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The observer | wednesday, march 10, 2021 | ndsmcobserver.com
Inside Column
Why I dye my hair and why you should too Evan McKenna Incoming Managing Editor
During season one of quarantine — also known as March and April 2020 — boys in my hometown started shaving their heads. It was an outbreak of its own, honestly. The process was gradual, but the effect was frightening — like children slowly and mysteriously disappearing from the cozy Maine town in a Stephen King novel. Luckily, I didn’t succumb to the persuasion of the bald-headed cult (wake up, sheeple!), but truthfully, I didn’t exactly come out of April entirely unscathed: In a mid-month moment of unhinged, isolation-induced spontaneity, I drove to my local Walmart, bought a box of cheap red hair dye and with the help of my sisters — and to the disappointment of my mother — I joined the world’s small but powerful legion of gingers. They’ve been very accepting thus far. So, to be honest, I don’t really blame the bald boys of my hometown. I basically did the same thing — same coping mechanism, different fonts! The idea that the hair dye comes out as a sort of “trauma response” is a popular one, especially in the age of quarantine. To quote my research adviser after she saw my new hair over Zoom, “A lot of kids have been doing, um, traumatic things to their hair during these times.” I mean, I wouldn’t call it “traumatic” myself, but yeah — something’s happening here. At-home hair dye was — and is — flying off the shelves. Teens and adults alike — whether out of necessity or in response to TikTok trends — are turning en masse to colored hair. So, what’s happening here? The average hair dye aficionado — and the rare psychologist — will theorize such appearance-altering impulses come from a desperate desire for control. That’s understandable, especially today — in the midst of a whirlwind of guidelines, a suffocating semester and a labyrinth of uncertain outcomes, one’s physical appearance might be their most reliable medium of control. And as I’m coming up on the one-year anniversary of joining the ginger community, the periodic ritual of dyeing my hair wild, variant colors has paradoxically become a sort of constant. Since my initial foray into the ginger community, I’ve dyed my hair six times. I haven’t seen my natural brown hair for almost a year. So while the color of the dye changes often (maybe too often, honestly), the state of dyedness is a constant — a steady sameness within a world of harsh change. Different dye, same state of dyedness. Different, but the same. Not to be an archetypal English major — always turning seemingly inconsequential anecdotes into metaphors — but I think this concept of simultaneous sameness and difference might resonate with a lot of people in the tri-campus community right now. Same dorms, different living environment. Same classes, different format. dcSame campus, different campus life. The idea definitely resonates with me, that’s for sure — this semester, like the one before, has been an uncanny amalgamation of sameness and difference. I still have the same set of fantastic friends, but our relationships operate in wildly different ways under current restrictions. I am still studying the same subjects, but now I’m beginning to think about my future in more concrete terms. I’m still working for the same wonderful publication that is The Observer, but this semester, I’m honored (and slightly afraid) to be serving the paper in a higher capacity. Change in any capacity is terrifying — I think we’ve all come to recognize that over the past few years. Politics and pandemics aside, our lives have (and will continue to) change drastically. But I hope you and I both can continue to make it through — by learning to cherish what hasn’t changed, and what hopefully never will. In an eccentric, unstable world, recognize what’s steady. Not exactly a silver lining — just a small sliver of sameness to clutch on to. So, as long as planet Earth continues to be the way it is, I will continue to dye my hair with a variety of obscene colors — and somewhere within that variation, I will feel a calming sense of sameness. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, hair. Old habits dye hard, I guess. You can contact Evan at emckenn2@nd.edu The views expressed in this Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
A true Catholic education Ellie Konfrst Butterfly Effects
Growing up, I spent most of my time learning about the world in two rooms: my church sanctuary, and my living room, with the TV tuned to MSNBC. Religion and politics have always been a part of my life, but they were always completely unrelated. I’d hear my minister mention something about racial justice, or a political candidate say “God bless America,” but they only existed in distinct spheres in my mind. It wasn’t until I came to Notre Dame that I found religion and politics intertwined, thanks to an x-factor I never expected: Catholicism. I’m not Catholic, so to an extent I chose Notre Dame in spite of, not because of, its status as a Catholic school. I grew up attending Sunday school, going through confirmation, and singing in the choir at the same Protestant church where my parents were married in the 90s. My hometown congregation belongs to the United Church of Christ, a theologically and politically progressive denomination. There was a Catholic church next door, but my understanding of the religion was quite minimal. I understood Catholicism to be politically conservative, as well as much stricter than my idea of Christianity. I had some Catholic friends, but believe it or not, 7-yearolds don’t spend a ton of time talking theology. With two registered Democrats for parents and a spot reserved in the pews for the 9 a.m. service at my Protestant church, I simply felt that Catholicism would never be a part of my life. I planned on going through my time at Notre Dame respecting Catholicism, but keeping it at arm’s length. Throughout my first year, I was largely successful at that. At the same time, I was becoming politically involved on campus and taking classes toward my degree in political science. Throughout my freshman year, I felt that my politics were changing. I’ve always been broadly on the left, but I felt a deeper commitment to social and economic justice than I had before. I attributed most of it to the famed radicalization powers of college, where the supposed “liberal bubble” of academia pushes college students further left. It took until my first theology class to realize that wasn’t exactly what was happening. Admittedly, I never paid much attention to biblical studies during Sunday school, so that class was my first real exposure to the study of theology. Further, religion was placed, for the first time, in a historical context. The United Church of Christ was founded in 1957, so I didn’t exactly have a long line of historical traditions to look to. I love my hometown church, and I learned a lot there, but my first theology class required me to think about God in a different, more academic way. As I began to develop a deeper understanding of Catholicism and what it means to believe in God, I often found myself relating my theological studies to my political science classes. For example, (at risk of turning this into a theology paper that no one wants to read) we studied, in-depth, the philosophical idea that belief in God is really a commitment to feel for someone else. Every text we studied detailed
the importance of community in Christianity, a principle I had experienced firsthand in my hometown congregation, but had never considered intellectually. This resonated deeply with me, as I’ve always found empathy to be a driving force behind many of my my political beliefs. Seeing empathy portrayed as such a spiritual thing, and a core aspect of Christianity, really began to open my eyes. It turned out that my politics were not changing despite my presence at a Catholic school; to a large extent, they were changing because of my interactions with Catholicism. I’d always heard people talk about the importance of social justice to Catholicism, so it made sense to me that my politics had grown in that way. However, my politics have also become much more material — since starting college, I’ve developed a much deeper understanding of the way economic systems create and encourage social inequality, and the importance of community and solidarity in overcoming those systemic problems. As a result of my exposure to and study of Catholicism, my political views were less abstract, and began to feel much more nuanced and concrete. Specifically, since being at Notre Dame I’ve seen the concept of justice discussed in ways I never had before. In all of my previous experience in politics, justice was simply a buzzword — a phrase that made people feel good, but didn’t mean anything. At Notre Dame, the concept of justice is deeply woven in every aspect of life, even outside of theology classes, thanks in large part to the extensive Catholic commitment to justice. Catholicism has made my politics deeper, more nuanced, and more justice-oriented. More than anything, my experience at Notre Dame has taught me something important: the study of Catholicism, and theology in general, has immense value for all fields, but especially the study of politics. My understanding of political science is better and more complex thanks to my exposure to Catholicism, even though I’m not Catholic myself. None of this is to say that I am converting to Catholicism (don’t worry, mom and dad) or that I don’t understand the ways the Catholic Church often disregards its commitment to justice. I’m not a part of the Church, and as an institution, it has nothing to do with my politics. Ultimately, exposure to the historical context and rich theology of Catholicism has deepened my understanding of my own spirituality, and in turn has had a massive influence on my political beliefs. I hope that, even after I leave Notre Dame, I take the lessons of this Catholic education with me, both to my own congregation and to the ballot box. Ellie Konfrst is a junior majoring in political science, with minors in the Hesburgh Program for Public Service and civil & human rights. Originally from Des Moines, Iowa, she’s excited that people will finally be forced to listen to all of her extremely good takes. She can be reached at egloverk@nd.edu or @elliekonfrst13 on Twitter. The views expressed in this column are those of the authors and not necessarily those of The Observer.
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