Networks

LIBERTAS the networks issue Vo l . 1 7 , no. 2

Ro si e K o si nsk i

SATREBIL editorial CO-EDITORS IN CHIEF Design Emily Romeyn Managing Vincent Weir POETRY Lucia Stacey & Tim Rauen FICTION Madeleine Brown NONFICTION Claire Ittner FILM Riley Ambrose MUSIC Will Stratford CRITICISM Colin Thomson YOWL Brian Correa

contributors Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Lucia Stacey, Tim Raven, Madeleine Brown, Molly Dolinger, Jessie Blount, Meg Mendenhall, Colin Thomson, Brian Correa, Jacob Cole, Michael DeSimone, Will Reese, Hannah Foltz, Hannah Hinson, Katie Voegtli, The Editorial Board of No Tokens, Ben Williams, Rosie Kosinski, Vera Shulman, and Blanca Vidal-Orga.

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Editors’ Notes

Gill Holland Will Reese Tim Raven Lucia Stacey

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POETRY How do we Capture a Drowned Body? Or, the Use of Double Nets I’m Not That Special and Neither Are the Andes Street Lamps Lamination

Jacob Cole

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FICTION Politics As Theater

Hannah Foltz

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Vincent Weir & Emily Romeyn

Hannah Hinson Katie Voegtli Vincent Weir

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Colin Thomson Riley Ambrose The Editorial Board of No Tokens

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Anonymous

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Michael DeSimone Libertas Rosie Kosinski Vera Shulman Blanca Vidal Orga Emily Romeyn

CREATIVE NONFICTION My Daddy Didn’t Get Me an Internship & I Certainly Didn’t Try to Get One Mother’s Home Remedy Okunoin CouchSurfing CRITICISM The Math Behind Good Will Hunting A Note on College Literature Conditional Dynamism: The Stuff I Don’t Like YOWL Donation Hubbub Reminds Liberal Arts College How Much it Likes Money, Self To the Co-Editors of Libertas in Regards to Your Last Issue Cap City: The Ben Williams Drinking Game

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MUSIC Michael’s #Relevant Music Picks

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INTERVIEW Libertas + Theater

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ART “Untitled” How do we Capture a Drowned Body graphic Lamination graphic Masthead graphic Networks graphic “Source” Couch graphic Libertas Last Word/Emily Romeyn’s Editor Note

editors’ notes.

The Role of the Author For my editor’s note on the twisting ever-complicating network of readers, writers, and authorship, please turn to the back page of this issue.

Emily R o m ey n

The Network Revolution Davidson’s Place in the Perilous Future of Colleges

T

hey call us the network generation. We are “ambitious multitaskers,” “experiential learners,” and “career-oriented collaborators” who require “immediate feedback” and “increased freedom” to succeed. We are “a wave of young people empowered to create knowledge, not merely absorb it,” and as we come toward shore, we become a “hurricane:” “flowing in and out of the classroom, calling into question the convictions and processes that have served as the foundation of traditional higher education.”

So run the arguments of Carole Barone, Don Tapscott, and Marc Prensky—frontrunners in a small sect of the nebulous but ever-growing “digital humanities.” Though the field began in the 1940s (when an Italian monk built the first primitive search engine to study Aquinas), today’s digital humanities have gathered mass enough to storm the academy by force.

Poetically situated between science and letters by virtue of its many acronyms, the digital humanities (“DH”) refer to almost any instance of integration between technology and research, teaching, or publishing. Today the DH are making revolutionary inroads in each of these areas—but most provocatively in teaching, where the rise of MOOCs (massive open online courses) from Stanford and the Ivy League have led some to predict that “in fifty years, there will only ten universities left in the world.”

This skepticism about the future of universities has induced panic at schools across America. Earlier this summer the University of Virginia pressured its president to resign (on the pretext that she wasn’t embracing the digital future fast enough) only to reinstate her in an embarrassing reversal two weeks later. In a recent conversation with a professor, I heard that “institutions like High Point University [with $40,000+ tuitions and mid-tier national reputations] will likely not survive.” Indeed, a New Yorker article from last May offered little hope to education’s 99%:

higher education is becoming more like other areas of American life, with the fortunate few institutions distancing themselves ever further from the many. All those things commencement speakers talk about—personal growth, critical thinking skills, intellectual exploration, breath of learning—will survive at the top institutions but other colleges will come under increased pressure to adopt the model of trade schools.

“The doomsayers may be onto something,” agrees the Economist.

“Four-year residential colleges cannot keep on forever raising their fees when online degrees are so much cheaper. Universities that fail to prepare for the hurricane ahead are likely to be flattened by it.”

In light of these concerns, and in light of Davidson’s uncertain stature (our U.S. News ranking fell again this year to #12) and modest endowment (as of January 2012, our $509,583,000 ranked 20th out of 25 for liberal arts schools), it’s not hard to imagine a future where we too fall to the wayside.

True, these dark predictions come at an awkward time for Davidson. The college recently received its largest gift ever, a $45 million Duke Endowment grant designed to make us a leader in the liberal arts. But we can only leverage these assets if we know the right direction to take them.

With that in mind, the most important gift we’ve received this month may be the $50,000 Mellon Grant that arrives soon to several departments, including ITS. While the Duke dollars go toward buildings, the Mellon grant will go straight into the curriculum— redesigning it specifically to fit the needs of the network generation. Unfortunately, the horizon is still too dark to see much. But as the hurricane approaches, we can hope that our generation will play a vital role. Perhaps it will be that our future-oriented ambitions will collaborate with the gifts of the present-day to save us.

V i nc ent W ei r

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

Imma blend a cleanser One part ginger One part mountain Imma down it To a slow clap Yes I believe Buddah Was reincarnated As a mountain Yes he could be Better at this calling I asked the mountain To tell me a story To which he replied I tell you a story?

Babe you are the story Wil l R ee s e

man

I ’ M N OT T H AT SPECIAL AND NEITHER ARE THE ANDES

Shul

OR THE USE OF DOUBLE NETS

In Oslo’s fiord some years ago we saw our first—at least ‘twas so for me--amazingly vivid on that cold summer day Nesodden-bound, just off the ferry to the great peninsula, the wet-through brown back that bobbed like a whales’s back but didn’t spout, the hat that sat tight upon the submerged head must have been knotted under the chin a shoe broke the surface now and then the ferryman gave a shout “Get him out!” ””Hjelp! Hjelp!” Then there appeared out of nowhere an overlong stick with nets of rope at both ends fit for double duty to dip, cup a drowned and soggy body up from Oslo’s fiord as the ferry struck out for Nesodden carrying our party and the man who wouldn’t tonight start his dinner with the soup dish.

Vera

HOW DO WE CAPTURE A DROWNED BODY? ,

Gi l l H o l l a nd

street amps

Street lamps imagine From the blank dark little globes of world, Separate nights - stars each to each

Poised on the brink of revolutionary cause: From their flat, endless oceans, a heave of matter– A gasp – christened in the misting rain.

Wet red taillights splash the concrete Like a comet.

Like an omen.

And the street lamps carry on, They carry on For miles in a caught breath.

Tim R a v en

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 2

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politics theater as

n i e fad

on a mahogany desk. Well-built, glossy with varnish, and filled with enough drawers to store all my files, spreadsheets, and secrets. Pan over to the fulllength windows revealing Capitol Hill’s great halls of political power behind me.

Zoom in on the gleaming “Congressman Goldman” nameplate on my desk, the status symbol of choice for the well-to-do ne’er-do-wells who crowd this building.

Cut over to my email inbox. It’s all from the new plant’s manager. When a manager for a project you allocated funds for sends you multiple items marked as urgent, you might as well grab your golden parachute and jump. Transition the scene to a polling station and watch yourself get left on the cutting room floor.

He tells me that the valve that wasn’t supposed to break broke. Enter thousands of gallons of petrochemicals into my district’s reservoir. Into a voter’s next glass of water. Or shower. Or the sprinkler their kids play in. He says there’s no definite link to cancer yet, but I know these residents are going to end up being the lab rats that confirm it. Enter the EPA stage right. And the class-action lawsuit stage left. The lights dim and the music crescendos slowly as my constituents rip me apart for pushing through plant funding that cut every possible corner on regulations.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

I realize that the project manager and I are still the only ones who know. Extreme close-up on my complete catharsis. This is unbelievably great news. With no definite links to my proposal, there’s a great chance nobody will find out what’s happened for years, if ever. Quick cut to me, showing off that brilliant $15,000 smile and introducing myself to bottomlesspocketed donors as Senator Goldman.

Enter a voice inside

my head,

telling me that people are going to get sick no matter what.

Throwing away my career doesn’t change that.

Don’t call the EPA.

Just sweep it under a rug Cut back to my email. These people said they wanted jobs, and that new plant will give them thousands.

Enter my trash folder center stage.

Enter my next election victory party. Enter my meteoric rise to national prominence. Enter a wallet lined with soft corporate cash, the kind that can buy you more power than you’ve ever dreamed about.

fade out scene Ja c o b Co l e

MY DADDY DIDN’T GET ME AN INTERNSHIP

&

I CERTAINLY DIDN’T TRY TO GET ONE

H a nn a h Fo l t z

M

y laptop died several days into the summer vacation. Note that it was a three year old PC, notable at a college whose privileged student body boasts something like 70% Mac ownership. My PC set me apart as one of the underclass; the school doesn’t help this stigma by purchasing giant-screened, beautiful iMacs—a purchase that, while providing space age computer labs for the tour guides, makes me wonder how many scholarships could be provided if we bought giant-screened, beautiful Dells instead. Anyway, even though my PC served as perhaps a greater indicator of my economic status than my uncorrected dwarf tooth, its death portended dark things for the long summer ahead.

Most college students that I know (and I know all the important ones) admit that Netflix Instant Stream is a vital part of their daily summer schedule. How the hell else am I supposed to wind down after a long day of napping, binge eating, and crying about my boredom? However, this simple yet important pleasure has been robbed from me by the death of my laptop. Although I was recently mugged at gunpoint, this trauma pales in comparison to the theft of my ability to watch 18 consecutive hours of Gossip Girl, only leaving my bed to restock on sweet potato chips. My parents have some contraption that allows for Netflix streaming through our TV, but it’s just not the same. The public nature of the television means public scrutiny—only in the wee hours of the morning, when my parents are safely asleep, may I resume my marathons of 16 and Pregnant.

The PC’s untimely demise has also necessitated that I use my parents’ desktop computer for most web-related business and communication. Although it moves at a glacial pace, all in all it has been fine, except for the discoveries I make while sitting at it. My mother apparently uses the desk as a dumping ground for information I do not want to know. For instance, to my right, beyond the wrist rest that my mother claimed to need to ward off carpal tunnel (apparently updating the Linkedin of the unemployed creates the same injury patterns found in the undocumented workers at chicken plants), lies a 4 page print-out of Irritable Bowel Syndrome Medications and Drugs. Beyond this gem lies “My Ten Commandments,” a semi-blasphemous collection of maxims like “Thou shalt not cross bridges before you get to them, for no one yet has succeeded in accomplishing this.” Who is this woman? It’s no wonder I rocketed out of that womb a month early.

My title is a bit of an exaggeration, much like the rest of this story. I do have a bit of a job, but it’s a pittance next to the Davidson-homepage-worthy internships of my classmates. My dream has long been to be featured on the homepage as a shining example of everything a $200,000 education can achieve.

Unfortunately, to this date, my accomplishments are probably more in line with a free education from the local community college. This summer, I’m making $1400 teaching elementary school immigrants English as a second language.

Noble, you say? Reconsider! I’ve picked up on the feeling among my peers and educators that such “charity work” is appropriate only before one gets serious.

Its okay to muddle around with helping others as a sophomore, but a rising senior should conduct research on wind turbines or engage in insider trading at a hedge fund. That’s the kind of work that would get me on the goddamn homep-

age. If I’m teaching English, it should at least be on some kind of Fulbright in a third world country, or I guess I should say in a least developed country. I suppose that level of political correctness is what separates me from the masses.

Lifetime of my parents’ earnings well spent!

Davidson does an amazing job at making the relatively well-off feel poor. My parents have $200,000 to pour into my school’s iMac fund, but only by draining their IRAs. If I can provide any advice to young parents wondering how to pay for their newborn angel’s education, it would be to incur massive debt by spending outside your means. Not only will this ensure you will receive financial aid, it will accustom your child to a lavish lifestyle that you cannot truly afford, but that will make him the kind of insufferable asshole that will do well in a fraternity. I’ve found that nothing builds character and empathy like Brooks Brothers boxers.

My father is a mechanical engineer, who despite large amounts of fancy education, has decided to stay forgo management because he dislikes firing people.

My mother is a longtime jobseeker who turns off employers with either overzealousness or dark, disturbing honesty. Needless to say, although my family life provides a great setting for a two and a half star independent comedy, it does limit my built-in business connections. It’s not that I think nepotism will ever end, or that people are necessarily wrong for exploiting it—it’s more like I hate them for having what I don’t. If I were more motivated I would join the Occupy movement, start at Trotskyite revolution, or work harder to forge my own connections. But all of that would distract me from finishing Mad Men Season 4 and we certainly can’t have THAT. So, until my chance encounter with Warren Buffet in a Chili’s, you can find me pretending that meaningful work replaces money as the key to happiness.

Let’s not kid ourselves—an iPhone would not only make me happier than if I taught 100 scrappy immigrants to speak English well , but also happier than at the second coming of Christ. Of course, I would have to buy the Confession app to resolve that whole mortal sin situation, but hearing Siri’s melodic voice guiltfree would be totally worth the $1.99. Alas, earning enough money to pay for an iPhone would involve work, which my generation loathes to do, or selling my eggs, which are undesirable because of my mental health. The only thing left to do is devote myself to community building and empowerment and embrace my status as a lovable failure that couldn’t quite lock down that job at Bain.

Do you have any Netflix recommendations?

THE MATH BEHIND GOOD WILL HUNTING

A

lthough characters of Good Will Hunting (1997) present the solution to a problem found on a chalkboard as an astounding mathematical feat, the truth is that most any undergraduate math major could develop the same solution without too much difficulty.

The “advanced Fourier system” that Professor Lambeau (Stellan Skarsgaard) “hopes one [of the MIT students] will prove by the end of the semester” is actually a standard graph theory problem that combines linear algebra and an abstract network. The network, or graph, is a collection of nodes or vertices connected by edges. The problem itself asks how many ways there are to get from vertex i to vertex j, given that i and j are nodes in the network.

The answer is difficult to solve until you think of how to represent how the

Co l i n Th o m so n

network is connected. The solution put forward by Will (Matt Damon) creates a matrix with each entry representing the number of ways to get between different vertices. The only ways to get between vertices in one step are those that are directly connected, so place a one in the (i,j) and (j,i) spots if vertices i and j are connected, a two if there are two edges, and zero if there are none. To find all paths of length k, just raise your matrix (the adjacency matrix) to the kth power.

By multiplying each row against each column and adding, you add up all of the ways to connect two vertices by adding the paths through intermediates.

To learn more about a mathematical approach to networks, check out MAT150: Linear Algebra and MAT220: Combinatorics and Graph Theory.

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i LAM i N ATON I want to laminate the sky, run my fingers over the glossy black paper, read the stars, like brail: [Ellen Goolsby licks the salt from a french-fry – an ant travels at the rate of 2 degrees of latitude, a second, travels in the Australian outback, four hundred and twelve miles from Bill’s Oyster Shack, where George Austins swallows his penultimate oyster –

(in four hours, he will die: eight beers, one BMW, and a trip down the river – Styx)

In the furthest left square foot of Omaha a dog watches his owner masturbate – There’s a block of cheese in a cellar in Salzburg that’s molding –

Sally Sunbeam stocks drop 6 points (George Walter-Smith takes this as a sign.

It’s not.) – Katherine Louise Tobert kneels at Nabokov’s Father’s Grave at the Russian Orthodox Church in Eastern Berlin in an act of literary fanaticism –

A man in Mongolia wraps his newborn in a pink, yellow and green blanket of sturdy thread – Thomas Hampton just lost his virginity behind the porta-potties of his highschool (he will not marry her, he will slip in the shower sixteen years from seven seconds ago and his partner won’t be home to hear the thud) –

A Norwegian diplomat spills Akavit down his shirt after his fourth shot–

In Kansas a fourteen-year old girl discovers the friction of her own fingers –

In Argentina a seventy-three year old woman cuts her thumb on a steak knife and bleeds a little bit into her dinner –

In Room 226 of a Holiday Inn in Orange County a maid is raped – In case of emergency and because of turbulence, five thousand two hundred and eight feet above the Pacific Ocean one hundred and eighteen people fasten their seat belts (they won’t crash, Flight 342 will in four years though. Helen Ming, who is on this flight, will be on that one as well) – Lamya Smith’s pregnancy test is inconclusive (the doctors will tell her in three days that her kidneys are failing) –

A shrimp is caught in a net (in a month it will be coated in coconut and deep frozen) – The umbilical cord of a baby with no name browns and crumples]

I want to melt the laminate sky, sink the stars into the grooves of my fingertips, swirl the hot plastic of the universe,

rearrange the constellations.

L u ci a S t a c e y

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

Blanca Vidal Orga

Em i l y Ro m ey n

MOTHER’S HOME REMEDY TRENDY ALCOHOLIC TEA MAY BE YOUR NEXT PLACEBO

A

t some times of day, the varieties and flavors of Kombucha tea outnumber the people wandering the aisles of the Healthy Home Market, an organic grocery in Davidson, North Carolina. Having heard the buzz about this new health drink, a fermented sweet tea, I spent more time than I’d like to admit deciding between Kombucha brands. I finally chose the commercially produced Synergy, “designed to nourish your body from the inside out.” Then another question arose: do I want to feel like a “Cosmic Cranberry” or a “Guava Goddess”? My careful choice stemmed from the Kombucha myth that this tea would transform the way my body felt. Also, at $4 a bottle, I didn’t want to waste money on something that tasted vile. More truly, though, the live bacteria floating in the bottle made me anxious.

Kombucha tea is part of the “probiotic” fad in health foods. Although Kombucha has recently gained momentum in the U.S., the tea originated in China around 200 B.C. Kombucha enthusiasts call the tea “the ultimate elixir,” claiming its health benefits for combating baldness, arthritis, cancer, HIV, among other ailments. Scientific studies have not substantiated these claims, but because of the rise of preventive health measures, Kombucha has a following.

As I paid for my “Guava Goddess,” the cashier affirmed my choice. “That’s the one I recommend to people when they try Kombucha for the first time. It helps cover up the vinegary taste.” Vinegary tea? “The energy you feel after you drink one of these is amazing.” Emboldened by the cashier’s assurance, I took my first sip, which sparkled, helping mask the tea’s tartness. I wasn’t sure if the pulp was the guava purée or the live bacteria, but I drank more quickly than expected, not because I particularly liked it, but because each swallow represented a desire to identify the taste. What was I drinking? This question steered me toward an even more organic Kombucha production—a home brewery blocks away.

A senior at Davidson College, Jonah Sprung makes his own Kombucha. The tea concoction sat in a glass jug in his kitchen, atop a wooden shelf that stored spices and whiskey. A Subway napkin secured by a rubber band covered the amber liquid.

When I asked about the napkin, he said, “I prefer a paper towel, but we don’t have any.” The brewer determines when the tea is ready. Usually the brewing time is between seven to fourteen days—this batch had been sitting for eight.

Jonah removed the rubber band and pulled back the napkin. A jellyfish-like substance, large and flattened, floated on top of the tea and encased the entire top of the jar. Tentacles of bacteria sprouted beneath the creature. Formally, this substance is called a SCOBY, an acronym for “symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast.”

Most Kombucha followers, however, call it a “mushroom” based on its bulbous form (though it has no relation to the fungus). More affectionately, they call the mushroom “the mother.”

As the Kombucha matriarch, the “mother” shields the tea from outside influences and unfriendly bacteria, and dictates everything that happens beneath her. While the tea ferments, she reigns over the sweet tea mix, feeding upon its sweetness and sucking away its sobriety. She excretes her bacteria, which swim and settle at the jar’s bottom. Above the liquid, the mother swells and reproduces “baby” mushrooms, which she cradles on her underside until the babies are peeled off and sold or given away so that others can start their own Kombucha production—the babies become mothers. When we judged the tea fermented, we unseated the mother and released the tea into a clean jar. Under the mother’s influence, it became a sour, pungent smelling, slightly alcoholic health drink.

Jonah then pulled out last week’s batch from the refrigerator. “This is a mix of black tea and rooibus tea.” One can use any tea to make Kombucha, though some combinations taste better than others. My first guava Kombucha behind me, I felt more confident about tasting the homebrew, which savored of cider. When I asked Jonah why he made Kombucha, I expected a witnessing on miraculous health benefits, or probiotic wonders. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s an effective placebo.” One way or another, perhaps Kombucha really does make us feel better.

H a nna h Hinson

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YOWL DAVIDSON’S NEWS FOLLOWER

to the Co-Editors of Libertas in regards to your last issue

Dear Madame and Sir: Godammit. The only things more pretentious than Wes Anderson films are highfalutin reviews of them. With that in mind, I thought I’d do a favor for the non-English major (51% of Davidson students are male) by parsing the hollow language in the Moonrise Kingdom piece into words we might use on the football field: -“this Gatsby-narrative” = Yellow, forty two, set HUT! -“deconstructionism” = sosc -“destruktion” = spellcheck -“solipsism” = childhood -“deus ex machina” = graduation -“disinformation” = this information

you will clearly see the author’s subconscious intention. That’s right, I’m talking about prostitution and the organ market: I can say that making money is not nearly as important as making my BODY available…Therefore free online VIDEO BIDDING is an exciting opportunity to share my BODY to new consumers…

Of course I appreciate financial compensation for my work because that purchase signifies the value my BODY holds to the buyer…So much collective cultural value that has accumulated through the free exchange of BODIES. Anyway, it’s always good to see the Libertas explore racy issues like prostitution and black markets. Ooo! I DO hope they write a poem about cigarettes!

With that translation exercise behind us, let’s play another language replacement game with the article on “music downloading.” Actually, if you replace music with the word BODY, and download with VIDEO BIDDING, then

Yours from the shadows, Unanimous Anonymous

Foreign Kid Fails to Understand the Complicated Nuances of American Pres. Debate

I

t’s that time of year again—you, the mixed-up foreign kid from one of those narrow-minded, not-America places, have gotten yourself confused about the rules of a simple U.S. pastime like baseball or ostracizing smokers. Need somebody to explain what’s going on in the latest Presidential Debate? Well sit down Feejo or whatever your name is. I’ll explain.

See all those people sitting in a circle around the candidates? They’re Mitt Romney’s children.

He’s a Mormon, which means anytime he’s not standing in front of people he’s raw-dogging in the jizz closet. Anyway back to these kids. Each of them gets to ask their dad and that black guy whatshisname one question. You’re probably asking yourself who this black guy is and why he would agree to take questions from such a biased sample. Well that’s Obeemu. He’s the President, which means he’s the guy trying to get everybody in America laid jobs. Makes sense now, right?

Obeejay is showing the world Romney’s offspring in business clothes to associate himself with intercourse employment.

Place two beer bottles on either side of the table (not length wise, but width wise).

These will serve as goalposts. Your team should have two players. Making up a team name is good.

3.

THE

CAP CITY 1.

I

Donation Hubbub Reminds Liberal Arts College How Much It Likes Money, Self

n the hubbubs surrounding a $45 million donation, a small American college suddenly remembered how much it likes the United States currency and itself.

“I’m a lifelong user of smelling salts, but they have nothing on this $45 million gift— which instantaneously overwhelmed me with affection for this small American college and specifically for all the U.S. currency it now has,” wrote college president Presbyteria Christenssen. “I mean, shit, $45 million? Money is the coolest shit on earth. I invite you all to my giant hubbub.”

The donation—which more than doubles the $20 million annually devoted to hurricane research—immediately sparked enormous hubbubs on Twitter and also in real life.

“Fuck @haters I’m #richasfuck #hubbubcentral,” tweeted the official college Twitter account. “RT IF YOU LOVE MONEY or STOCKS AND BONDS!!”

Within fifteen minutes of the announcement, a savvy individual created a Tumbler commemorating the money and comparing it to other amounts of money or things. One chart included a list of random denominations that were less than or equal to $45 million. The list included amounts like $15,000, $16,000, and $3.

Another chart compared the donation to the

marginal cost of building a small spacecraft: “Only 100 more donations to go!” it added, in reference to the spacecraft’s $450,000,000 cost, which did not include the $1,451,000,000 required to launch it.

“I suppose it’s easy to lose heart when you compare this donation to other things like 50 Cents’ net worth ($100,000,000), Harvard’s annual tuition/gift revenue ($1,425,000,000), or the assessed economic output of humans since the beginning of time ($2,396,950,000,000,000),” said college economist Mark David Ear-Samuels.

“But let’s not overlook all the things we can do with this coin. The EPA estimate for a human life is $8,120,000, for instance. We could buy four or five of those, depending on the market. We could also buy fifteen Super Bowl commercials ($1,500,000/30sec.) That’s like, what, seven minutes of airtime? Heck, we could even buy a vente caramel macchiato at Starbucks for a million straight days—and even more than that if we invest the money we aren’t spending back in the franchise.”

“I think we go wrong to focus so much on this money,” stressed President Christenssen.

“The point isn’t just the money we received, but rather the ability we have to spend it on things or invest it to make a shit-ton more.”

Okay, now see how Obisma’s mouth is moving? That’s called talking—back in the ‘60s Kennedy invented it as the primary technique for answering debate questions. While he’s talking, Obarmy scores a point every time he uses the word “fatcat,” or reads bin Laden’s obituary. He’s also penalized for the word “sorry,” “I’m so sorry,” and “can’t I get some goddamn respect I’m the President.” During this period Romney can only pray that his Mormon gods will transform Obotmie into a pillar of sweet, sweet untaxed Cayman pesos, or fish scale pink cocaine. When his talking turn comes, Romney will be able to complain about the debate format and yell at Questioner #2 for smelling like “potted weeds smoke,” etc. No, I’m not talking about Candy Crowley. Yes, Candy like “the peanut Reese” or “the Snicker” as you call them, or that weird-ass orange crap your mom mailed you and you tried to make me eat.

Wait, where are you going? I haven’t even got to the Killing Elderly sudden death rules, or the Florida Voting Machine wild card. Fine, see if I care, Futsio.

Ben Williams Drinking Game

5.

2.

Obtain a beer bottle cap. You will use this as your “ball.”

If you make a touchdown, you may also set a “player” so you can pass. This involves placing another beer bottle on the field. You can ricochet the cap off the bottle, setting your partner up for the score. Multiple players are allowed on the field, also introducing the possibility of using your players more as blocks against the other team’s scoring than for your own. Thus, you may also use your touchdown privilege to remove one of the other team’s players.

6.

The primary objective is to slide the beer bottle cap in between the goal posts. Drinking (points) systems are as follows:

A turn ends after a score, after the cap going out of bounds, or after two touches by a single player (or in the case of passing, one touch by each player). Turns rotate between players unless one of them is like, a girl, or something. A third party may

Chug (3 points)

4.

Finish (6 points)touchdown Chug (3 points)

If you make a “touchdown,” you may try for a field goal (1 point). This consists of having a member of the opposing team make goal posts (a la paper football) with his or her hands above the bottles while you attempt to flick the cap through them. I’d say a good chug is necessary after a field goal.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

7.

Play ends at 50 points or surrender.

a note

on college literature

abstract:

S l y l ey S p am b ros e , ps e u don ym of Riley Ambrose

I

get the feeling that most college literature is inspired from a poor, and therefore venerated, understanding of the Beat generation.

Don’t mistake me: I love Kerouac and Ginsberg just as much as the next English major. Such daring.

Such poignant imagery. Let’s all co-opt the style and be free spirits who eat fire in paint hotels and purgatory their torsos with cock and endless balls – but only in writing. The exalted ascension of the angel-headed hipster.

The problem is that we are distracted by a good image, or by making that image, or trying so hard to resurrect a lost image that we fail at it. It’s self-indulgent (at best!), and the goal is to be the wittiest of them all (“all” being actually the few people who read your writing). Our writing isn’t relevant. I criticize, but I am he who is to blame (I belong, too), and my self-criticism (thus embodied) is my tentative palliative. I shouldn’t talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. The fact is it’s not our fault so much as it is that of the frustratingly refracted thing we live in. I am talking, of course, about the negro streets and unshaven rooms and paint hotels – only now they are “negro streets” and “unshaven rooms” and “paint hotels,” and the quotation marks make all the difference. It’s the age of the bibliography, and our reluctance to capitulate, rather than dissolving the problem, exacerbates our inability to recognize our insular position.

WE can’t synthesize anything to be coherent. To purpose to do so makes you tragically benign – the worst compliment today. Coherency is the mark of the system, of the template; and the more abstract we make things the more meanings they could have; and who am I to tell you what I am trying to say? Let’s speak in short sentences.

Direct. I want to tell you that COLLEGE LITERATURE is mainly BAD. I can’t escape what I can’t escape – do you get me? The incoherent means I don’t know it yet. I want to know it. The incoherent is the bad girl who rejected me.

Sorry, pretty girl who is bird-dogging me with only the best intentions, I GET you too much. Why did the badgirl reject me?

some simple rules, then, towards a stylistically : e r u t a r e t i better l I chose to address this problem in an indirect, loathsome manner.

Mainly, this was because I didn’t know how to do so in a direct, admirable way. My point is simple, however: we will not write good college literature so long as it is college literature. In light of this, allow me to rephrase my earlier statement: COLLEGE LITERATURE is BAD; good college literature does not exist; “college literature” is an insulated medium to exhibit oneself. We need to write better things. This means we must first acknowledge our insular position and then do our best to overcome it. Instead of showing that you have read the Beats, write something productive.

Crickets do not make a sound when they fuck; metaphors are not toys or an experimental combination game based on a vague and indolent understanding of synaesthesia and/or shocking words – love is not “FUCK!”; the “rebel” is so passé – try straight-lacing your ‘verse.

1. Try and try and try not to say Fuck so much 2. Write your pieces in marker. If they retain

some dignity, transpose them to a computer

3A. Avoid James Dean like his name was

James Deen and he caught syphilis from that other porn actor

3B. Avoid Marlon Brando archetypes

like his name was James Deen and he caught syphilis from that other porn actor

4. Use your discretion as to what is profound 5. Be one trusted to use discretion 6. If you think you can be trusted in your discretion, you can’t (5)

7. Avoid suicide until you are older 8. Don’t emulate Bret Easton Ellis; he is an asshole

9. Don’t be an asshole. Have compassion 10. Read Tolkein’s The Hobbit: Or There and Back Again

11.

Don’t emulate (10); you will never succeed

12. Anonymity is your enemy

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 2

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picks

music

michael’s

#relevant M i c h a el D eS i m o ne

SENTIMENTAL TRASH

Sweet Valley

Wavves front man Nathan Williams and his brother Kynan end their new beat-tape, Eternal Champ, on a song that evokes emotions in a way only blues and sped up soul sampling can. With minimal piano and drum accompaniment, the two samples (from where I have no idea) bring the rather active tape to a slow meditative halt. It is not until the jarring synth work a third of the song in that one is violently awakened from this peace. Fittingly, these disruptions display how deep down these random, purposeless samples are not meaningful but simply trash.

You would also enjoy: Time: The Donut of the Heart by J Dilla, Chosen (Squadda B Solo) by Main Attrakionz

ERRTHANG

Feat. Danny Brown, Dopehead, & SKYWLKR (Ryan Hemsworth Remix)

Alright this is my problem with Danny Brown. He is an amazing lyricist with one of the most recognizable voices in rap, but when given the option, he raps over hell-hole trap beats. These unoriginal trap beats do not complement Brown’s original style, and SKYWLKR’s production on the original Errthang is a glaring example of this. Like any great remake/remix, Ryan Hemsworth takes this flawed product and turns it into an epic piece of work. Through a combination of military drum patterns, hyper fluctuating synths, and THAT piano, Hemsworth creates a rap anthem. Hell, he even found a better way to sensor the song than the original with Gucci Mane and gun samples covering up any bad words.

You would also enjoy: Look Alive by Despot, Ray Ban Vision (Remix) feat. Donnis, Pill, Danny Brown, & CyHi Da Prynce by A-Trak

CALIFORNIA BOY

Lil B “The BasedGod”

SO FAR AWAY

Charli XCX

Okunoin

O

Lil B is such a good rapper that he is beyond rap. Lil B can fuck yo bitch while singing that he just a California Boy, just a California Boy. This is so based that the world doesn’t want a Lil B rock album, the world needs a Lil B rock album. We are blessed to have a god as based as Lil B. You would also enjoy: Killin’ the Vibe feat. Panda Bear by Ducktails, Crazy for You by Best Coast

Ingredients for an indie pop songs: a pinch of danceability, a cup of a catchy chorus, a hint of HipHop, a spoonful of sexiness, and edge, lots of edge. The indie pop song cannot have universal appeal, as then it would a generic pop single. It is a wedding gown with a stain. “So Far Away” displays both beauty and the grotesque as colorful, fluttering beats contrast the nightmarish post-breakup hell XCX describes.

You would also enjoy: Oblivion by Grimes, Kill Them by jj

ver a millennium ago, the Japanese monk Kukai retired. Instead of throwing a party, he began to fast. After telling his disciples that he would expire in a week, he entered a private room, folded his legs into lotus position, and began to meditate. Myth claims that instead of dying, Kukai entered a state of permanent meditation.

When I arrive at Mount Koya, all I remember about Kukai is jotting “founder of Shingon Buddhism” beside his name in religion class. Now, my glossy “Guide to Koya” informs me that this monk was also a civil servant, scholar, poet, calligrapher, inventor, engineer, and artist. Seeking distance from his demanding public life, Kukai established a Buddhist training center at the remote Mount Koya.

The landscape mirrors Kukai’s theology: like the petals of the sacred lotus flower, eight peaks encircle a central plateau representing the Buddhist cosmos.

From the west, pilgrims once ascended the twenty-three and a half kilometer trail to Koya. They passed through the crimson Daimon Gate and crossed the city to reach Okunoin, the sacred site of Kukai’s mausoleum.

Feeling thoroughly modern, I float up the mountain in a cable car then across 9

LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

A TRIP TO THE LARGEST GRAVEYARD IN JAPAN Ka tie Voegtli town in a bus. As I fumble for my fare, an automated recording chirps, “Okunoin.

Mount Koya’s most sacred spot, this is the largest graveyard in Jap-” I step toward the stone bridge entrance and glance again at my brochure. Ichino-hashi, the first bridge. Tradition claims that Kukai will meet me here to escort me to his mausoleum. As the afternoon sun warms this chilly thought, I cross the bridge.

Pause. I suddenly feel like a child at the Imperial Palace, surrounded by stately cedars that lift their fingers to tap the sky. Sunshine rolls from the clouds, trickles down their arms, plops onto the lichen-crusted tombstones at their feet.

Camera-strapped tourists bustle forward. I stand.

Over 200,000 graves. Monks, feudal lords, scholars, and shoguns – in death, all press close to the enshrined Kukai. When the Buddha of the Future arrives, Kukai will awaken to lead all humanity to salvation. No one wants to be forgotten.

Continued on next page...

Continued from previous page...

As I recommence my walk, I see Jizo statues playfully clustered around the cedars’ feet. Passers-by often leave snacks for the Jizo, ranging from radishes to cupcakes. They also drape the cool stones with cheerful bibs - poppy-studded yellow, cream-striped blue. Though the Japanese revere the Jizo, protector of deceased children, they also coddle him like a toddler.

I notice a few younger tombstones that the brochure doesn’t mention.

Smoother than their wrinkled companions, they glisten with familiar names— Sharp, Panasonic, Toyota: already-prosperous corporations who safeguard their success by securing memorials at Okunoin.

My brochure tells me that the next bridge I cross will carry me to the afterworld. Stretching cedars and age-streaked tombstones quietly observe my progress. Much as Hansel and Gretel happened upon a confectionery cottage, I now come upon a thatched-roof hut constructed entirely of stone. If I peep inside, I wonder whether I might find a granite monk poking chopsticks into his pebbly rice.

Presently, I reach Gobyo-no-hashi – the bridge leading to Gobyo, Kukai’s

shrine. I step over thirty-seven stone planks representing the Buddhist deities.

Just beyond the bridge, the Hall of Lamps screens my final destination. Illumined by more than 10,000 lanterns, this hall contains two flames that have burned continuously since Kukai’s retirement.

With a tourist’s ease, I fall in with an American family—Polo father matched with Sperry son, both driven by coral-lipstick mother. After gathering my vital statistics, the mother chats smartly of the recession and lobster and summer internships. With her conversation teasing my ears, I watch the evening sun baste the cedars. Darkness weaves through the cedar-tops, and we cross behind the Hall of Lamps.

Illuminated, the central altar grabs my gaze. Life-sized lotus statues burst from it like sunbeams. They twist towards the stars as a monk drones an incense-scented prayer.

Behind the altar, framed by the lotuses, a modest mausoleum presses into the hillside. Its walls encase Kukai’s body like a jewel, but his spirit wafts out to brush Okunoin with peace.

CouchSpending HOW AN UNSUSPECTING SOCIAL MEDIA COULD INCREASE SMALL BUSINESS REVENUE

V i nc ent W ei r

T

all and marked by the thin wrinkles of summa cum laude sleep habits, the 23-year-old journalist Trevor Born has lived his whole life in the Twin Cities—except for the year he travelled the world by himself. After graduating from the University of Minnesota in 2009, Trevor travelled from Minneapolis to South Africa and back, never once paying for a place to stay. His trick was a small secret at the time: Couchsurfing.org, the largest of many hospitality-sharing services currently operative.

Formerly a non-profit, CouchSurfing now claims the status of a socially responsible B-corporation home to 4.6 million users in 21,694 cities of every world continent. At once a lesson in the precellence and power of networks, “The World’s Largest Travel Community” functions on a volunteer basis that pairs hosts with travelers at zero-cost. CouchSurfing flies in the face of avoidstranger-wisdom and does so with amazing success. Over 16 million CouchSurfing experiences, 15.3 million friend links and 9.2 million member recommendations add growing credibility to an organization that extends the ubiquity and magnanimity of the Internet to travel.

I met Trevor on a CouchSurfing trip of my own. Forced by the airlines to skirt a three-day layover in the Twin Cities, I turned, as millions have, to the chance of free Internet solutions. As it has with millions before me, the risk paid off. With less than an hour of profile research, I found someone who shared my tastes and interests. Trevor agreed and accepted my request. Three weeks later we spent the first of three nights immersed in the local culture of Minneapolis.

My second night in town I met Natalie Doud, a beautiful and eccentric software developer just returned from WWDC—Apple’s annual design conference. Natalie’s new app, The Wanderer, which told undecided itinerates what to do in Minneapolis, had just won Minnesota’s app design competition and earned Natalie a trip to San Francisco. I used her app, in part, to plan my next few days.

M

ost businesses know they need social networking to survive, but few small companies know how to leverage the technology for dollars. As new industry standards for advertising and data collection, Twitter and Facebook certainly help companies reach customers, but another kind of social network can provide more tangible payoffs for local businesses in the leisure industry.

Let’s call this other network the shuttle service.

Three of America’s top-15 social network websites and many other wellknown apps now take the function of shuttling users from cyberspace to the real world. These shuttle sites include major web brands like Meetup, myLife, Cafemom, and CouchSurfing, which together account for over 45,500,000 unique monthly visits. Other popular apps like Yelp, Foursquare and UrbanSpoon (which together total over 60,000,000 app downloads) add less pronounced but still present social networking elements to the shuttle function.

Different from Facebook and Twitter, these shuttle sites incentivize and facilitate the transition from cyberspace communities to real life encounters. While Twitter activity could continue even if its users never left their bedroom television sets, CouchSurfing could not.

This needed traffic with the real world offers a subtle, but statistically staggering opportunity for business. CouchSurfing, for instance, broadcasts weekly meet-ups for 4.6 million users in over 300 cities. Likewise Meetup.com, the 2001 New York-based shuttle site, averages over two million RSVP’s for 340,000 meetings per month.

And most of these meetings take place in commercial leisure spots: cafes, sushi bars, movie theaters, vineyards, bead shops, art centers, etc. If small business owners could find a way to capitalize on this traffic —by casually hosting events that attract customers— they could leverage this trending network for financial gain The day before I arrived in Minneapolis, I attended a CouchSurfing function in Dallas, where a local wine bar owner had partnered with a non-governmental organization to boost the revenue of both organizations through CouchSurfing.

They broadcast their event on the CouchSurfing Dallas page, and with less than a week notice recruited five attendees. I brought two of my friends and joined other CouchSurfers who had done the same. By 11 p.m., the wine bar was filled with customers drawn by CouchSurfing. The business strategy worked.

While data on this industry has yet to mature, instinct suggests that shuttle services would work best for small businesses, which self-select the same kind of adventurous gallivants that CouchSurfing does. Furthermore, this kind of free advertising and promotion service—measured in five to ten guest increments— offers a much more tangible benefit to small businesses with limited advertising budgets than it would to multi-million dollar corporations equipped with more expensive marketing techniques.

Small businesses that normally capitalize on leisure activities seem uniquely situated to capture the commerce that these thousands of meetings generate.

Landing a bar or café at the intersection of these cyberspace thoroughfares may not benefit a company to the same degree that prime real estate in the real world does, but it approaches similar benefits at virtually zero cost. As these shuttle sites continue to grow, more and more cyber traffic will cross into the real world of customers.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 2

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INTERVIEW DAVIDSON THEATER DEPARTMENT PRESENTS: IVAN TURGENEV’S A MONTH IN THE COUNTRY

LIBERTAS + THEATER

LIBERTAS PRESENTS: AN INTERVIEW WITH LEAD ACTRESS, CHRISTINE NOAH

LIBERTAS: Turgenev was a great novel writer, and A Month in the Country follows the motifs and traditions of the novel. We see, for instance, the repeated themes of self-reflection and boredom—both of which influence the creation and consumption of novels. Are you worried that these themes, much like the novel itself, have lost their relevance in today’s constant-update culture? What were you able to relate with least in Natalya’s condition?

LIBERTAS: The play’s rising action revolves around your character’s willingness to entertain simultaneous romantic advances—one from husband, another from her platonic suitor, and a third from her true love. As someone who has studied this role in depth, can you offer any insight into psychology of entertaining multiple suitors in the 21st century? If boredom isn’t a viable motivation anymore, what is?

Chrisine Noah: I would say these themes are still entirely relevant today, perhaps even more so in our constant-update culture. People’s attention spans are dangerously small, so they actually seem to get bored very quickly and are unabashed about voicing their dissatisfaction about it. In terms of self-reflection, people are engaging in that more frequently and more often. With the emergence of a new phase of life like “pre-adulthood,” which centers around finding one’s place in the world, people are called to engage in reflection for an entire chunk of their lives. Thus these themes are presented in A Month in the Country certainly struck a chord with me and my own experiences. Looking at what I’ve been able to relate to least, I would say her violent emotional swings have been difficult. Understanding the stakes of what this newfound love, and the accompanying reevaluation of her other relationships, mean for her in the scope of her life and why they drive her to such extremes has been, and continues to be, quite a process.

CN: Honestly I have no idea how one can entertain multiple suitors, as I have personally never been in such a situation. I think in Natalia’s case, she didn’t know what truly being in love felt like until she met Beliaev. She of course loves and cares for her husband, but she realized early on in their marriage that they weren’t quite compatible and that he wasn’t the kind of man she really wanted. She also loves Rakitin, and their relationship is very important to her; they listen to each other, tease and amuse each other, take part in intellectual discussions together. And for a long while, she thought that she might be in love with Rakitin. But something in Rakitin’s worldview doesn’t quite sit well with her. She’s tired of being confined to the same old chatter and the same old routines. The liveliness and youthfulness that Beliaev brings intrigues and excites her. So I would say she loves them all differently, and doesn’t have bad intentions with her juggling of affections. How this translates to the 21st century, I’m not sure; I think the same sort of rules apply to relationships today, though. Multiple suitors may meet different intellectual and emotional needs of a person, thus the motivation would be to satisfy oneself in all possible areas.

LIBERTAS: You’re also asked to play a 29 year old woman with the “grande dame world-weariness” of old age. Have the thoughts of a lost youth occurred to you as a 20 year old? How have you attempted to learn and communicate this sense of urgency when, in many ways, you’re still waiting to get older?

THEATER: This has definitely been tough to comprehend as well. In rehearsals, people constantly refer to how old my character is, and I keep replying, “But she’s only 29!” Her age may not be that great, but in terms of maturity and life experience, she’s definitely developed an older soul. She got married and had a child all by the age of 19, so she has had to learn the ways of the world ever since, and it has certainly weighed heavily upon her. That’s why, when Beliaev comes into the picture, she is able to reconnect with the youth that she missed out on and skipped over. This newfound youthfulness, or at least the desire for it, fills her with a kind of exhilaration she has never known. I can somewhat relate to this sense of reconnection to youth, in that I grew up so focused on school and the future that I missed out on some things in childhood, so I’ve been able to use that to fuel her urgency.

LIBERTAS: What in this play seems most relevant to today’s audiences? What do you relate with most in Natalya’s condition?

CN: I think the madness that comes with falling in love is always something audiences can relate to. Having to struggle with understanding how you feel about someone, and reconsidering what you may or may never have felt for others, is an incredibly difficult thing that most people have gone through. In terms of what I relate most to, I would probably say the loss of control that she feels. She’s so used to being in charge of everyone in every situation, and when she no longer knows what to do, she loses that control. I too like to feel like I’m in control of situations, and I experience similar distress when I lose that control.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 2

LIBERTAS: Konstantin Stanislavsky, the great Russian theater practitioner and the inventor of psychological realism, resurrected this play to make it famous.

How much did Stanislavsky’s system—especially the holistic, psychophysical approach of “emotion memory”—inform your preparation? Did you find yourself falling into the so-called “American style” of psychological prep-work to the exclusion of the physical?

CN: I can definitely see why Stanislavsky would be interested in this play. In terms of my own preparation, which I’m still in the process of, I would say I’ve been more likely to focus on a “what if,” taking an incident in my life and applying it to the situation at hand. Sometimes this is more effective than other times, but it helps to ground these big emotional shifts in some kind of personal reality.

With the psychophysical, I’ve been working on connecting my breathing, and particularly where I’m breathing from, to different emotional states. And there are certainly times where specific physical choices help to inform my emotional state, but I wouldn’t say I usually start with that element.

LIBERTAS: Russia writers—Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Solzhenitsyn included—contrast the “passion” and “spirituality” of Russian literature to the cold, rationalistic technocracies of “the West.” Do you see any evidence of this passion in the play? Can this stage show offer us something we aren’t used to seeing in film (a Western invention), for instance? What are the medium-specific strengths of this work?

CN: Well, stylistically, there are definitely some melodramatic elements to this play. There is an emphasis on emotion and feeling and their power to defy or nullify logic and reason. For Natalia especially, her emotions drive all of her actions and tactics, and only occasionally does she check back into reason. I think the power of a live performance certainly helps to communicate this emphasis on passion in a way that film could not; the immediacy of being there and experiencing these events with fellow audience members leads to a greater catharsis, in my opinion.

No Tokens is a student blog dedicated to the issues of race and diversity at Davidson. The editorial board uploads weekly posts related to questions of identity in historically disenfranchised groups. Find out more about the No Tokens project and to add your comments, visit their website by scanning the qr code.

THE STUFF I DON’T LIKE T h e E d i t o r i a l Board of N o T o k en s

conditional dynamism

He said, “She’s really pretty for a Black girl.”

She said, “Whoa! I had no idea he was so articulate! I mean, he just speaks so properly!”

They said, “They’re flourishing in this rigorous and taxing academic culture. Who would’ve thought?”

Let’s nix the hearsay and listen to what I say: comments like those are so deadly because neither the perpetrator and, in some cases, the victim, realize exactly how toxic they can be.

I could be getting ahead of myself, but I will go ahead and assert that we’ve all been subject to injury via insult. Whether it was during our childhood wonder years or a nuanced version as adults, we can relate to how it feels to have your ego trampled over. We can also attest to, though, how rewarding it can be to be acknowledged for your efforts and various pursuits.

The anthropologist in me whole-heartedly believes that both are a natural part of the human experience, especially when considering socialization in modern culture. Both poles of this spectrum come with their respective advantages and drawbacks.

I’ve grown accustomed to welcoming either commendation or condemning. When I’m struck with both in one swift blow, now that’s the stuff I don’t like.

Quick backstory: I have this nasty habit of wanting to have my cake and eat it too My Blackness is something I want both acknowledged and overlooked simultaneously. Say I’m being difficult, tell me I’m doing too much, but I feel that there’s something fundamentally wrong with either focusing on certain characteristics and confining me to them, or working to deny them altogether. In other words, do not label me as what I call conditionally dynamic.

Let me clarify by breaking

one common example down: Robert is a young man searching for a summer internship.

He has prepared a stellar resume full of a number of impressive leadership positions and past experiences that make him stand out amongst an already high quality applicant pool. Because of this, he is called in for an interview.

Walking into the corporate office he’s set his sights on, Robert is called into the conference room for his interview. Being the go-getter he is, he’s arrived in ample time and is waiting patiently in the room. Minutes later, he hears the door open and eagerly rises to shake his interviewer’s hand and introduce himself.

The narrative of this type of story usually progresses in one of two ways:

1.

Robert’s interviewer looks around in disbelief and physically searches the room for who he really believes is the person he should be interviewing. Not only does Robert have an ethnically neutral name, but the flawless

This potential outcome is quite offensive because it is assumed that Robert cannot possibly have had the capabilities he had already demonstrated in preliminary testing such as the paper application and phone interview stages. As insulting as this situation can be, the next potential outcome takes the cake.

2. Robert’s interviewer looks surprised, grins, and essentially fawns over the prospective employee because Robert is both Black and dynamic.

There was no name-calling, physical hesitancy nor apprehension… So what’s the problem? Being put on a pedestal like in the situation above suggests a number of things. On one level, there seems to be some hyper-sensitivity or insecurity in the need to not seem racist to the point of overcompensation. On an even deeper level, though, it speaks to a neo-colonial “you’re more like me and therefore more acceptable” mindset. In the attempt to force a connection and greater comfort between both parties, genuine interaction and real relationship building become collateral damage.

At the end of the day, I neither want to be loved nor hated because of a series of phenotypic traits I was born with, but recognized for my faults and accomplishments in spite of the obstacles I face because of the value associated with those characteristics.

In a nutshell, I am my Blackness, but am also greater than it.

Neither ignore nor define me by it.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 1

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