Libertas 101

v ol . 2 2, no . 2

LIBERTAS101 LIBERTAS

SATREBIL letter from the editor s Dear Davidson, We started this issue with the idea of going back to the basics. There’s a certain approach we take at Davidson when faced with a problem: we deconstruct, pull apart, examine the smaller elements making up the larger structure--and then put it back together in a way that makes sense. It’s the process of writing literary analysis, of solving complex mathematics, of understanding biological systems, and of weaving together intricate narratives throughout history.

The pieces in this issue approach art through that same process. In “Mourning Apparition,” Claire takes us back to childhood to examine our most fundamental emotions: love and loss. In a poignant exploration of family life, she examines how light and dark moments refuse to become isolated from one another, and stay with us long after they have passed. “Oracle” is a critique of, in Cy’s own words, “the most basic element of a Davidson education: Wikipedia”; it forces us, as students, to scrutinize how much stock we place in our accessibility to facts. In another bold comment on Davidson culture, Cordelia comically draws attention to the concerning culture of obsession surrounding an innocent three-year old girl in “Class of 2034”.

Not only do these works examine how we deconstruct issues, they challenge the very foundation upon which our structures are built. Change may be fluid, but our reactions to change tend to stay the same. In a school with a strong tradition of talkbacks, structured discussion, and Davidson 101s, the unique works of writing and art in this issue remind us that while basic elements will always remain the same, it’s essential that we use them to help us evolve.

Sincerely, Alyssa and Samantha Co-Editors-in-Chief

EDITORS IN CHIEF Alyssa Glover & Samantha Gowing EDITORS Madison Santos Mila Loneman Cordelia Wilks Claire Heartfield Quinn Massengill

LIBERTAS O ct o b e r 2 0 1 5 Claire Heartfield

3

Mourning Apparition

Noah Driver

4

On a trip to Las Vegas

LĂŠonie Kirchgeorg

5

Laugh because you can

Reid Walker

6

Theory on a String

Cy Ferguson

7

Oracle

Alyssa Glover

8

Muse

Evan Yi

9

缡

Eliah Hiken

untitled art

Alyssa Glover

10

Left Again

Eleanor Yarboro

11

untitled

Cordelia Wilks

Class of 2034

Santiago Navia

12

Letter to My 16 Year-Old Self

Madison Santos

13

Easy Listening Picks

Samantha Gowing

Easy Reading Pick

Samantha Gowing

14

Meet the Editors

Cordelia Wilks

15

Last Word

Cover Art by John Chavez

special thanks to...

Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: Meg Mendenhall, Michael DeSimone, Jordan Luebkemann, Will Reese, Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Mike Scarbo, Vic Brand, Ann Culp, Erin Smith, Scott Geiger, James Everett, Catherine Walker, Elizabeth Burkhead, Chris Cantanese, Kate Wiseman, Lila Allen, Jessica Malordy, Nina Hawley, Kate Kelly, Zoe Balaconis, Rebecca Hawk, and Hannah Wright Founder: Zac Lacy visit us online: sites.davidson.edu/libertas

Mourning Apparition

I

t is sometimes in this hour that a ghost clouds my it be possible, when he taught me how to paint a gazebo, vision. He intends no harm; he breaks no skin. when he loved his mother? On a rickety rowboat in a cold

Still, he hurts. The very smoke that constitutes his charac- Colorado lake, no one was thrown in. My father looked so ter obscures his face, and my eyes itch to see it. It is okay. helpless, dwarfed beneath pine trees that pierced holes in I do not need to see his face. I know what he is like . . . the sky and mountains that made my vision tremble. The It was in the way that he always had a cigarette dangling water was clear enough to see flashing scales. I hated the from his lip first thing in the morning, when his eyes were water that day. I hated when it streamed from my baby not yet open. I can’t remember how many times I ripped his sister’s swollen and confused eyes, I hated when it leaked pack in half, thinking that I could solve the problem for him. from mine despite my greatest efforts to plug the dam, I It was in the way he let us pull on his arms until we believed hated when my father refused to let it come. I could not we were strong enough to hoist him out of bed. Some of us understand why the earth didn’t fall through space or pushed and some pulled until he collided with the surface of

shake or rip wide open; after all, it had already betrayed us.

the pool, splashing us with his resignation. That pool, the

There is a time when I go to the art building where

same one he threw me in countless times. I would scream, he worked. I feel the dusty sunlight warm my right shoulfeigning resistance. Once, a bee stung my eyebrow as I rose der, and I imagine how he must have sat on the same bench, for a breath of air. He combed patiently until he located the known the color of the same walls. A cracked door of some poisonous hair that did not belong. We were in charge of

studio allows me to see him pouring hot bronze into the

teaching the pups how to swim. My sister would push them mold of a bucking horse and stretching strips of blood red off the first step, and they flailed so helplessly and humor- canvas across a wooden frame, almost as if he were still ously in the blue that I almost cried every time. He named a there. I imagine him in motion, not like the last time I saw peach one Gallo and kept it by his side every day of his life. him: waxen, smelling so sweet, not like cigarettes at all. I He lived on a citrus farm, but one day it betrayed will imagine him enveloped in smoke, water, or a ratty thim. They told me it was the size of a grapefruit, insidi- shirt. I will imagine a simpler time in which that insidious ously pressing, squeezing his memory center, altering his fruit had not yet been planted in a soil rich with possibilities, personality, splashing him with resignation. How could a time in which so much more enveloped him than soil.

Claire Heartfield

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

On a trip to Las Vegas with your mother, you may be tempted to extract a life lesson from a family vacation, as she suggests you change the relative frequency of your Reds and Blacks and your brother’s skyscraper chips turn to lily pads.

At times, she diverts your attention from nude women on automobillboards.

At others, she forces photo-ops between the scantily clad and yourself.

Laughing—no, howling all the while like the last coyote to leave the Strip, sometime in the 1860’s or 20’s or else some other made-up time and city from the mouth of an underpaid and loosely buttoned tour guide.

(His leathery chest a dermatological marvel even in the land of the perpetually Vitamin D’d.)

Your conversations with cab drivers range from the highly inappropriate to the vaudevillian: Jimmy Cho (License #290177) refers to Cincinnati as North America’s answer to Hong Kong and discusses the merits of the unassumingly named escort services he employs, incapable of choosing a favorite.

Cyrus Ellington (License #543987) crafts an often lucid argument for the return of Absolute Monarchy.

Your brother claims to have taken a dip in the Bellagio fountain.

His hair drips wet in the doorway, and he’s learned to keep a straight face longer than you.

So you believe him, right?

You stopped ruining him for your mother at 18 or some other time, whenever you learned the value of a true family story or, at least, the value of one that feels true.

You look at the Pumpkin Pie Rolex on the dealer’s arm (one of my nicer tips) and realize you haven’t seen your mother after 12:00am since you stopped storming bedroom doors.

At a stained, $5 Roulette table in Vegas, with your mother yelling for you to bet on her birthday, and fortunes being lost and won all around, you’re tempted to extract some sort of moral revelation from all this, to scavenge a meaning from that which must hold many, when you feel the meaty slap of a cab driver’s hand on your back, imploring you to believe that Jimmy Cho’s lucky numbers actually are.

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

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

theory

string

on a

Burning on down the interstate, I’m smoking in the car. The smokes Don’t do the trick; they have a wet pull.

It’s because of the rain outside, beating My car down the road. The construction Sight ain’t got any lights. Two different sets Of road-lines shifting in my mind. And I feel Like I have this theory on a string.

The poor men and women, left in my hometown, drink Cheap beer from the run-off on Luther’s boots.

They smoke half a Black and Mild during their hourly shifts And leave the second half on the brick wall for their next break.

The oil stains stick to the cheap rubber soles of their shoes, And they spend their paychecks on cheap weed, clothing, and food.

They spend the late nights switching between Family Guy and Adventuretime; I’ll get back to school eventually, They’ve seen every episode and aren’t sick of it.

And I’ll drink my fill. I’ll be the same guy It’s off to work again, day by day, forty years until they die.

I was before I left. I’ll watch the grope fest and What about me? I’ll smoke cigarettes, drink, and go to work Dancing cliques and drink a beer. I will see a guy kissing Until the day I die. I imagine seeing shows in London for work, A girl and scoff, “That ain’t my life and I’m glad.”

Not for play. I freelance concert reviews for some third-rate digital magazines.

But part of me is lonely and wants that.

I drink at dreary pubs with poor intellectuals like me. Our conversations Part of me longs for the awkwardness Flow out in imaginary circuits to the sky, In the morning. I want to have fun and blow off steam, dispensed somewhere in the stratosphere. not thinking about how the campus will look in the morning.

References to acclaimed novels we read a third of. And we claim In the morning, the rain washes the To hold a theory on a string.

Earth clean - the dirt, the washed off blush and makeup, The sweat and cum washes down into the ravine.

The upperclassman says he is ready to move on.

“I partied, I fucked up, I want to get out of here,” he says.

How’d you get here? I wanna ask.

Why did you ever wanna fuck up like us?

I wanna ask. I don’t, I know he can’t answer it.

I know I can’t ask it.

And I grab hold of this theory on a string.

Heart beating fast and a slow state of mind, getting work Done early so you can get behind. Committing intellectual Suicide is a full-force plan – the blood of the mind sputters From your stilted neo-pen. I want to ask you where we can go From here. You say, “Atlantis, or Mussolini’s paradise.”

I say, “Is there any other option?” You say, “Let’s ignore What we ought to ignore.” I say, “Ok,” my brain washed blank.

All of my worries struck out in one syllable of uncertainty.

“All we see is ourselves,” the man says in my haunted dream.

My mind is growing weaker. I understood what he meant when I was younger.

Now I am just confused. In my hands, I got This theory on a string.

reid

Marie was the girl of my dreams. I imagined God made her all for me – no purpose in the world Other than to fulfill my life. She had deep brown hair and pale Skin, and she always smiled deeply when she saw me.

When I met Sara and fell in love, Marie’s reaction broke my Heart. She stopped smiling and went away to the North.

Her house was modern wood and stayed in a field outside of town.

I have memories of standing in the field, but never going to see her.

Realizing drifting apart was the best option, I headed back down Towards Charlotte on the Interstate – back to the Campus, Back to be the same. Before I left, I stood in the field And gazed at the ground – past my hands, holding a Theory on a string.

I sit on a bench, my boots in the gray mud. Electricity From the earth mutters around my wrapped leather feet.

In the sky, clouds, celestial bodies, and precious things seminate Their anger down to the surface – whining their invisible tune.

I see a girl traveling to the Union through the rain; her arms are crossed And she tilts her hooded head towards the ground. She’s on a mission, But she doesn’t truly know why. Yik Yak and “Netflix and Chill” roam In her mind. She’s never felt sad and told herself that being sad is alright.

And she told me once that being sad is never alright; I should go to the college Counseling center. So I go and the bearded, four-eyed man in the office shakes my hand.

He looks at my hands. “Why is this trash in your hands?” he says.

He takes it from me and throws it in his trash bin. I tell him, “That’s all I had,” and he doesn’t understand. What kind of man goes Through another man’s trash? So I went from his office emptyhanded.

Now I’m left trying to recreate something I could never understand.

walker

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

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Oracle from the random article buttom of www.wikipedia.com

The Izvorul Mic River is a tributary of the Olt River in Romania.

Sandford once had its own railway station on the Cheddar Valley line, which ran from Yatton to Wells.

Before this merger, the commune of Pontault had already annexed the commune of Berchères at the time of the French Revolution.

He didn’t reach the finals in the men’s 100 m butterfly (45th place) and the men’s 200 m butterfly (35th place).

The river is also one of only two rivers to host the fountain darter, a fish now in danger of extinction.

After extended disagreements with Toshiba EMI, Blankey Jet City left the label and signed with Polydor to release their new surf-rock sounding album “Love Flash Fever” in 1997.

Your Call features in-depth dialogue and debate on politics, culture, poverty, and the environment.

The title in Japanese literally translates in English as: “Divine Retribution”, with 天 (ten), meaning heaven and 誅 (chu), meaning death penalty.

He attended an ordinary Austrian grammar school, however, due to tight schedules in both sport and school, he had problems keeping up with his class work.

“There Is No Ending” – 4:09 Work Cited Ferguson, Cy. “Oracle.” random article button. wikipedia.com, 22 Oct. 2015. Web

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

Muse philosophical musings overheard from drunk Davidson students

Black Lives Matter? Is that like, a blog?

I’m just a freshman. The whole “In moderation” thing won’t kick in for a few years.

Ben Carson would be the best president by far.

Do you own Applebottom jeans?

I’m too sober to be listening to gangster music.

(AKA Hotline Bling) I’m not a burnout – I’m just always baked.

Since you’re a feminist, does that mean I can punch you in the face?

I should just f*** up my hair. Then I’ll be super powerful. Just look at Trump and Bernie Sanders.

I feel like a fucking tortilla.

I love bad bithces, that’s my problem.

What time is it?

Midnight.

Damn girl, you good at math.

Work Cited Glover, Alyssa. “Muse.” armfield apartments.

Davidson College, spring: frolics (2015).

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

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art by Eliah Hiken

缡 to form the calligraphic body grind the ink stone against the well dissolve the rock into ebon sap thrust the obsidian to the basin crystallized tendon fastening old bone and muscle to the coagulating blood of the new vessel until the water becomes shoreline union of bedrock and ocean where below a koi fish bathes in the shade of yang spilling into the blood of christ wade the brush within the sable film still rippling from genesis coat the bristles in the dust and spit of broken tongue inherited from that god of a man so great you called him yeye Father of father push the head of the brush against the walls of the stone altar to release the overflow back into the pool lift the bones attached to the brush over the paper gather the qi that shakes the palm dispel the tremors of filial piety fragmented with prayer bring your body of bristles vessel for grandfather to the paper the earth of his tomb in communion with you tian sky poise the right hand the whole body in prostration to the page 9

LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

-Evan Yi

Left Again People always say that three rights make a left.

That concept never made complete sense to me - nevertheless, I found myself spinning clockwise, trying to find the place where I made the wrong turn. Faster and faster, growing dizzy and unsteady, but still, just unrecognizable signs and colorful doors of houses that were not familiar sped past my vision.

With the scuff on my boots a focal point, I thought of you.

The smell of your car mingling with air whirling around me, I tried to remember why you cried. What it was I did that was so horrible you cracked open and began to leak. My wobbling legs told me to stop but I didn’t have my answer yet. Picturing flashes of my brown skin on your grey sheets, I heard them all saying that they were right about me. I wanted to point my feet forward and run.Whether it was away from them or towards you, I wasn’t sure. Either way, I was stuck.

-Alyssa Glover

art by Eliah Hiken

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

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your teeth pinch the excess off of one finger of your mint-colored latex glove you draw the thing out and make a long, elastic middle finger.

-Eleanor Yarboro

Class of 2034 *inhuman guttural noise* I just love her.

She is so cute – did you see her?

I hope he brought her. Ugh when she does the nae nae *laughs* Did you see Riley?

Did you see Riley Curry He brought Riley 2034

Riley’s with them in Commons Did you see my snapchat of Riley?

Yes, I saw your snapchat of Riley. I saw everybody’s snapchat of Riley. I saw every text, every twitter update, -Cordelia Wilks every Facebook post, every Instagram and every yak.

But no, I did not see Riley.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

Santiago Navia 10/22/2015 Libertas 101

Letter to my 16 year-old self Who was I? 16. 16. Six teen.

One teen. Damn.

I’m not a teen anymore, Trapped somewhere between the adult floors of 30 and above, And the blurry memories of previous stories, The ground floor far beneath.

The elevator has moved way too slowly, And I can’t remember how I felt five floors ago.

Sometimes I feel the same, the same Old childish boy with the same crappy jokes that I repeat to my enjoyment, The same unstable, snorty laugh, still amazed by the wonders of nature Displayed at our doorstep.

I choose to believe that I am a child by intention, An adult who refuses to forget what being a child was all about.

But I’m actually scared.

My face, now dark with the shadow of a testosterone-driven beard, Hides a face too familiar to pretend it’s not still me.

What if it’s only my hair that has grown?

Am I a tree, growing from within, Holding my rings tight to my chest, my past, my history, Married to who I was, Rougher bark a response to adversity, Thicker branches (hopefully?) reaching further into the clouds, Following the sun’s path?

Or am I the arrogant butterfly who left its body behind with its memory, Too proud of its colors, its wings, its beauty, To look behind and remember how it felt when it was trapped within itself ?

I honestly don’t know who you are anymore.

In days like last night I feel as lost as perhaps you do.

On others, a workload of shit convinces me that adulthood Is right around the corner.

Perhaps you were better at following your instincts.

I try to listen to them often, but I’ve drowned their voices to a whisper.

Don’t listen to me.

Listen to yourself, your gut, your heart as it beats in your present.

I may be hairier, taller, lankier, but not necessarily wiser.

Fend for yourself.

I trust you’ll make it farther than I have.

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

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Harmlessness

mi

Madis on Santos

he World is a Beautiful Place…- Harmlessness An emo album that both patchworks all umbrella’d punk sub-categories from lo-fi to post-rock, Harmlessness doesn’t give one lazy song. From the incredibly accessible but jaw-droppingly beautiful opening track “You Can’t Live There Forever” to the transition of “blank #11” into the This American Life inspired narrative of a song about Diana, Hunter of Bus Drivers in “January, 10th 2014”, bobbing-and-weaving through various accompaniments featuring heavy hitting post-rock guitar instrumentation and early Modest Mouse-derivative usage of banjos or cellos and violins. TWIABP is known for always breaking away from anything they’ve done in the past, and even though this LP lyrically alludes to past projects such as Formlessness and their split with Deer Leap, they’ve gone in a completely different direction from their 2013 debut LP Whenever, if Ever without losing any of their appeal.

For Fans Of: Modest Mouse, mewithoutYOU, Death Cab for Cutie, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, American Football You Might Also Like: The Island of Misfit Toys I Made You Something, Soda Bomb Wanna Jam?, elvis depressedly New Alhambra

What A Time To Be Alive

For Those Who Think You

Drake & Future

Me In Capris

TWIABP

T

picks

EasyListening M

e in Capris- For Those Who Think You [EP] A chip-tuning, arhythmic, synthesizer wielding punk band way ahead of it’s time: the story of The Brave Little Abacus. A tale that everyone thought reached it’s end with a final show in Boston’s keystone venue The Middle East, but was partially revived with BLA’s drummer and vocalist/guitarist/ songwriters newest good ol’ rock and roll band. I don’t think there’s ever been such an explicit example in the maturity of punks from their adolescent emo band to their real-adult Tom Petty-influenced rock band. Covering a Tom Petty song at their final show, it was always thought that crucial American dad rock groups indirectly inspired The Brave Little Abacus, with this debut release it’s apparent that bandleader Adam’s exploration into genre blending hasn’t stopped with his mixture of Americana into his tenderness in songwriting.

FFO: CCR, Tom Petty, Diarrhea Planet, Ty Segall, King Tuff You Might Also Like: FIDLAR- Too, Wavves“Pony”, DIIV- “Dopamine”, Diarrhea Planet- I’m rich beyond your wildest dreams

D

rake & Future- What a Time to Be Alive [Mixtape] Drake seems to be trying to conquer the art of the surprise release after this year’s early release If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, which just didn’t work too well this time around. Not that I’m saying don’t listen to this, I’m still recommending this I suppose, but it’s not Drake trying transfer between his hard and soft personas from song to song that gets me on this album (I will admit that I won’t be able to look at the color blue without thinking “And I rock Kentucky Blue” for the next few weeks), it’s Future’s honesty that really shines on this, addressing his prior addiction to lean in a non-showoffy way like A$AP Rocky does. Also Future singing on “Diamond’s Dancing” will be one of the highlights of rap this year.

FFO: Kendrick Lamar, A$AP Rocky, Frank Ocean

listen on play.spotify.com/user/

libertasdavidson

EasyReadingPicks

S amant ha

G ow ing

Line/Breaks by Clint Smith

Clint Smith’s new collection of poems, published earlier this year, circles around an interplay of race and education in this country. The opening poem, “We are Black Boys in America,” situates the rest of the collection into a conversation on the black experience in America. Several poems take on the voice of a high school teacher, and a couple more from a graduate student at Harvard (see, “Ode to the Esoteric Language of Graduate School”). In these poems, the academic experience becomes a significant part of the way the speakers make sense of the world. The reader’s own learning experience is not focused on the construction of knowledge, however, but of identity. When I made it to the poem “My Father is an Oyster,” I was struck by the deeply personal, narrative experience the speaker shares. Yet only a poem before, I was reading from the perspective of an ocean (literally titled, “What the Ocean said to the Black Boy”). This movement between abstract and personal keeps the reader alert to both depth and breadth of the issues the poems discuss. Lyrical yet didactic, Clint Smith’s poems construct their readers into ignorant, eager students turning wide-eyed to the next line of each poem, and the next.

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LIBERTAS, Vol. 22, No. 2

Claire Heartfield

is a sophomore from Houston, Texas. Her minor is Spanish and her major, like most important decisions in her life, is undecided. She is a cat person and enjoys basking in the sun (like a cat). Her favorite foods are mint chocolate chip ice cream and, because she is non-discriminatory and politically correct, every type of cheese. Come sit on a bench with her sometime.

Samantha Gowing

Quinn Massengill

is a freshman from Hickory Flat, Mississippi.

While the name of the town might be misleading, he did not actually grow up inside a Mark Twain novel. Quinn loves YA novels, can eat fried okra by the pound, and is a self-proclaimed Vampire Diaries fanboy.

is a junior from Atlanta, Georgia, double majoring in English and Community Studies. She enjoys poetry, union muffins, evening drives to cookout, and avocados. She can commonly be found in the Libertas office shouting at inDesign.

Alyssa Glover

is a junior English major from Princeton, New Jersey. Despite coming from this trashcan of a state, she is a very classy lady who enjoys southern literature, pretending she’s too trendy for pop music, and jalapeno chips. She’d like to take this opportunity to advertise the fact that she’s painfully single and would greatly appreciate it if you asked her out.

MEET THE STAFF Cordelia Wilks

is a sophomore (undeclared) English major from Houston (undeclared) Texas. She likes salsa and brie and watching JJ Watt kick ass. When she was 15 she was in a high school production of Oklahoma. She has also been to Oklahoma. It was ok. In 10 years she hopes to have graduated and maybe have a job.

Madison Santos Mila Loneman

is a sophomore English major, South Asian studies minor from Bozeman, Montana (the little-known best place in the world). She has a huge obsession with honey bees, cucumberscented things and bagels. Don’t be surprised if you see her trip up and down stairs and run into walls on campus.

Some people listened to Mozart in the womb, Madison listened to all Six Volumes of Now That’s What I Call Humpback Whale Music daily. A childhood lover of pirates, explaining his love of scouring the Internet for .zip files and torrents. Amateur radio personality who only talks about coffee, while being an English major, amateur writer hyper-obsessed with comical prefixes and Borges.

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

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LIBERTAS last word

INTRODUCING the next issue

roots

the

issue

deadline 11/6 submit now to libertas@davidson.edu