. And she’s the first one who reads it. She’s a writer and I value her opinion highly. It causes temporary hatred, but it goes away. From a critic, it’s senseless to have friends or your wife or girlfriend, or husband as the case may be, read it and praise it. When you want a reader, you want to know what their response to it is. So it hurts a bit when it comes from somebody who presumably likes you and then says this about it, that stings, but other criticism is useless. Praise is useless.

Q. You said Wednesday that “writing is drawn from everything you know, and the act of ‘making up’ is drawing —” A. Well, I said “making up” assuming that it was understood that you don’t just make things up. Creating, or godlike assembling, would be more like it.

There are some things you make up, I suppose, but the percentage of madeup, chemical additives, so to speak, to the real story, to the real material, is small.

Q. Do you think of yourself as having an authorial voice that’s distinct or consistent? Or does it depend on what you’re writing?

A. I would say rather than that, generally speaking, when you read a couple of paragraphs, you know who wrote them.

In my case. I don’t know what that is. I suppose in part it’s vocabulary. In part it’s rhythm. In part it’s pace, which is a little different than rhythm. In part it’s stance. In part it’s point of view. In part it’s structural things. All those may be not be present in any one paragraph, but they’re all elements that might be, what can I say, flickering there that, as a reader — if you’ve read the same writer, in this case me, before — you’re able to say, “I know who wrote that.” If you choose to call that voice, okay. But I’m not sure that voice covers the whole thing.

Q. Another thing you said yesterday is that you think of “A Sport and a Pastime” as a sort of long prose poem. I’m wondering what you think the place of what some people might call poetry, or poetic language, is in a prose form or in something like a novel.

A. Well, there are a lot of poems that are only prose that has been broken into lines, fancy lines. I heard Harold Bloom lecture yesterday on Walt Whitman, and as you’re reading Whitman, it sounds […] rather prose-like, rather straightforward in several sections. Beautiful prose. So I don’t know where this line that separates the two is. When I said that “A Sport and a Pastime” is rather

ANGLES ON ART: “DEMISE AND TRANSCENDENCE: THE ETERNAL PARADOX” YUAG // 3 p.m.

Look at art, solve the riddle.

a prose poem, I meant that it’s rather rhapsodic without being sweet, without being sentimental, and it has its ecstasies without being insane. And all together, it is somewhat compressed.

It is a succinct book. […] I said “prose poem” not really for accuracy but to show the sector of writing that it more or less lay in. Accurately, it is a short novel, of some intensity.

Q. What do you think of the word — a word that I think gets used a lot critically, in reviews, usually positively, to describe prose writing — “lyrical”?

A. I think there are lyrical and there are narrative writers, and I’m probably a little over on the lyrical side. I don’t like the word because it has a certain fancy suggestion. I’m actually a masculine writer. In fact I’m often faulted for having a somewhat retro masculine view of things.

Q. Is that a criticism that bothers you?

A. Well, you can’t do anything about it.

As I say I’m past changing or improving myself, or correcting and reforming myself. So it’s odd to find sort of opposing descriptive adjectives — “lyrical,” “masculine” — what is this? A dancing football player is what it sounds like.

But I’m not either of them. They’re just words. Somebody said, “That’s what I think is a useful word here.”

Q. Is there a way that “masculine” does resonate with you, apart from the criticism, in your writing?

A. Well, I’m usually writing from a masculine point of view. I mean all writing is solipsistic. You only know what you know. You can’t be expected to know more than that. And what I know is reflected in my biography. A reader doesn’t necessarily know my biography — a reader knows nothing, merely opens the book. But I think my biography explains, in a way, some of the aspects of the tone of my writing and the point of view of it. Am I sensitive to it? No, because there’s no point being sensitive to who you are. Well, you can be ashamed of who you are, but I haven’t reached that point yet.

Q. Are you thinking particularly about the Air Force and your time there?

A. Well, that’s part of it but not all of it.

I am a figure of the past. That is to say, I grew up in the ’30s, ’40s, ’50s. So you can’t expect me to be “with it.” You can only expect me to be a good writer, or to be a writer that you would like to read, but as for being contemporary, that’s asking too much. I don’t want to put that too strongly. It’s not as if Rip van Winkle came and got a prize here. I was listening to Tom McCarthy talk today. He’s a dif-

ferent kind of writer coming from a different conception of writing. I would say my view of writing is traditional. It [my writing] is narrative, it is not nonsensical, it is definitely not postmodernist, for instance. That’s really the best way to describe it. I’m really a modernist writer. I’m not a postmodernist writer, although I recognize what’s going on.

I’m not blind to it, but I don’t write that way. It’s non self-referential, it’s not jokey, it’s not intricate, it’s not cynical, it’s not highly ironical, it’s not intensely self-involved. It’s none of those things.

What is it? I would say, essentially out of the modernist tradition.

Q. Do you feel like you’ve changed as a writer over time? Is there anything that you feel age has brought you in terms of your craft, your art?

A. No, I don’t think age informs you in terms of your ability to write in any way.

I’d say age is maybe a big help in having learned a lot of things. But the great energy, the desire and the newness usually come early. Not to say great works aren’t written late. Thomas Mann wrote late, Picasso painted late. There are a lot of late achievements. But the real heart of the order is right in the 20s, 30s, 40s, maybe 50s.

Q. I hesitate to ask you because I know you’ve been asked before, but what do you think of the conventional designation of being a “writers’ writer”?

A. I’ve complained about that enough and let it go. But it implies writing too good for your own good. Well, I don’t think that’s so. It further implies a certain wastefulness, that you’re just writing for other writers. Well, I’m not doing that. So I’ve stopped addressing it. People are going to continue to say that as long as they continue to read other people’s reviews, and they say, “Huh, let’s see who this is. Oh, all right, famed as a writers’ writer.”

Q. How about being a “great writer of sentences”? Do you think, structurally, on the level of the sentence when you write?

A. No. We talked about this this morning, with three sections of [Introduction to] Creative Writing — [John] Crowley, Richard Deming and Lanny Hammer — they wanted to talk about the sentence. So I merely described the way I normally write, on a piece of paper. I don’t normally pay that much attention to sentences. I try to get down what I’m thinking about. [When I’m revising,] I’m looking at sentences. Do they sound right to me? Would I be ashamed at writing such a rotten sentence?

Grammatically, is it okay, and if not, am I entitled to disregard grammar here?

Is there any rhythm to this? Are they short and long? […] How much do you polish them? Not too much, or they’re

going to be distracting. You don’t want to write sentences that are going to be too good for the paragraph, or too fine for the page.

I think they should be good enough for what they’re supposed to be doing and where they are. Do I mind being told that I write great sentences? It’s like being told you’re a writers’ writer, [as if] what you have to say has nothing to do with it.

Q. For young writers in particular, do you think that the process of finding out what you’re trying to say is not necessarily an act of writing?

A. It’s not necessarily writing. I don’t mean experience. No, no. I don’t mean knowing things. There is a problem when you’re very young: You feel you don’t know anything. Who is going to listen to this, and how can this be interesting? There are prescriptions for this.

I can give you examples of things written about nothing that are fantastic.

There’s a story by Isaak Babel and it’s about him sitting in his grandmother’s house one afternoon while she’s making tea. That’s all. You can’t stop reading. And it doesn’t have that much in it, but it’s all there. It digresses a little bit.

It’s wonderful. You read that, and you say, “I have all that. I could have written that — if I were a writer. If I were Isaak Babel. I’m not, but I see that there are a lot of things lying around.” To finally learn what you’re really looking for, and how to make use of it — you can’t do that immediately. Advice won’t help you.

Prescriptions won’t help you. Reading, you may discover a way to do that. You can’t write if you don’t read. You can, I suppose, if you’re that solitary genius from Texas who doesn’t even know how to read, but he can tell you stories all day long — maybe. But what we think of as literature comes out of people who’ve read things and then go on and write things.

Q. Do you think that the common advice of going out and collecting experience, travel, whatever, is deleterious, is misguided? I know you’ve been a traveler yourself and an advocate of travel as a worthy pursuit for a writer.

A. I think it’s great. It frees you, liberates you. You’re not in your own country. You see things that you really marvel at one way or another. Your language is not being spoken around you, and in a way becomes [something] you’re more intensely aware of when you sit down to write. […] But you don’t have to travel.

You can stay at home if you like.

Q. At your grandmother’s table.

A. Yes, I think you can do that. I think you’re missing a lot, but you can do that.

Contact ALEC JOYNER at alec.joyner@yale.edu .

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YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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out that all in all, undocumented students receive the same amount of aid.

“I am very appreciative of Yale’s policy,” he said. “I think it’s a wonderful, welcoming approach to a difficult issue. There are other schools that aren’t, frankly, as generous as Yale is in cases like this, and it says a lot of things about Yale and the kind of community we are.”

Despite the financial feasibility of a Yale education, there persists for both Cerda and David a loneliness, one that comes with not knowing whether their experience is shared.

going to stop me,” he said. “But after senior year started, I realized that even though there were four guidance counselors working with me, it was going to be a rough ride.”

Universities do not deny admission to undocumented students because of their status, but obtaining financial aid without proof of permanent residence or a Social Security number presents a challenge for many, particularly those hoping to enroll in public schools.

“Undocumented students are allowed to go to college,” Padilla said.

“But how you pay for it is a completely different story.”

Spreading his arms apart as if he were holding a stack of books between his palms, Cerda explained that undocumented students are constantly teetering between two extremes.

“Either you’re extremely successful because there’s no other choice, or you’re down here,” Cerda said, gesturing toward the ground. “Without papers, you work for minimum wage.”

Shortly after David submitted his Free Application for Federal Student Cerda first told La Casa Dean RosaAid as an incoming Yale freshman, linda Garcia about his undocumented his parents received a call from the status at a party in the cultural house.

University’s financial services office. The two were having a casual converWhen they were asked about David’s sation, Cerda said, when he revealed citizenship, they stood by the truth. to her his situation. Garcia responded David said his parents explained that that he was not alone; in fact, there he was undocumented, and the offi- was someone there, in that same cial over the phone accepted it almost room, who faced the same plight. wordlessly. Since then, he has had no Cerda recalled looking around, no less problems paying tuition. hurt in that space between knowing A year later, Cerda was received in and unknowing. the same manner. “Yale just got the “Everything looked normal around money together for me. I don’t know me, but someone was out there who wasn’t in a normal situation,” Cerda how they did it.”

Neither Yale’s admission office nor said. “Why couldn’t we talk to each its financial aid office screen for immi- other, provide a support network? gration status. Although students are It’s one of the bad memories I have of usually honest about their situation, freshman year, because that night I Director of International Students just left La Casa, still alone.” and Scholars Ann Kuhlman said it can *** be difficult to discern from a student’s initial application alone, and their But in his fight against immigration status does not play a role in their admissions decision. If an undocu- reform, Cerda has found a community mented student is admitted, Univer- of activists right on campus. sity Financial Aid Director StorlaOn one of the first good-weather zzi said his or her immigration status days of last spring, around 50 stuwill be indicated on the FAFSA system, dents gathered around Beinecke Plaza which performs a match with citizen- holding posters of large monarch butship records. terflies — symbols of movement, of Undocumented students cannot migration. MEChA, a Latino advocacy apply for federal aid, but they are eli- organization, had organized a Yale gible for Yale institutional funds and contingent for the city’s Immigraloans. The largest financial challenge tion Reform March on the New Haven is perhaps Yale’s self-help aid com- Green. Under Beinecke Library’s ponent of $3300, which most finan- looming, white facade, students were cial aid students fulfill with an on-campus job. Storlazzi said undocumented students must JUNE 15, 2012 c ove r the erred President Obama signed the Def costs with a CA) which loan or addiAction for Childhood Arrivals (DA d imminte tional funds. temporarily protects undocume age ore But he pointed who came to the U.S. bef the

stepping up to the memorial cenotaph to tell their stories. Among those who spoke were Cerda, Padilla and members of MEChA and the Black Student Alliance at Yale (BSAY).

Following the testimonies, students began marching toward the Green with signs in hand. They chanted in both Spanish and English: “We want education, not deportation!” “El pueblo unido jamás sera vencido!”

MEChA moderator Katherine Aragon ’14 said the aim of such events was not only to demonstrate support for immigration reform, but also to raise

WHY COULDN’T WE TALK TO EACH OTHER, PROVIDE A SUPPORT NETWORK? IT’S ONE OF THE BAD MEMORIES I HAVE OF FRESHMAN YEAR, BECAUSE THAT NIGHT I JUST LEFT LA CASA, STILL ALONE.

grants ws them to of 16 from deportation and allo ion. apply for employment authorizat

S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

at risk, but also my family. I never thought that I would be as involved as I am today.”

But Codognolla is hesitant to express too much hope about the immigration bill. With the politics as they stand, Codognolla said, it will be a “tough battle” through the House of Representatives. Other pressing issues, such as the debt ceiling, the upcoming budget and Syria, may push immigration reform to the wayside.

Codognolla said C4D plans to escalate its work in the month of October in the hopes of pushing for a vote before next year’s midterm elections.

Despite these mobilizing forces, there remain a dearth of resources for undocumented students on campus looking for others like themselves.

“There is a supportive community,” Cerda said. “But that supportive community can’t even fathom what it’s like to be undocumented.” *** Early this August, while students were making their way home from summers spent near and far, University President Peter Salovey released a statement regarding immigration reform. Before then, the school’s position on the subject had been ambiguous: It was known among certain communities, such as the Questbridge scholars, that Yale accepted and provided aid for undocumented students, but the University had never publicized its stance on the DREAM Act. “Universities have long struggled with an immigration system that does far too little to encourage talented students and scholars to remain in the United States and contribute to our society,” Salovey writes. “The recent action in the United States Senate to reform immigration law makes important strides toward an immigration policy that promotes economic growth […] In addition, the DREAM Act creates a much-needed path to citizenship for students who are undocumented and have been in the U.S. since childhood.”

In the next paragraph, Salovey notes that Yale supports the Association of American Universities in commending the senators who voted for the bill. The letter ends on a note of hope: “Although the full House has yet to act, we are hopeful that a bipartisan agreement will emerge this year to sustain the momentum of immigration reform and fix a broken system.”

For those who have waited most of their Yale careers for a public sign of support, Salovey’s words were overdue. “[Salovey] said what he needed to say,” Cerda said. “There’s really nothing more

awareness for an issue that many Yale students may be uninformed about.

“I would challenge Yale students to be critical of their surroundings, their administration, their biases,” Aragon said. “I grew up in a very privileged environment comparatively speaking, and so issues such as immigration are something that I also need to bring myself back to.”

Nia Holston ’14, BSAY’s political action chair at the time, spoke passionately about the importance of building solidarity between African American and Latino students on the issue of immigration reform. Over the phone with me a year later, Holston said collaborating with MEChA was valuable for both groups.

“Our struggles are tied up with one another,” she said. “Blacks and Latinos are strongest when we’re united, especially when there has been an historical tendency for us to sometimes not work together on these issues.”

On the state level, Connecticut Students for a DREAM (C4D) began with a coming-out session for undocumented students in December 2010.

At Western Connecticut State University in Danbury, a group of nearly 100 undocumented students and allies gathered to speak publicly about their circumstances, many of them for the very first time. Since then, C4D has collaborated with the Yale Democrats and held an undocumented immigrant summit on campus.

C4D’s Lead Coordinator Lucas Codognolla was a sophomore at the University of Connecticut when he attended the kick-off event.

“It was scary coming out for the first time,” Codognolla recalled.

“I thought that I was JUNE 27, 2013 urity, not only putting myself The Senate passed the Border Sec

*Name changed for anonymity.

Contact YANAN WANG at yanan.wang@yale.edu .

tion Economic Opportunity, and Immigra ld wou ch Modernization Act of 2013 whi ted men pave the way for many undocu eventuimmigrants to gain legal status and ally citizenship.

“THE GRADUATE”

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that I can ask of him.”

Cerda and David, who have both shared their undocumented status with just a small group of people, feel that Yale would benefit from a network that connects its undocumented students with one another. “Not a panlist, necessarily,” David quipped, but rather a mechanism for communication for which participation would be entirely voluntary. He imagines a group of students going out for froyo or meeting at a dining hall for brunch — no different, really, than the scores of other student organizations on campus.

Outside the shadow of anonymity, students might feel compelled to come out of their shells and share their stories, David said, pointing out that the “hyper-sensitivity” with which Yale approaches students with undocumented status has been both a blessing and a curse.

“They’re doing their best to be nice and helpful, but it’s sometimes misguided,” he explained. “Undocumented students shouldn’t feel like they have something to hide.”

Silence is a word that undocumented students use often. From the moment they step foot inside the country, they are silenced individuals, opening their mouths only to recount a story that will allow their safe passage over the border. The second time Cerda crossed into the United States, he was riding in a car with his younger brother, his mother and a human trafficker. For a month in Monterrey, Cerda rehearsed the same story over and over again, the one that made the American citizenship-holding human trafficker his father, and his mother their nanny.

As their departure date approached, Cerda felt a mixture of emotions. He missed the little village where he had stayed for a year while his mother was treated for intestinal cancer, but he also missed his father, who was waiting for them in Dallas. At the customs booth, however, Cerda said he “snapped all that emotional stuff out of [him].”

“I just wanted to say my story perfectly, so nothing could go wrong,” Cerda said. “When we approached the customs booth, I couldn’t even look at the guy. In the end, it was almost unreal how smoothly it happened.”

For the most part, Cerda’s immigration status has been an unspoken part of his identity. It would have made his freshman and sophomore year much easier, Cerda said, if he had known others in his situation. Now, he is done with silence. “[My status] is something that I really care about; it’s been a big part of my life,” he said. “I need to talk about it.”

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OUT

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In 1950, Alfred Whitney Griswold ’29 GRD ’33, the Yale president at the time, pitched alumni on the perfect undergraduate, the kind he promised his recruiters were looking for. This ideal candidate wasn’t a scholar, but a team player. He wouldn’t stay in to study, but went out for drinks at Mory’s. “[He’s] not a beetlebrowed, highly specialized intellectual, but a wellrounded man,” Griswold said.

Yale has changed since then.

Our deans look for diversity.

But there is still pressure to be like Griswold’s extroverted ideal — an ideal that many students, including myself, find impossible to achieve.

My freshman adviser to told me to sign up for every club I saw at the extracurricular fair.

I took his advice, and my inbox was promptly flooded with invitations to meetings, mixers and icebreakers. I was too shy to go to any of the events, but I became more anxious with each missed opportunity.

I am an introvert. I have always found myself more comfortable with a small circle of friends than in a crowd.

Parties, for me, are plagued by “Mission Impossible”-like countdowns. How long can I keep up a conversation before the timer runs out?

I’m not hopeless in my reticence. I’ve learned, over time, simple methods to prevent myself from wearing out.

I retreat to the library after stressful classes. I know the best places in East Rock to walk alone. This year I insisted on getting a single.

Still, I have a passing fascination with the other version of my life, the one where I wouldn’t have to be alone for hours after seeing too many people. Would I be happier if I could go to Toad’s without dreading a panic attack? *** Thirty-four people, by my count, sat in the lecture room before Davis Nguyen ’15 began to speak. Most of them sat by themselves, two or three chairs away from each other.

Two girls chatted in a corner.

In the back of the room, there were three guys in athletic shorts.

Nguyen had advertised his presentation in a campuswide email that he sent out Monday night. He received over 300 replies, many more than he expected.

The first slide of his PowerPoint presentation glowed on the projection screen. “Speak for the Meek,” it said — the title of Nguyen’s new organization. He said that he found a way to help students like himself out of their shells: a stock claim in these kind of lectures.

This advice comes primarily

S AT U R D AY SEPTEMBER 14

f ro m Nguyen’s own experience. When he came to Yale, he was several pounds overweight. His high school rarely sent people to the Ivy League, and he was worried that, compared to his peers, “he wouldn’t have anything to say.”

Nguyen became interested in introversion after conducting a research project this spring on the lack of Asian CEOs and government leaders. He concluded that there was something in his cultural heritage that was holding him back.

This revelation lead Nguyen to “100 Days of Rejection Therapy,” an inspirational Web series founded by Jia Jang. In it, Jang commits himself to a challenge a day for 100 days.

Some challenges succeed, such as when he asks for doughnuts in the shape of Olympic rings at a Krispy Kreme. Others fail miserably, such as when he asks to borrow $100 from a stranger.

INTROVERTS ARE TO EXTROVERTS WHAT AMERICAN WOMEN WERE TO MEN IN THE 1950S – SECONDCLASS CITIZENS WITH GIGANTIC AMOUNTS OF UNTAPPED TALENT. Rejection isn’t as frightening as it seems, Nguyen pointed out. He then followed this example with a series of tips, culled from his own experience: speak up in seminar; don’t doubt your first instincts. A girl sitting next to me took out her notepad and dutifully jotted down each point. Finally, Nguyen reminded the kids in the lecture hall that though these tips may seem obvious, they are more difficult in practice.

“Until you apply what you

l e a r n ,” he said, “you’re still the same way you always will be.” *** According to Carl Jung, who first posed the definition, an introvert is someone who loses energy the more they spend time around other people.

Introverts aren’t necessarily shy. They simply need time on their own to recharge.

The problem (if there is a problem) with this type of behavior is that it’s inherently isolating. Introverts don’t tend to have large numbers of friends. Extroverts, those who tend to speak more loudly and quickly than everyone else, often overshadow, or disregard, their quiet peers.

In college, this discrepancy can create a sense of natural inequality. Those who are outgoing get the opportunity to share their opinions freely in classes and in social settings, whereas those who are more reserved may struggle to get a word in.

But while the extroverted may be more eager to speak in class, they don’t necessarily make the best points. Professor Leslie Brisman, who has taught at Yale for over 40 years, sees this problem in the way many professors lead their seminars. He particularly dislikes the method of opening class discussion with a casual question, like asking students about their days.

“This supposed openness and informality all too often proves to be just an invitation to the most irrepressible speakers to take over,” he said.

Psychology research confirms that the standard school setting is better suited to extroverted personalities.

In 2011, Robert Coplan led a

study in which elementary school teachers were given profiles of hypothetical students. The teachers consistently assigned kids who were described as shy with lower levels of intelligence.

“Whoever designed the context of the modern classroom was certainly not thinking of the shy or quiet kids,” Coplan said in a 2012 interview with Education Week.

But these roadblocks can be overcome. Susan Cain, in her TED talk “The Power of Introverts,” discusses the struggle many people face under pressure to become more outgoing, or more socially successful.

She argues that introversion has merits of its own.

She lists successful examples, some from history, of people who use their talents for introspection and self-reflection to become better writers and even public speakers.

In a 2012 interview with Scientific American, Cain says, “Introverts are to extroverts what American women were to men in the 1950s — second-class citizens with gigantic amounts of untapped talent.” *** I’m not afraid of seminar.

When I listened to Cain’s TED talk, I recognized a lot of the lessons I have taught myself.

Still, I have trouble in other situations, especially when I can’t control, or predict, what will happen next.

I am prone to panic attacks, especially in large groups of people or when I’m under a lot of stress. Midway through a conversation, for instance, I’ll feel my breath become shallow.

My arms will shiver, and my

DKE OPENING NIGHT FIESTA

wrists will sweat.

When this happens, I don’t have many options but to return to my room. I stare at the ceiling, or count my breaths slowly. Sometimes it helps to watch a 20-minute sitcom on my laptop, or to reread passages from an old book.

Eventually, the feeling passes. My breathing deepens, and I can start to be productive. Sometimes this means sending an apologetic text.

Other times, I actually have to start working on the essay, or article, that has been haunting me.

So much of the discussion of introversion, or social anxiety, depends on the notion of change. Be more social. Learn to force a smile. But there’s a limit to how much I can change. I can lessen my anxiety, but I don’t know if it’ll go away.

This summer, the day I had planned to get on a flight for my junior year of college, I had one of my panic attacks. I kept thinking about the way our tour guides pitch Yale to visiting groups. You’ll always be surrounded, they say, there’s so much energy.

On that day, my mom found me in my room, lying on my bed and clutching a pillow to my chest. My duffel bag was sitting on the floor in front of me, half-packed. She asked if I was planning on taking the pillow with me to New Haven.

“Watch me try,” I said.

Contact JACKSON MCHENRY jackson.mchenry@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS:

Lake Place // 10 p.m.

The football team is let loose and ready to score.

// MOHAN YIN

Doo-dooing in Morse Saybrook Solidarity!

PAGE B10

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

WEEKEND COLUMNS

FIRST CRUSH, FIRST KISS, INDIE STYLE: MOVIES THAT ARE MORE THAN JUST FETCH // BY BECCA EDELMAN

BECCA EDELMAN A CASE FOR CINEMA

// CREATIVE COMMONS

E

very summer they appear: the popular girls, the dweebs, the best friends; the prom, the big game, the graduation; the first crush, the first kiss, the first love. Although “teen movies” could be defined in many a light, at their core they are films with adolescents as both their subject and a presumed audience. This summer, three teen flicks distinguished themselves as both box office and critical favorites. “The Way, Way Back” is a coming-of-age story in which Duncan, a cripplingly shy loner, transforms into the star of the local water park. Sofia Coppola’s latest, “The Bling Ring,” dramatizes the true tale of a

gang of elite, Los Angeles teen swindlers who rob celebrity homes. And James Ponsdalt ’01 directed the smallbut-mighty high school romance “The Spectacular Now.” Not one of these films was distributed by a major studio branch, making summer 2013 a refreshing hurrah of the indie teen film.

Of the three films, “The Bling Ring” had the biggest directorial name and certainly accumulated the biggest buzz.

Coppola’s repertoire demonstrates a touch for the teen genre, elevating what at times can be a commercial, clichéd and patronized breed into art house royalty. Her first film, “The Virgin Suicides” (1999), took a haunting look at adolescence in a suburban town. In “Lost in Translation” (2003), although her char-

acters may be a bit older, Coppola depicts the terrifying possibility of post-college drift (especially apt as Scarlett Johanson’s character apparently attended Yale). “Marie Antoinette” (2006) portrays the oft vilified Marie Antoinette as the naïve teenager she was, infusing aesthetically gorgeous depictions of French court life with modern alt-pop music and even sneaking a pair of purple converse into a garish shoe shopping episode.

Thus expectations ran high for Ms. Coppola’s next escapade into the adolescent mind, but unfortunately the realization fell flat. “The Bling Ring” was stylistically engrossing and Emma Watson’s performance stole the show. But much of the film’s other acting felt plastic. In fact, the entire film seemed a bit like a shiny package lacking an interior, a short film or music video recklessly stretched out to feature length. A repetitive and cyclical narrative gave the film a feeling of artificiality that I believe to have been intended. But the film’s points — the superficiality of the characters, the disturbing manifestations of an ardent cultural obsession with fame, fashion and money — were overwrought. The film became morally pedantic, rather than

A book writ in verse, an awesome achievement A sad, funny novel, a touching bereavement: “Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die Cherish, Perish,” a review by Scott Stern Every review I’ve read so far has gotten the title wrong. The full title — as it was meant to be spoken, never read — is: “Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die,/ Cherish, Perish, a novel by/ David Rakoff.” You see? It has to rhyme. And isn’t that the point?

David Rakoff’s first — and last — novel is truly a must-read. Rakoff, a wry and funny critic who passed away last year from cancer, wrote the entire book in anapestic tetrameter. It rhymes, it sings, it moves, it’s only 113 pages. The novel can easily be finished in an hour or two. But you won’t read it just once. And you won’t stop thinking about it for a long time.

As novelist Paul Rudnick wrote, the novel “didn’t make me love poetry, but it certainly affirmed my love for David Rakoff.” Only Rakoff could take such a clichéd and almost juvenile form and make it into something moving and entertaining, tragic and funny. “Love, Dishonor” is a story that lacks a clearly defined plot or set of characters. It jumps around in time and place, and at times it’s even a little difficult to follow. But it gets at so many simple truths, so many dark places in our history. The book is ultimately about death — written with an intimacy all too familiar.

“Love, Dishonor” tells the story of diverse characters — these characters are all connected, but to trace the connectedness would be quite difficult and highly unnecessary. The novel begins in the bloody slaughterhouses of turn-of-the-century Chicago. A girl is born of Irish immigrants, possessing nothing but a poor mother, a sadistic stepfather and a length of shocking red hair. Sexually abused, she runs from her plight, riding the rails of the Great Depression, comforted by a

SCOTT STERN READING BETWEEN THE LINES nameless man who senses her agony.

Later, that man faces some serious family problems. In another place and another time, a prim girl finds happiness in her love of drawing, and then she becomes a prim secretary who sleeps with her boss and can’t move up in her job. A closeted gay boy comes to terms with himself in booming Southern California. He moves to San Francisco, gets caught up in the city and art and happiness, gets many sexual partners, gets AIDS. A man gives a sad and inappropriate yet moving toast at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. A directionless woman changes her name to fit changing times — from Susan to Sloan to Shulamit. These characters together tell the story of 20th century America.

“Love, Dishonor” is not a happy book, yet neither is it a depressing one.

It’s funny. When a gay pornographic cartoonist is attacked by conservative critics, he responds: “I know it won’t sway you the smallest scintilla/ To point out the sex is quite firmly vanilla.” It’s poignant. A dying character reflects: “In thrall to the twists of his brain’s involutions/ The cranial mists and synaptic occlusions/ He’d had to contend with since he’d has his first stroke/ Like trying to sculpt something solid from smoke.” It gives a bizarre sense of closure. Of the nuns at a Catholic school, Rakoff writes: “They meted out lashings and thrashings despotic/ (With a thrill she would later construe as erotic).”

Rakoff even maintains his politics to the bitter end. Here is a passage I had

no choice but to quote in full, which surely will stand the test of history: “The drugmakers, government — all who’d forsaken/ The thousands — the murderous silence of Reagan/ Or William F. Buckley, the fucker at whose/ Suggestion that people with AIDS get tattoos;/ (The New Haven lockjaw, the glib erudition/ When truly, the man’s craven moral perdition/ Made Clifford so angry he thought he might vomit/ Or fly east, find Buckley’s address, and then bomb it.)” Even if you disagree with Rakoff’s sentiment, you can’t fault his poetry.

You have a tough decision to make — book or audiobook. The book is a comfortable, slender volume, illustrated with odd and endearing cartoons by Gregory “Seth” Gallant, the illustrator for some Lemony Snicket works, among others. But the audiobook is narrated by Rakoff himself, recorded within a month of his death.

His voice — formerly so lively and expressive — is reduced to a rasping whisper. It’s as sad a form as it is darkly comedic.

Ultimately, the book does not have a happy ending, but it gives a satisfying sense of finality. It is the intentionally final work from a man who knew he was going to die. This wasn’t a guess; Rakoff had undergone four surgeries for cancer in as many years. He’d been working on parts of the novel for 10 years, but he could only finish it in the last weeks of life. Of death he writes simply (and with characteristic wit): “Inevitable, why even bother to test it,/ He’d paid all his taxes, so that left … you guessed it.”

David Rakoff will be missed.

S U N D AY

“INTERNATIONAL PIANO CELEBRATION”

SEPTEMBER 15

William L. Harkness Hall // 3 p.m.

Sunday funday and a little light music.

Contact SCOTT STERN at scott.stern@yale.edu .

letting the audience draw its own conclusions.

“The Bling Ring”’s unconcealed artificiality contrasts the other two films’ manifest aim at realism. The intrigue of the “The Way, Way Back” lies in its ambiguity. The film paints its three focal characters — Duncan, his mother and the water park’s manager — as morally neither black nor white, guiding the viewer through the dimensions of their personalities through the decisions each character makes. They are not cartoons or cookie cutter shapes; they would not fit into “Mean Girls” or “High School Musical.” And by the film’s conclusion, these characters’ problems are not magically solved. Instead of a bus flattening the antagonist, he remains very much in the picture. Rather than an epilogue depicting everyone “All In This Together,” characters we love are left behind and relationships we thought to be solid have been fractured.

Yet the realism of “The Way, Way Back” only goes so far. Although the main characters may have been more fleshed out than in the average teen movie, stilted moments remain: the musings of Duncan’s crush about her estranged father feel overly dramatic; the friends of Duncan’s soon to be stepsister are exaggeratedly catty. And the character of Duncan’s mother’s boyfriend, played by Steve Carell, lacks any nuance whatsoever: He might as well be Darth Vader.

“The Spectacular Now”, however, makes even clearer attempts at a more down-to-earth realism. Rather than in Los Angeles or an idealized beach town, “The Spectacular Now” occurs in a small, un-glamorized American town. The dialogue seems natural and age appropriate, oft including some moment, whether it be in point or tone, that reminds us of dialogues from our own past. Much fuss has been made on the Internet about the female protagonist, Aimee: a Flavorwire article labeled her as a personification of the “nerdy doormat dream girl” archetype, lamenting her constant pardons for her boyfriend’s poor behavior toward her. There is no doubt that if a female doormat is a dream, it is a disturbing and disappointing dream at that, but unfortunately we all know girls who could be Aimee.

These types of films are also not the only teen films of value. Films without even an ounce of realistic content can be fun and speak to audiences in other ways – “The Breakfast Club” and “Mean Girls” prove as much. But while there is room for all sorts of teen movies in the market, the predominance of art house adoption of the teen film this summer grants a deserved respect to the age group, both as a sophisticated audience and as a nuanced, loaded subject.

Contact BECCA EDELMAN at rebecca.edelman@yale.edu .

The art scene in your screen Is social media an art? My first reaction would be, no. I’m not trying to say that I don’t appreciate the way you chose Valencia and that artful blur instead of the more expected X Pro II on your Instagram of Old Campus. I do it too — and I love it — but to me those manipulations of an iPhoto just aren’t art.

Instagram forces its users to consider the world through a photographic lens, to take a picture of something they find beauty in and share it. Though it is certainly a step in the right direction, I would still argue that it falls short of being a true art form. It and its sister, Facebook, are a source of instant gratification — you post it, I like it, you feel good. 50 likes on that picture of my friend jogging up East Rock, I must be the new Richard Avedon.

I’m hoping Yale students can peel their eyes away from their news feeds long enough to see some real art.

I’m not asking you to leave our little corner of New Haven, just x-out of Vine for a moment, scroll your thumb up to the App Store and check out these two apps.

1. ARTSTACK

This little-known, but extremely well designed, app lets you collect and follow artists and art enthusiasts with similar interests and tastes as you. You can find everything from Monet, to an up-andcoming contemporary artist, to someone who just loves to paint in his or her free time. You can also check out what’s trending within the general ArtStack community and find the coolest galleries to visit around the globe, inviting you to explore the art world beyond your screen.

However, if you can’t seem to fit a trip to New York (or Paris) into your schedule between section, lecture and that weekly meeting, ArtStack is a good way to stay connected to what and who is happening beyond the doors of Bass with weekly email of your “stack” highlights.

If you do manage to get on Metro North, or even travel to a closer gallery or museum in Connecticut, like the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield or Philip Johnson’s glass house in New Canaan, then you can tell the ArtStack community about it too. Just snap a picture, enter the artist and the title of the work and share it to your collection.

ArtStack brings art to the everyday, making scrolling through collections just as easy as checking out your friends’ late night debauchery on your news feed.

STEPHANIE TOMASSON PUSHING THE PALETTE KNIFE 2. SEDITION

Sedition lets you “collect art in a digital age,” acting as an online auction house for limited edition contemporary digital art. Founded in London, but growing in America as well, Sedition allows its users to purchase contemporary screen art by leading artists for a very low price.

Similar to ArtStack, you build a collection of your favorite pieces, but instead of just photographing them, you own them.

After you get bored of certain pieces, you can sell them and amass a new collection.

The art available for purchase on Sedition boasts works by leading contemporary artists like Damien Hirst and Yoko Ono. Every time you buy an original piece, it comes with a signed and authentic certificate, giving some sort of value to your online purchases.

For artistically inclined Yale students, Sedition is an affordable, simple and accessible option for beginning to build a collection. You can display your art on any of your devices. Though Audrey Hepburn posters will always be a staple in dorm art, Sedition allows students to broaden their artistic scope. As a plus, you won’t have to worry about peeling your decorations off the walls when May rolls around.

Of course, this move towards buying, selling and experiencing art online questions its validity. Do you really own an image if anyone can take a screenshot of it and set it as their background? Though ArtStack and Sedition reinvigorate the art scene by making it easy to access, I can’t help but feel as if the medium changes something inherent about the piece. If you put a screen between you and the work you’re experiencing, can you find that same emotional connection that you might when standing face-toface with a massive Franz Kline or looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?

I’m not totally convinced. Apps like ArtStack and Sedition are the first of many such platforms to come that will make art accessible and relevant in the everyday. Ultimately, if ArtStack is a legitimate art form, maybe Instagram is too. So keep posting those pictures of Harkness, and I just might throw you a like.

Contact STEPHANIE TOMASSON at stephanie.tomasson@yale.edu .

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS: Excreting in TD

Saybrook Solidarity!

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

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WEEKEND ARTS

LARGENESS, UNLEASHED // BY ALICIA LOVELACE

The title of Red Grooms’ installation at the Yale University Art Gallery is telling: “Larger than Life.” As soon as you step off the elevator and onto the fourth floor, a makeshift Grooms archway complete with a hasty depiction of the modern, classic New York City life — bridge, building, Knicks, foreign taxi driver and hipster walking his dogs — crowns your head and resets the rules of reality.

As you walk in, three gigantic artworks seem to extend beyond the walls themselves, double the height of a normal ceiling on either side of your vision, immersing you in people and colors. But it is a joyful, energetic immersion, where nothing is off limits to laugh at or laud — there was a man in his 60s next to me chuckling for a solid 10 minutes at one point in the exhibit. Grooms himself is currently 76 years old, and he’s been an artistsatirist for over 50 years now. That’s a lot of time to laugh.

In the three immense wall spaces, the subjects of his drawings are stripped down to their iconic essences: 52 characters in total interacting with each other beyond the canvas. They are extremely recognizable figures, that is, if you have a working knowledge of 20th century artists — or access to Wikipedia. Regardless, Grooms counts with studies and preliminary sketches of the works that generate a map of sorts for the view.

Really though, as long as you know of Picasso, there is life to be seen here in Grooms’ large-scale detail.

The largest work is “Cedar Bar” (1986), in which Grooms imagines an isolated world where celebrities of the New York art world interact over

spilled drinks, smoke, heels, flats, hats, stools, subtle Stamos and Rothko intrigue, and the Cedar Bar itself. It’s all about the details. Jackson Pollock is shown in his paint-splattered shoes drunkenly wrestling — knee to the groin — Willem de Kooning, a fellow abstract impressionist.

To the left of the fighting pair, their wives casually smoke together while Aristodimos Kaldis casually flirts with them to no avail. At the same time, it’s the bigger picture: the five huge sheets of colored pencil-and-crayon creation that lend this work an appropriately defined setting for these “larger than life” icons. No one is particularly beautiful; caricatures dominate appearances and interactions, and only the bartender and a hidden Ad Reinhardt confronts us square on. The foreground and background’s shallow spaces pulled me in even more, physically drawing me in to see people’s faces, reminding me that the bar is not a place of emotional depth.

Turning around to admire the sheer height of the final two pieces, I almost had to sit back down and get my bearings. The cartoonish meditations on the life and death of Picasso contain double the amount of frenetic intrigue

in “Cedar Bar” and half the logic.

“Studio at the rue des Grands-Augustins” (1990–’96) depicts Picasso working in the studio on “Guernica,” and “Picasso Goes to Heaven” (1973) has a little more postmortem humor.

Only after a few minutes of scouring the wall, physically hopping closer and then farther from the work — much to the concern and amusement of the security guard — did I notice the atomic sign in the “light bulb” of

Grooms’ interpretation of “Guernica,” an allusion to nuclear warfare.

Grooms also adds impressionist cigarette smoke, a tiny globe and hints of modernism to further beam us into his bursting world.

Drama dominates all aspects of the canvas as Grooms blurs lines and invades his art with Picasso’s monochrome monsters. I left the exhibit feeling privileged to have witnessed dead Picasso in red, checkered box-

// KATHRYN CRANDALL

period costumes that look like they just came out of a year-round Christmas store, with a real mummy as the ultimate Orientalist present. The mix of the creepily detailed mannequins and the visible discolored teeth of the mummy is both bizarre and enjoyable.

Another interesting artifact on display was a mummified cat. I’ll be honest with you: It raised a number of questions for me. Why was there a mummified cat? Was that how they practiced for the real thing? Did the Pharaoh want his “man/God-King’s best friend” in the afterlife? Is a cat a man’s best friend? How do modern cats feel about this?

While the Peabody set-up does render the exhibit a little stale, cool electronic elements, incongruous as they are, do some work to enhance the show. One touch screen allowed me to learn the process of mummification

through a videogame-like program.

The interactive screen gave me directions like, “jiggle the hook around to break up the brain” and “drag the organs onto the table.” I briefly wondered about whether this made the exhibit more or less family friendly, before deciding that it definitely made it more so.

Despite the old-school artifacts, most of the exhibit comprises either pieces of art from the 20th century that are inspired by Egyptian influences or information about people who let Egyptomania define their lives.

I was a particular fan of an Egyptian mantle clock and definitely decided I want to be friends with Connecticut’s “egyptosophist” Natacha Rambova.

Still, I was not down with the font they use for their labels. It strives for an Egyptian feel but is actually hard to read and really settles on more of

a California Arts and Crafts look. Do more!

I would highly recommend the visit if you have a free afternoon, especially if it is hot as it has been this week.

Because the exhibit runs through January 4th, I would also recommend it when it’s cold. One more thing: I have to warn you that after spending so much time questioning which was more frightening, the wax figures and mummy, I’m definitely going to have some nightmares this weekend. I’ll keep you updated on that front.

The land before time gets large.

ers giving me a thumbs-up from the afterlife, and the color and life force in Red Grooms’ exultant works.

Contact ALICIA LOVELACE at alicia.lovelace@yale.edu .

Re-thinking Egypt // BY LEAH MOTZKIN If you have ever wondered about the process of mummification or why it says “The Dead Shall Be Raised” above the entrance to the Grove Street Cemetery, “Echoes of Egypt: Conjuring the Land of the Pharaohs” at the Peabody Museum is the exhibit for you.

When I first heard the title of the new Egyptology Department exhibit at the Peabody, I had a clear image of what I expected to see after I pulled myself away from the Museum’s amazing dinosaur room. The Peabody is known for its somewhat dusty replicas, and this exhibit is about Egypt and conjuring up a past world, so it must be like a model pyramid or something, I thought to myself in wannabe-valley girl fashion. I was wrong.

As soon as you enter, you meet a model with surprisingly little to do with ancient Egypt. Instead, it is a scaled-down version of what the

S U N D AY SEPTEMBER 15

exhibit calls the “Egyptianizing gateway” that serves as the entrance to Grove Street Cemetery. In a surprise to someone with my expectations, the exhibit does not focus on presenting a portrait of the country’s past. It challenges traditional depictions of ancient Egypt by interrogating Western culture’s fascination with that civilization through modern artistic expression.

“Echoes” featured a carefully arranged array of Western objects and cultural phenomena that fetishize Egypt, even as it comes across as a bit hokey at times. My favorite part, an installation that encapsulates what’s unique about this exhibit, is what was in the 1850s known as a public mummy unwrapping, with a replica of that questionable cultural phenomenon placed in a glass box. The scene shows a few different wax figures in intricate

LIVE EXPANDED CINEMA EVENT: “ABERRATION OF LIGHT: DARK CHAMBER DISCLOSURE” Whitney Humanities Center // 7 p.m.

Mixing mediums, dual 35 mm projector performance with live music

Contact LEAH MOTZKIN at leah.motzkin@yale.edu .

// KATHRYN CRANDALL

Looking at how the West looks to the East.

WEEKEND RECOMMENDS: Leaving a skid mark in Silliman Saybrook Solidarity!

PAGE B12

WEEKEND CLEARS

YALE DAILY NEWS · FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2013 · yaledailynews.com

ITS SINUSES

AHAMKARA PART I

Y

ou’ve had a cold for a week.

A website has told you that you have a sinus infection.

You will not go to a doctor.

You’ve lost all sense of smell, of taste; you can barely hear — if you lower your head your whole face seems to swell and grow heavy. As you stumble down the hallway, deciding finally to appease the phone that has been ringing all morning, you feel as if you are swimming through sludge.

You pick up the handset and offer a greeting. Through the receiver, your mother’s voice informs your hot ear that you sound horrible. You quickly tell her that you’re sick, but that it’s fine, and she recommends Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot, what she calls a Neti pot (“It’s Hindu.

Or maybe Zen. Something-or-other, anyway”). She learned about it in this great new yoga class she’s taking at the fitness center, which she is now begging you to try.

You’ve heard of Neti pots before.

Your short-haired high school Spanish teacher from Eureka used to swear by them. For 20 minutes she would try to describe the strange porcelain object in a language that the class did not yet understand before defaulting to English, which she would then use to gush about her strong and handsome Yogacharya (se dice “un hombre fuerte y hermosísimo”) for the remainder of class.

Mass-marketed Eastern medicine has always struck you as stupid, so you’ve tried to keep your distance.

But over the years this distance has rendered it obscure, mystical and, somehow — secretly — right. You hang up the phone, and in the haze of silence that follows you feel that everything, at one time tossed up and confused, is now settling. It is as if all of your restless hatred and sadness and uninformed smirking is sloughing off of you and drifting onto the ground just as thin and broken leaves wobbling down in autumn breeze find home in red dirt!

Suddenly, you are considering the possibility that throughout your entire life, so thick with trouble and frustration and now with mucus, all you ever needed was an alternative.

And here it is. Here is the answer. It is speaking to you, offering you control.

“And if I am to partake in this journey into the East, into clear sinuses, into wellbeing and wholeness, what better point of entry than the [b] Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot?” you ask yourself. Its small, portable design will make it easy to stash when your friends come to visit, saving you from ridicule. Even if the nosy ones discover it resting among embarrassing creams in the medicine cabinet, the thing so closely resembles a teapot that you’ll be able to explain that no, this is not what it looks like (that is, an ancient artifact of a lost but now reemerging art form, a product of eons of trial and error and mystic revelation, a beautiful ceramic pot complete with an ergonomic handle and a slender proboscis for maximal intra-nasal saline delivery) — no, this is a minimalist, “arty” teapot that you found at a flea market and, gosh, how the heck did it get in there, anyway?

There is another reason why, as far as spiritual starter-kits go, Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot is probably your best bet: unlike Sundance What’s-Her-Name, the beginner’s yoga instructor over at the fitness center, a Neti pot won’t demand in a cooing voice that you contort your spine and tie up your limbs into unimaginable knots.

Snot gurgles deep inside your skull. Look: it’s you, clutching your head and pulling your hair, brooding on a black and white screen. The frame is shaking, the shot zooming steadily in, the pressure mounting.

Everything is vibrating and painful — hopeless. Suddenly, the camera slows its jiggle, righting itself. You crack a smile. Rich Technicolor floods the screen. A bold catchphrase spi-

// BY OLIVER PRESTON

rals into view, obscuring your face and most of the picture: Neti to the rescue! *** In the parking lot of Whole Foods, second thoughts. Ladies stroll past one by one, leaning into their shopping carts, some glancing at their cell phones, others squinting in the afternoon sun. Most of them are wearing a variation of the same outfit: sneakers, ludicrously tight yoga pants (butt cheeks tensing, relaxing, tensing again), a synthetic shirt, and huge sunglasses apparently meant to eclipse the face. At the other end of the parking lot, the pavement shimmers in the heat. The highway roars.

Look at these people. Why do this?

Who decided? Neti? Lies seem to linger overhead; they thicken the air like crop dust. Think: Hope like this has only ever proven itself to be a fiction.

What mystical cure could possibly be found there, in that building, sitting in the company of granola, grass-fed beef, linoleum floors and rich suburbanites? Why not just go to a doctor’s office? The needle smell, the nice, clean carpets, the reassuring diplomas, proudly framed and mounted on the wall — what do you think you’ve been — But now you are stepping out of the car and walking across the parking lot. Now the automatic doors are sliding apart, a pimply teenager in a green vest (nametag: Jared) greeting you. Now you are sheepishly but excitedly making your way towards the health section, now inspecting the aisles, now passing the fishoils and flax seeds, the antioxidant infusions, the aloe drinks, the rows and rows of soy. Now you are numb, struck with awe: The parking lot is worlds away, the asphalt almost inconceivable now that your eyes are filled with waxed tiles and soaring ceilings and endless objects. And here — right here, in aisle three — you are extending your arm and pulling a box off the shelf, relishing its weight as the concept of Neti becomes something tangible, like a lofty wish materializing at the nod of a genie’s head. For a second you imagine that the box is covered in lines of Sanskrit, but soon the label comes into focus — no, not Sanskrit, just a smartly chosen typeface (Papyrus, to be exact). It spells out, for the first time, the savior’s title in full: Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot (Original Ceramic Model For The Cleansing And Moisturizing Of Nasal Passages According To The Traditional Practice Of Neti)!

You stand in a stupor for a minute or so, staring at the cardboard box that has appeared in your hands.

You are paralyzed. Yes, your limbs are giddy with the memory of your dreamlike march through Whole Foods, but the world seems to have slowed down. Something’s happening, everything is rising up into a sneer. Anger and ridicule wash over you. For a moment, you are transported back to the parking lot. You can feel the yuppie women strutting past, unseeing; you can feel the sun making you sweat.

“Ohhh, Neti pots are great!”

Not one of the women from the

parking lot.

Not the short-haired high school Spanish teacher from Eureka, either. No, this one has long hair, brown, not gray, with some strands of gold flickering in the fluorescent light. Pretty. And, Jesus, how long has she been standing there?

“Sorry if I’m intruding or whatever, but if you’re unsure about trying it out you can take my word for it.”

She points at the box in your hand. “I know it seems kind of, I don’t know, perverted to stick a teapot up your nose like that, but it actually feels so good!”

Is your distress really that obvious? You look at her wide set eyes and wrestle your mouth into a smile.

Might as well say something to reassure her, make her think: uncertain? Who, this guy? No, he couldn’t be more sure of himself if his life depended on it.

“Oh really? Well, my mom told me I should get it for this cold I have, and I mostly just want her to stop nagging me about it. Gotta appease her every once in a while … you know what I mean … I might not even use it, just have to prove to her that I took her advice and bought it.” Throw in a scoff for good measure.

“Oh.”

HOPE LIKE THIS HAS ONLY EVER PROVEN ITSELF TO BE A FRICTION.

She’s looping her hair around her finger, her delicate lips parted into a withdrawn smile. You idiot, it’s the look. It’s the look of confusion — confusion with traces of pity and ridicule and fear — that often falls across a woman’s face when you open your mouth. It’s as if you’re speaking in a strange accent that’s hard for her to place. And just look at her; she’s so heartbreakingly pretty, standing there, uncomprehending.

“Well, feel better! You do sound pretty terrible. Hopefully that thing helps. I think it will; it worked for me!”

“Thanks.”

To keep things from getting any worse, you turn and walk back down the aisle. The stupid box clings to your hand, a trophy for your failure.

But stop for a second, think: Why sweat the little things? Her image lingers at the backs of your eyes, and you feel stupid, but there’s a chance here to get back on track. Her beauty, though painful, is a confirmation. It is. You imagine her cheery face hanging over you, nodding at your every move as if to say:Yes, what you are doing is right.

And, really, why shouldn’t you take her word for it? She seemed normal enough. If you were to intro-

duce her to your friends at a party, they would probably nudge you in the ribs when she turned her back, say something like “how’d you land that one?” And of course they’d all laugh at that, and you wouldn’t able to come up with a retort, but it doesn’t matter — you see the jealousy in their eyes as they inspect her backside and drink deeply from their cups, all of them wondering about the future, wondering whether you’ll have room for them in it. Look at this: In a miraculous turn of events, you have become the one who tolerates them.

They are dispensable, insignificant; the Girl from Whole Foods is the only one who seems real to you anymore.

She is the one who loves you for who you are, the one who has nuzzled your shoulder in the empty hours of the morning, the one who has coaxed out your innermost thoughts and treated them tenderly, as if they were her own.

At the cash register, the conveyor belt whisks Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot over to “Stacy,” who scans it. The beep, high and quick, is like a bell going off. You think, “the Girl from Whole Foods appeared before me like a spirit, recited her truest, most honest testimony, and demonstrated a kindness that I’ve never felt before — a great lotus flower of kindness that is now opening up before me and inviting me into its bloom, taking me into its glowing petals, dousing me with its cosmic nectar (a mild saline solution that, when warmed and deposited into the nostrils by way of a minimally intrusive proboscis, moisturizes and cleanses the nasal passages) and, at last, carrying me across ancestral waters towards a beacon of promise in the East. She has given her blessing unto me, and —” You mutely shove a fistful of bills into “Stacy’s” palm. Before she can hand you the change, you’re grabbing Ancient Secrets® Nasal Cleansing Pot and shooting past “Jared,” fighting the urge to clap him on the back and thank him for his service. The sliding doors part, and the parking lot spreads out before you. You inhale deeply. Snot collects at the back of your throat. The cars whip past on the highway. For once, for once, the world is within your grasp.

Contact OLIVER PRESTON at oliver.preston@yale.edu .