Issue 4 Fall 2022

ISSUE FOUR COVER ART

Front Cover: Molly Chapin

Back Cover: Katherine Doane

Saffron Forsberg and Teagan Hughes Co-Editors-in-Chief

Raghav Raj Arts and Culture Editor

Julian Crosetto Layout Editor

Reggie

Goudeau Features Editor

Fionna Farrell Opinions Editor

Isabel

Hardwig Bad Habits Editor

Skye Jalal, Zach Terrillion, Catie Kline, Anna Holshouser-Belden and Max Miller Staff Writers

Hey there, reader! Thanks again for holding a copy of The Grape – the last one of the semester, in fact! Wow. Despite the work Teagan and I, as well as all The Grape staff, have dedicated to this little alternative journalism machine over the past few months, this semester has really darted past, right under our noses. The Grape may seem small and maybe goofy, but I assure you that everyone involved puts so much of themselves into keeping it going; I think, this year especially, we have some really incredible writers, artists, and contributors involved, and it feels so good to leave that legacy. I’ve been involved in The Grape since the fall of 2019 (do I sound old, underclassmen? I feel it, I assure you), and it’s continued to be one of my favorite parts of attending Oberlin. I started as a first-year contributor, having never even read an edition, then I was a Staff Writer, then an Editor, and now I’m an EIC. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. I’ve gone through those decades-old Grapes which clutter our basement hovel. And I think that I can say for all us Grape-workers, past and present, that, through all the endless emailing, the perplexed Ad-Hoc-ing, the 3 AM stress-texting, and the sleepy Sunday meetings, The Grape remains a bright spot in that brief, confusing time wherein we can truly call ourselves Obies. Plus what’s better than holding your listicle or thinkpiece or eager interview in print, on the timeless beauty of newsprint? (Nothing. The answer is Nothing. Get involved!)

- Saffron

Maia Hadler Art

Director

Frances McDowell and Molly Chapin Production Assistants

Illustration by Ophelia Jackson Contributor

Dr. Porchia Moore’s “Examining the Buttermilk: A Biomythology of Anti-Blackness and Liberatory Praxis in the Museum”

Anna Holshouser-Belden Staff Writer

What is your museum love story? Dr. Porchia Moore, museum theorist and self-proclaimed activist-scholar, opened her lecture “Examining the Buttermilk: A Biomythology of Anti-Blackness and Liberatory Praxis in the Museum,” with this question on Wednesday night. The lecture itself was an overview of Dr. Moore’s life’s work in the worldbuilding of anti-racist museums, during which she delved into several theories on how to repair the problematic pasts of our nation’s cultural institutions. Said theories were inspired by Black visionaries of the afro-futurist genre like bell hooks, Audre Lorde, and Octavia Butler. Dr. Moore specifically cites Octavia Butler’s “Rules for Predicting the Future,” bell hooks’ “Writing Beyond Race,” and Audre Lorde’s “Zami: A New Spelling of My Name.” The title of the event is drawn from a 2000 essay by Lonnie G. Bunch III, current secretary of the Smithsonian museum: “Flies in the Buttermilk: Museums, Diversity, and the Will to Change,” along with Audre Lorde’s concept of a “biomythography,” a combination of biography, myth, and history. Dye Lecture Hall was surprisingly packed for an event on museum studies, and prior to the asking of the above question, completely silent –save for a few names spoken aloud by people from the audience – as part of “holding space” for those who came before.

Soon afterward, Dr. Moore launched into her own “museum love story,” still focusing on both remembering and chronicling the past. As the child of an elementary school teacher, Moore traveled with her mother to different museums around the area of South Carolina where she grew up, scoping out potential sites for school field trips. After these fundamental experiences with her mother, there was no question about it, Porchia Moore had fallen in love with museums. She described how she would venture to museums alone throughout

middle school and high school when her mother was busy, since none of her friends would go with her (all while laughing from the podium). After getting her bachelor’s degree and spending a few years in Japan teaching English as a second language, Dr. Moore returned to the U.S. to get her doctorate in museum and library studies from the University of South Carolina. Moore got her degree with the help of the Cultural Heritage Informatics Leadership Librarian Fellowship, and decided to dedicate her career to conducting research that positively affects communities, more specifically the community of museum-going people of color.

In her lecture, Dr. Moore mentioned an interesting statistic that relates to the reason she found herself alone in museums for much of her teenage life; over 60% of adult museum-goers were introduced to museums as children by a family member. Additionally, just about 75% of adult museum-goers are white. Dr. Moore describes that, starting in her childhood, she was constantly aware of being either the only person of color in museums or one of very few. There is a distinct link in these statistics of museums being associated with whiteness on a generational scale – with white parents taking their kids to museums, who in turn take their kids to museums, and so on – and the way museums are structured towards white ways of thinking. Museum professionals and academics like Dr. Moore are now asking questions about why racial demographics of museum-goers are so skewed, and how to repair a relationship between museums and people of color.

My “museum love story” corresponds with the above statistics. I am white, and both of my parents, along with their parents, are college educated – I hold a vast amount of privilege because of these facets of my identity, and museums along with other cultural institutions are marketed toward me

Illustration by Molly Chapin Production Assitant

and people like me. Growing up as an only child (parents of only children are also proven to take their kids to museums more) in Brooklyn, my family frequented museums on the weekends. For a large portion of my childhood, we went to a museum at least once a month, and I have fond memories of running around giant metal Richard Serra sculptures at the MoMA, circling up and down the galleries of the Guggenheim, and taking the A train up to the Cloisters at the tip of Manhattan. My mother’s father was an amateur painter in his spare time, and made sure his four kids had exposure to museums even though their hometown of Corning, NY, only had two – a number dwarfed by the amount of museums I grew up around in New York. Like Dr. Moore, my mother played a large role in introducing me to museums; unlike Dr. Moore, I do not have to feel alienated by the cultural institutions that I love.

I have the racial and financial privilege to be interested enough in museums that I can study them here at Oberlin. In part, it is my privilege that has landed me a seat at this school and a job at the Allen Memorial Art Museum as a gallery guide, or a paid docent. Every Friday morning I sit at the front desk, welcoming people and selling the very occasional postcard. Though I don’t have a super influential position, I of course found myself thinking about the Allen during Dr. Moore’s lecture. My kind-of-insider knowledge has made me aware that there is not a single person of color on the museum’s higher-level staff, including a white curator of Asian art and no curator of African art at all. The museum’s African art, in fact, takes up a modest two display cases in the back of the building’s ambulatory, while European art has permanent residence in two entire galleries. Oberlin’s long history of having a theology school

which sent white missionaries to Asia, to essentially indoctrinate people into being Christians, is the source of a lot of the art from Asia. The museum is in possession of a Benin bronze, looted from Nigeria by the British when they burned much of the city to the ground, and other items from Africa that are centered in arguments for repatriation and were never intended to be kept in pedestals behind glass cases.

I’m not bringing up the Allen’s faults to condemn its validity as an institution or to say that all museums are bad, merely acknowledging more reasons for Dr. Moore’s work that we can find at our home institution. During the audience question portion of the lecture, a student asked whether the possibility of a radical museum space exists. Dr. Moore responded with the statement that the only way to rewrite museums’ history of plundering and centering white ways of knowing is to rebuild from the ground up – as an Oberlin student and someone who works for the Allen, in my opinion the first step of “rebuilding from the ground up” the harmful history which our own museum has is acknowledging it. Dr. Moore emphasized again and again in her lecture her love of museums, something that is important to take hand in hand with her acknowledgements of the faults that many museums and cultural institutions share; as Oberlin students we can love the Allen while simultaneously hoping to repair its faults. Some more of Dr. Moore’s advice about holding our museums accountable is to stop perpetuating mythologies around figures who have caused harm, and having the willingness to tell multiple truths through collections. Here she uses the example of the North Carolina museum of art creating an exhibit with the several depictions of Christopher Columbus that are in their collection

A New SWAP: Oberlin’s Book Co-op Drafts a Comeback

Zach Terrillion Staff Writer

It’s hard to get textbooks at Oberlin. Most students have to spend hundreds of dollars on thick works that they only use for a semester. If you’re not in a course requiring a textbook, you will likely drop a pretty penny for a broad set of texts for humanities or social sciences. One can try fnding books at the college libraries, but copies are limited, and the due dates are quick. Ultimately, purchasing books for courses remains one of Oberlin’s most prominent fnancial barriers, especially for lower-income students. However, a workaround does exist for this inequality. It lies about half a mile from the center of campus, tucked away in Tank Hall’s basement. It’s SWAP, Oberlin’s used book cooperative, reopened 2.5 years after its shut down due to COVID.

SWAP believes that “education is a human right.” You donate a book to their Tank space and can

check one out in return. Simply put, you can swap texts, as the co-op’s name implies. Students can also volunteer their time to the spot, helping to run check-out, clean shelves, and keep inventory, among other tasks. In exchange, they’ll receive points usable for checking out books. Students have access to texts from nearly every academic department, from English to Biology. Also, unlike the library or bookstore, a book can be taken free of charge and doesn’t require a return. It is yours.

SWAP was frst established in 2013 by a group of students in a co-op-themed ExCo. One of the founders, Jackson Kusiak, envisioned it as a “radical experiment,” a way of moving beyond the conventional price-based economy. Dollars become points, with each book worth one. The co-op spent much of its life within the spacious basement of Harkness,

Illustration by Maia Hadler Art Director

helping students fnd the books they needed while gaining and exchanging points.

It was fall 2019 when SWAP’s current lead organizer, Remy Gajewski, began to get involved. Their friend had asked them to assist SWAP in moving all the stock from their current space in Harkness to the Tank basement. Harkness was dealing with water damage at the time. The shelves and books were disassembled and loaded into bins, with a single car running trips across campus. Despite promising to assist in the move during that spring, the college administration left students in the dust, leaving them alone to handle it.

Despite the lack of help, the move was successful, and Remy began unpacking alongside the SWAP staf the following spring of 2020. Of course, like many things during spring 2020, this unpacking was stopped halfway through. Remy and their friend were the only two ofcers by this point in time. They applied to be still considered an organization for the following academic year, but SWAP would remain in limbo. Its half-unpacked boxes refected its halted progress as an institution.

Signs of life started to reemerge fall of 2021, but Remy was the sole remaining ofcer, with most SWAP folks now graduating. “I was starting to ask the question of what’s next,” according to Gajewski. They managed to recruit a couple more students and rebuild the email list. However, for them, “It was mostly trying to get the space together before actually getting the org running again.”

The thankless work of unloading bins and placing stock onto barely clasping shelves. You often need a space before you can have a community.

The space that SWAP occupies is a unique one. It’s small, much smaller compared to their area in Harkness, but it’s cozy as well. The foor’s rough concrete is doused in beautiful, campy layers of rugs and carpet. Soulful lights hang from the ceiling like a feel-good episode of Stranger Things, welcoming visitors into SWAP with a lovingly ghostly vibe. A nook is established in the corner, creating a space for people to read, study, and hang out

in addition to browsing shelves.

Those shelves are stout but stacked with volumes. Textbooks for Chemistry and Environmental Science, books by Oberlin professors, classical Japanese poetry, Christian morality plays, and some big surprises that you could only describe as “miscellaneous.” One would need to know the class teaching volume 6 of JoJo’s Bizzare Adventure. Despite its youth, the space seems flled with memories, a nostalgic gaze you can only get in a usedbook setting. Of course, maintaining SWAP’s memory was not so easy.

“We did end up with a big loss in institutional memory,” Remy found. For years, SWAP tracked everyone’s book points within a comprehensive, searchable catalog. That was all gone, with the website going down due to a lack of maintenance amid COVID limbo. Years of progress were shut down due to a loss in setup instructions.

Still, SWAP made its move last spring with a largescale book drive. You may recall the various bins scattered about the libraries and other campus spaces last May. These bins quickly flled up, creating the majority of their present stock. Furthermore, when digging up their space’s remains, Remy stumbled on gold. A Google drive of photos, meeting notes, and oral histories. With these materials, unlike other organizations, Remy and their fellow volunteers had the knowledge to keep the space up, even with the website gone. They were ready to reopen and show the Oberlin community what it had in stock.

However, the specter of lousy Oberlin infrastructure would strike yet again. Water damage had stricken several aisles, causing a further delay as shelves needed to be reordered and books needed to be tossed. When they returned in the Fall, the growing group also found themselves locked out of part of their storage space. As of this article’s writing, they have yet to receive a response to their work order to open up the door, which contains additional stock and other key materials. For good measure, they were locked out of additional storage space just a few weeks ago.

Despite the spontaneous lockouts, the co-op is open for business, ready to answer the call for all the students’ book needs. “Life has really been breathed back into it,” Gajewski cheers. As of now, SWAP has a fully-elected offcer board with a clear vision. They hope to expand their infuence in the greater Oberlin community, whether through partnering up with the Oberlin Library for its book sales or reviving their Books-and-Beers event, where one trades a novel for a cold one. They’re also trying to revive their old website and have run both successful interest meetings and an on-point social media presence. They are upholding their mission as change agents, planning to donate their massive textbook stock to incarcerated individuals, further expanding reading equity. Gajewski knows “we have a lot of things to do with SWAP, and I actually feel those things will happen.” While running a stand at this semester’s involvement fair, the staf received a visitor. An Oberlin alum, and more specifcally, a founder of SWAP. They were graced by the presence of an OG. Remy had been previously running the club based on archival documents and hearsay, and here was one of those google doc transcribers in the fesh. “It was great to be able to tell people who made this amazing coop happen that it is still running and we are keeping it going.”

The main thing the club needs now is turnout. “The way we run is through membership and people knowing about it,” Gajewski emphasizes, “if people don’t know about it, then SWAP doesn’t work.” A radical experiment can’t be an experiment if you don’t have participants. It’s just a hypothesis, a statement with no action to match. Oberlin needs a space like SWAP. It bridges fnancial gaps, making academia afordable. It builds community through collaboration. It’s for people who want to change the world and read a good book while doing it. Gajewski urges folks to come by: “Even if they don’t think we have a certain book, just come look.”

A Look Into the Archives: Hi-O-His of Old

Anna Holshouser-Belden Staff Writer

Quite possibly one of Oberlin’s oldest student-run publications is the Hi-O-Hi, a treasure trove of photographic evidence of student life dating back all the way to 1890. With bold covers contrasting blackand-white interiors, its thick volumes catalog everything from athletics to the advent of Splitchers, and contain nude centerfolds that rival those of the publication in your hand or on your device right now. A trip to the Mudd archives uncovers a multitude of Hi-O-His revealing how much (or little, depending on your perspective) has changed about everyday life in the buildings we inhabit today. I took it upon myself to leaf through the yellowing pages so that you – dearest reader – don’t have to leave the comfort of your current location, and I picked out some highlights along the way.

My trip down the rabbit hole of vintage yearbooks began when an alumnus I interviewed for another article loaned me of a copy of the 1969 edition of the Hi-O-Hi, and I was struck by the book’s resemblance more to a photography exhibition catalog than any yearbook I got in high school. The bright yellow cover gazes right back at you, with a giant bloodshot eyeball spread out across it. The inside of said front cover is decorated with a miniature reproduction of a Wilder bathroom wall adorned with Photoshopped graffiti, displaying everything from an argument on the college president’s validity, to an equation reading Sex=f(u)n. The inside of the book gets even better…

Each page of the book was carefully produced in a darkroom, so the book contains some pretty insane ‘60s pseudo-Photoshop:

The few lines of writing included in this particular yearbook take the form of humorous prose, as follows:

Our dear Apollo:

Timeless struggles of course registration, staying awake, and Wilder Bowl while classes are changing:

A random selection of students:

A game to play in your spare time:

Eddy Kwon at Wilder Main – Bells, Strings, and Something Divine

Saffron Forsberg Editor-in-Chief

On Friday evening, I glided out of Wilder, almost delirious. Composer, performer, poet, curator, and choreographer Eddy Kwon had just performed There is a pattern, slow to a full room of entranced participants. I call us participants because I didn’t feel like an audience member before Kwon, but rather someone on the other end of an intimate conversation. A rare participant, rather than a mere witness.

Eddy Kwon, for the uninitiated, is a Brooklynbased artist who, in her own words – or rather, her website’s – “is inspired by Korean folk timbres & inflections, textures & movement from natural environments, and American experimentalism as shaped by the AACM.” Her work is bodily and participatory, and as such, distinctly interdisciplinary. Alongside Oberlin’s own Modern Music Guild, Kwon created and performed an original piece, prior to her own solo set. The opening piece was composed collaboratively at her Thursday 12/2 afternoon workshop, The Ceremony is You, which was open to the public and sponsored by MMG. The collaborative set ambled between full and subtle, rich and sparse. Undulating strings, resolute percussion, glimpsing vocals, and buoyant flurries of piano framed the piece, complementing Kwon’s playful musical practice. The instrumentation was distinctly in-conversation, not led by any one sound or approach; in effect, it was a composition with its own sense of weather. Cries of brass awoke among nimble strings. Storms of sound mounted and swelled from the otherworldly into the strangely familiar. Wincing drafts of voice veiled the room. Was I imagining that humming or was it actually there? And why didn’t it matter? At the piece’s conclusion, Kwon smiled at us sagely as MMG scurried to collect their instruments in preparation for her solo set.

Kwon’s Wilder Main was a sacred space, somehow. White petals covered the floor. The artist had us sit in a large circle, facing one another, and,

when it came time for her solo piece, she circumambulated the room with bare, stockinged feet. Outfitted with bells, she whistled at first as though calling to familiar birds, then succumbed to the warmth of her profound vocals: sometimes, as high as her tinkling bells or sparrow calls; other times, low and textured, thrumming between English and Korean, laughing then wincing, gasping, chastising, whispering, and laughing again. Even in her moments of anguish, Kwon invokes a peculiar and salving warmth, holding her violin as though she were not performing with it, but simply allowing it to speak.

Sometimes this warmth came through in the way she angled her jaw skyward, eyes wet and calling for something divine. Other times, it was in the way she looked to us, her participants, as though to a friend or self or child. “Your life does not have to be a delicious stickysweet secret,” she told us, and I felt that familiar tightness near my cheeks that means I am grinning against my will. At one point, with our only instructions being “there is a pattern, slow,” Kwon passed us a small dish full of delicate buds and petals. In her careful practice, Kwon cultivates a rare, bleeding intimacy: that of, at once, an oracle and a long-lost friend. “There is a sweetness in a death,” she said, and we knew she was right about that, too.

Kwon’s performance last Friday was, frankly, one I feel

completely in awe of having attended. During my time at Oberlin, I’ve joined audiences before many sets, large and small, light and profound, but I know Kwon’s will be especially memorable. Her artistic practice does what many hope to do, but few succeed in doing with such simplicity: something divine. Seldom does art enter the stomach so brightly and immediately.

Photo Courtesy of Joshua Reiner

Bones and All Review: How Cannibal Movies

Lost Their Marrow

Fionna Farrell Opinions Editor

Just like the stars at its helm, the frst shot of Luca Guadagnino’s Bones and All is rather comforting, and rather pretty. Midwestern bucolic stretches past the horizon, our eyes growing accustomed to a place where life is still—life is tender. Sounds of yearning and hunger get lost in the silence, caught by the wind. But if you listen long enough, you’ll still hear them — and feel, and smell. The flm is a multisensory experience, for the character and the viewer. The thorny question thus pains me: why, then, is the Italian director’s new flm so…boring? I found myself wondering this as I exited the theater that fated Black Friday night, attempting to reckon with the disappointment bubbling inside me, which I hadn’t so profoundly felt since last year’s Licorice Pizza. (Although, for that latter flm, my heart has greatly softened over time.) If tedious and morally ambiguous, Paul Thomas Anderson’s work is at least always interesting. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say the same for Guadagnino now. His cannibal romance is not that morally ambiguous — a barely-adult girl eats a fnger within the frst fve minutes. It’s also just not that interesting.

For those who haven’t been made privy to the gutchurning TikTok ads over the past month, Bones and All, Guadagnino’s seventh feature flm, follows two disenfranchised (cannibal) teens on a sumptuous journey through backroads America. Maren, played by the quietly formidable Taylor Russell, has been abandoned by her father, after her craven “urges” have proven too much for him.

Fueled by the hope of one day fnding her mother — just like River Phoenix in My Own Private Idaho — she coasts across the country, as if, by fate, to meet Lee, who is also a cannibal, and who is also played by a rugged, pink-haired Timothee Chalamet.

It is not an unpromising premise, this grisly b-horror, slash-road movie, slash-maudlin YA sap-fest. However, the central problem to Bones and All is not so much what it’s about, but, rather, its eagerness to show us what it’s about. As alluded to earlier, Guadagnino is by no means shy about inducing the wretched c-word; advertisements for the flm beckon us to wonder whether we like the smell of “it.” “It” is an “acquired” taste. Both Maren and Lee are not cannibals by choice, but rather “eaters” by birth; while Maren faces the occasional wave of moral reckoning for the…er…pain she’s caused, Timnothee Chalamet’s character is basically unbothered by his condition. The frst time the couple talk about their “frst” time, the latter exudes high school senior energy warning the freshman about the ropes. And this, more so than any devouring of the fesh, is by far the most cringeworthy part of the movie.

I don’t place the sole blame on Guadagnino for Bones and All’s shortcomings, though (even if, after 2018’s Suspiria remake, I sure would like to). After giving the flm proper time to marinate in my psyche, and recuperating from the mental image of bloodsoaked Timmy T in a fedora, I can’t help but remember what it is I initially found so irritating about the flm —- long before I had even seen it. I think the real-life cannibal, Mr. Armie Hammer, should defnitely stay put selling timeshares on the Cayman islands. However, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I really, really wanted a sequel to Guadagnino’s

gorgeous Call Me By Your Name. When told that we were getting a cannibal movie instead, I defnitely felt no less heartbroken than Mr. Chalamet in the fnal scene of the aforementioned movie.

Because why does everything have to be about goddamn cannibalism now? Why can’t we get a cathartic Sufjan Stevens cry and mild pedophilia like the good old days? Bones and All is only the most recent addition to a string of cannibal-themed media released within the past year, media that seems to have overtaken our formerly more respectable sensibilities. To mostly everyone’s knowledge, there was the Ryan Murphy Netfix series about that one unspeakable Gemini. One might recall Hulu’s recent flm Fresh, where Sebastian Stan galivants around with a severed leg like the whore for fesh he is. Just over a month ago, The Menu was released, causing us to cast a skeptical eye over the contents of Ralph Fiennes’s walk-in fridge. Cannibalism — with a hopelessly unshakeable in-your-faceness — has now become trendy for some reason. Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and I do wonder what’s next for us.

Like many, my frst ever “cannibal” movie was the completely un-overrated The Silence of the Lambs. Although, it does feel a bit blasphemous to reduce Demme’s masterpiece to such a limiting, and pretty inaccurate, title. The Silence of the Lambs is not “about” cannibalism at all, but rather utilizes Dr. Lecter’s tasteful proclivity to add infnite layers of intrigue and depth to his character, erupting in shimmers of brilliance throughout his twenty-four minutes of screen time. Lecter’s habit is not reduced to a random or inexplicable urge, but it is rather an appendage of his persona, and the one guiding element around which all of his relationships are formed. He is a decadent man, with his three piece suits, highceilinged ofce, and taste for the fner things in life.

There are several other cannibal-adjacent flms that I enjoy, and I won’t gross the reader out by listing all of them. But, to mention one of the more important ones, Peter Greenaway’s sublimely disgusting The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover reigns at the top. Again, that flm is not about cannibalism, per se, but rather builds towards the act with superlative tension and attention to atmosphere. The whole movie is brimming with a political furor that used to make

“cannibal” flms so subversive. Now, it seems that they are no more than lazy reductions of some of the most outward problems of our culture.

Fresh, of course, was about how horrible dating apps are. The Menu — which might not actually be about cannibalism, but sure wants us to think it is — is about how horrible fne dining is. Bones and All is about…how horrible it is to be a teenager and not fall in love with Timothee Chalamet? I hate to be as reductive about these movies as these movies are about genuine cultural conficts, but if there’s anything that can be said about the new upsurge in feshophilia, it’s that it’s quickly becoming a painfully obvious mockery of itself — a pastiche of former flms that actually had something important to say, or, at least, interesting people to show us. At this point, we’ve become desensitized to casual dismemberment ads popping up on our timelines. What is the horror, and where is the grotesque fun, to these flms anymore when they no longer have the capacity to leave us guessing? When, in these universes, being a fesh-eater is just a few rungs short of something you can put in your Insta bio? It’s high time that our rebellious whims found a diferent sort of nourishment for the time being —- and that, maybe, the next cannibal movie won’t star someone like Tom Holland.

Illustration by Maia Hadler Art Editor

Anger Management: Understanding Rico Nasty and Rage

Skye Jalal Staff Writer

The cover of Rico Nasty and Kenny Beats’ 2019 collaborative project, Anger Managementwas inspired by the cover of Arthur Janov’s 1971 book, The Primal Scream. The book cover features a bald white man with a shrunken chin in front of a blue background. With his eyes closed as if he is mid-meditation, bursting out from his forehead is a mouth, red-lipped and screaming.

Behind the cover, the book details the experiences of patients going through Janov’s newly developed therapeutic practice. Primal therapy is the process of healing ‘primal pains’ or early childhood trauma, which Janov associates as the root cause of all adult neuroses. The practice attempts to recreate the physical surroundings of childhood, then encourages its patients to experience emotional release within them. Janov details placing his patients in re-constructed nurseries, playrooms, and classrooms settings to induce memories of where their ‘primal pains’ originate. He then works with patients to release that trauma through physical and emotional valves: crying, convulsions, shaking, singing, and most notably, the primal scream. Describing his very first primal therapy patient, Janov writes, “The writhing gave way to small convulsions, and finally, he released a piercing scream that rattled the walls of my office. The entire episode lasted only a few minutes, and neither Danny nor I had any idea what had happened. All he could say afterwards was: ‘I made it! I don’t know what, but I can feel!’”

The cultural image of primal therapy is very much rooted in this kind of story- the intense display of emotion, followed more importantly by a sense of calm and clarity gained afterwards. Anger is important to the practice, but only as a means to an end, something that leads you to the more desirable and virtuous state of calm.

Much of the discussion of Anger Management follows a similar storytelling. Even the title itself can evoke a particular idea, that anger is something to be managed- that is, lassoed and subdued. Kenny Beats tweeted upon the release of the project, likening the progression of rage in the work to a “temper-tantrum”, saying that it “Starts off panicked. Thinks it Out … finishes calm.” It is true that the EP follows an emotional arc, ending much more subdued than it begins. However, it’s interesting how this transition is moralized. When written about, the final songs are often characterized with words such as “maturity”, “insight”, “intimacy”, and “greater perspective”, in comparison to their earlier counterparts.Why does the different tone of these latter songs seem to give them greater respectability?

Unlike the Primal Scream, on the cover of Anger Management, Rico’s eyes are open, staring straight at the viewer through false lashes. The image is more defiant, lacking the meditating resolution suggested by the 1971 cover. This opens up a different conversation of how rage operates in the work, asking the question of how Rico Nasty is really thinking about managing anger.

The EP opens with the sound of a computerized voice, asking the listener, “Hey, you there?

Aren’t you tired of the same old thing?

At every day, every minute, every second Everybody, everything?”

From there, Anger Management starts out swinging. The starting track, “Cold” has a beat that sounds as if it was made to blow out the speakers of your Honda Accord. Rico’s voice grates from the beginning, culminating in the chorus, “None of these bitches cold as me, me! ME!” It’s one thing to listen to her scream. It’s another to imagine her doing it; to think of the space she takes up, the ways her body would have to contort and expand to produce this sound, doing everything and making every shape a black woman is not supposed to. From there, the work slows down in pace, yet

maintains that same vitality. “Relative” is the point in the EP with the most marked downturn in energy, and this is where many writers claim the piece becomes “introspective.” By the eighth track, Rico is at her calmest, but even then, her screams still haven’t disappeared. They’ve only moved to the background

In the essay “Killing Rage”, bell hooks unpacks the issue of black rage. To hooks, rage is not an unfortunate byproduct or necessary evil, but a justified emotion and essential to black resistance. As an example, hooks writes about evaluations of Malcolm X’s legacy, and the apologetic or reductionist tone often used in reference to his rage, “Overall, contemporary reassessments of Malcolm X’s political career tend to deflect away from “killing rage.” Yet it seems that Malcolm X’s passionate ethical commitment to justice served as the catalyst for his rage.” hooks’ discussion of Malcolm X explains a cultural desire to minimize the rage of black figures, to assess their success as in spite of it. hooks counters this narrative by detailing the revelatory impact that rage had on her own life and activism, “Confronting my rage, witnessing the way it moved me to grow and change, I understood intimately that it had the potential not only to destroy, but also to construct.” To hooks, rage is a life force, one that Rico Nasty also understands. Nasty raps on the track, “Sellout”, “the expression anger is a form of rejuvenation.” Not the expelling of anger. Not the getting rid of anger. Not the feeling of clarity gained afterwards. The expression of anger on its own is a form of rejuvenation.

Rico’s more impassioned tracks have a lot more behind them than just the spectacle of her screaming. The themes of the project- reclamation of power, demanding what you deserve, female pleasure, empowering women to live their lives in spite of male opinions, ignoring your onlookers- are all speaking to a very specific audience. Rico isn’t defined by her identity, but these themes present a work very much made by a black woman for other black women. Considering this rage in context of the rager and her audience, Rico’s work comes into clearer view.

Hooks also writes about how the life force of anger is categorically denied to black people, and black women in particular. Detailing a racist incident with a white man on an airplane, she writes “‘I felt a ‘killing rage.’ I wanted to stab him softly, to shoot him with the gun I wished I had in my purse. And as I watched his pain, I would say to him tenderly “racism hurts.” With no outlet, my rage turned to overwhelming grief and I began to weep, covering my face with my hands.” This moment of hooks’ fantasized violence, highlights both the black condition which breeds a thirst for violence, and the inability to act upon it. Rico Nasty’s description of a racialized incident while in conversation with Complex Magazine, follows a similar pattern, “In that moment, I felt like getting out of the car. I felt like escalating the situation. Shit, I even felt like telling my man to run the n****a over with the car. But then I start thinking how fucked up that shit is, because nine times out of 10, the police get called on us, not knowing what happened, and not knowing that he’s the one disrespecting us. And all this over a parking spot. That shit really made me want to cry, because anytime black people try to stick up for themselves, that shit always escalates and fucks up their lives. They’re either in police custody and they don’t give a fuck about you, or they do whatever they want to hurt you or have you get shot. It fucks with your head.”

For an artist whose work is so defined by its performance of rage, it’s disconcerting to observe them unable to fully express that rage in the situations most deserving of it. Both anecdotes speak to a conundrum black women often find themselves in, unable to express rage in the moments that matter most, and having the few chances they do have reduced to “tem -

per tantrums”. Rico’s rage, at the very least, has just as much perspective as her quieter moments. At the most, it’s her work at its most powerful. In “Sellout”, Rico continues, People hate you ‘cause you’re different and focused People hated me so I flipped it

And turned my emo tions to something y’all could sing to ‘Cause some of y’all have been through the same shit I’ve been through There’s an under standing of the power her rage has to her audience. Rico Nasty’s rage is the performance of an emotion much of her audience doesn’t have access to, that she at times doesn’t even have access to herself. Giving her audience access to this life-force, even by proxy, is an extremely potent and powerful act.

Visual artist Raphael Montañez Ortiz coined the term, “destructiv ism” to explain the artist’s relationship to violence. In a 2013 video recording from Ortiz’s piano destruc tion concert series, he stands in a gallery with a piano before him and an ax in his hand. He doesn’t begin by slamming the ax into the piano. Instead, he glides the blade gently along the inside of the instrument, touching the inner strings nor mally covered by the piano body, allowing new parts to be seen and heard. Ana Cristina Perry spoke in conver sation with Ortiz about this series, “It’s not just about the destruction of this elite object, it’s also about thinking of what other sounds can emerge from it.” Ortiz replied, “Exactly, to be come familiar with the sounds of sacrifice.”

Anger Management makes its own audience familiar with these sacrificial sounds. Rico Nasty’s work is centered around this idea proposed by Ortiz, creating destruction within her own positionality, and through that giving life to new

ideas. With noise, space, and anger, she processes the everyday rage that comprises being a black womanfrom having to repress yourself in exchange for survival, to being compared to bitches you’re better than. She then offers her audience an

outlet to do the same. Anger Management is not the story of anger stowed away, it’s the story of anger embraced fully in all its expansive emotional texture. It deserves respect in its entirety.

Illustration by Maia Hadler Art Editor

Into the Oscar-Verse: Predicting This Year’s Best Picture Nominees

Zach Terrillion Staff Writer

Ladies and enbies, it’s that time of year yet again. The Awards season. The season when the hundreds of nepotism babies, old men, and sapphic icons in the Film Academy congregate to nominate and vote for the OBJECTIVELY best cinema of the year. I have watched too many awards pundit podcasts and liked too many Film Twitter hot takes to prepare for this moment. With Oscar nominations due in January, I figured our last Grape issue this semester would be the perfect opportunity to get out some predictions.

I am focusing on what 10 films will be nominated for best picture. For a mild notice, I have yet to see most of these films as they have yet to be released in theaters – or, they have yet to air at the Apollo, which has seemingly been playing Black Adam for the past four weeks. Thus, take any critique I make with a grain of salt. We are going off of Oscar pedigree and narrative. I am focusing on what 10 films will be nominated for best picture. For a mild notice, I have yet to see most of these films as they have yet to be released in theaters – or, they have yet to air at the Apollo, which has seemingly been playing Black Adam for the past four weeks. Thus, take any critique I make with a grain of salt. We are going off of Oscar pedigree and narrative.

Number One: The Fabelmans

The Fabelmans is a critically acclaimed autobiographical flm centering on the love of cinema, directed by Steven Spielberg. This is our Best Picture frontrunner. Its nomination was almost guaranteed as soon as the movie’s premise was announced. It combined several of Oscar’s favorite things, drawing comparisons to major contenders like Roma and La La Land in previous years. The memoir movie also won the People’s Choice Award at the Toronto International Film Festival, a signifcant precursor needed to win the prize on Oscar night.

Number Two: The Banshees of Inisherin

Martin McDonagh returns with a followup to 2017’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, which the Academy also embraced. The dark comedy about feuding Irish people has received some of the year’s best reviews, with Colin Farrell a major contender for best actor. While the ofkilter premise may dissuade a couple voters, the sheer excellence of the script and direction will be enough to take it over the line, uniting multiple Academy factions.

Number Three: Women Talking

Directed by Sarah Polley, this novel adaptation chronicles the story of women in a sheltered religious community coming to terms with the trauma of their abuse, ultimately working to overcome the patriarchal forces in their lives. It is a vibrant story for the #METOO era. With a stacked cast featuring folks like Frances McDormand and Jessie Buckley, as well as critical acclaim, it’s hard to overlook as a Picture contender.

Number Four: Everything, Everywhere All at Once

Ok, here’s one most of us have watched already. To call EEAAO a phenomenon would be an understatement. In a realm where indie cinema is increasingly fading, this batshit A24 joint went on to gross over $100 million at the box ofce through sheer word-of-mouth. It bridged the arthouse and blockbuster formulas in a way that will have enormous implications moving forward. It makes you cry, scream, and laugh. It’s CINEMA. Many say that it might be too weird for older Academy members, who may be turned of by its potty humor and bizarre footsies. However, the flm’s goodwill should be enough to take it over the line. Whether it can win is worth a whole other article.

Number Five: Babylon

After winning the directing Oscar at 32 for La La Land, Damien Chazelle returns for another ode to Hollywood cinema. The initial reactions to this 3-hour comedic epic have been more mixed, but I feel it’s just too “bait-y” in premise to not nominate. The scene in the frst trailer where Margot Robbie snorts coke in the shape of the Paramount Studios logo and then fghts a snake should make it a contender for a win!

Number Six: Top Gun: Maverick

If you had told me a year ago that I would put down a Top Gun sequel as a best picture nominee, I would have laughed. Still, for most people, this is THE movie of the year, making $1.5 billion at the box ofce with some critical praise to boot. Nominating it will lead to a massive boost in ceremony viewership. It’s the perfect

succulent for audiences who demand the Academy nominate more blockbusters. Also, the Academy loves its military shiz, homoerotic or not. A nomination is likely, but please, not a win.

Number Seven: Tar

This movie is a cultural reset, at least by Film Twitter’s standard. It apparently screened for two nights at the Apollo, and I completely missed it. The acclaim and Cate Blanchett star power will take it over the line, but I can’t write about it too much without getting irrationally upset at my missed viewing opportunity.

Number Eight: The Whale

Ok. I’m feeling good about the above seven; it’s the bottom three that get more uncertain. I’m gonna put my eggs in this basket. After traumatizing America with Mother!, Darren Aronofsky returns with a more conventional drama featuring unproblematic fave Brendan Fraser in a major comeback role. He’s the current frontrunner for Best Actor, and the flm’s heart-wrenching story of an obese man reconnecting with society will appeal to general audiences despite the flm’s mixed reviews. The Academy loves movies that make them feel things, no matter how manipulative they could be.

Number Nine: The Woman King

This is a contender fewer and fewer pundits have on their radars within a crowded feld, but I have decent faith. The pedigree is strong with Viola Davis in the lead. The premise of African female warriors in the past could be a way to unite the old and new guards of the Academy. It’s a classic historical epic in the manner of movies like Gladiator, while also encompassing a more inclusive narrative within that genre. The flm has downballot potential, with shoo-in nominations for techs like costumes and score. The flm has strong box ofce receipts and crowdpleasing qualities to boot. I really wouldn’t underestimate this one!

Number Ten: Avatar: The Way of Water

When the frst Avatar came out in 2009, I legitimately thought it was a weird adaptation of The Last Airbender. Still, it proved an Oscar frontrunner when nominated for nine statues in 2010. 13 years later, the sequel has a lot to prove in terms of longstanding cultural impact, and the awards conversation will be a part of it.

If the flm gets solid reviews, I’m keeping it in. If it’s mediocre, I’m taking it out. It will be interesting to see how it plays out, especially in how James Cameron adapts Ba Sing Se.

Well, there you have it, everyone. Will these predictions turn out all correct? Likely not. There is always a mysterious flm waiting in the corners to grab the frontrunner slot as other flms fade away as the precursors roll out. This time last year, I wasn’t even considering Coda as a potential nominee. Just a few months after that, it went on to win the big prize, making history in the process. We, amateur pundits, spend a lot of time fxating on factors like pedigree, acclaim, and box ofce receipts. However, Coda won because it occupied the right spot in the zeitgeist. Its groundbreaking deaf representation, coupled with a need for a feel-good flm amidst a feel-bad period in global history, took it over the line. The most critical factor to consider for Best Picture is the passion behind the flm, and that’s often the hardest to examine.

Illustration by Hazel Livingston Contributor

2022’s Celebrity Scandals, Ranked Worst to Best: Part One

Lucas Ritchie-Shatz Contributor

10. Will Smith Slapping Chris Rock at the Oscars

Coming in hot with the absolute worst and most lingering piece of drama this year, we’ve got Will Smith slapping Chris Rock onstage at the Oscars this past March. If somehow you missed it, here’s what happened: While presenting the Best Documentary Feature category, Chris Rock made an ad libbed joke referencing Jada Pinkett Smith’s buzzcut, which she adopted after being diagnosed with alopecia. Will Smith walked onstage, slapped Chris Rock, before promptly sitting down and yelling “Keep my wife’s name out your fucking mouth!”

To start out my evaluation of this incident, I have absolutely no issue writing in print that what Will Smith did was completely reasonable. While slapping him was probably not the ideal response to the situation, it’s undeniable that publicly demeaning someone’s appearance because of a disease they sufer from is truly disgusting. Considering that to date, Chris Rock hasn’t apologized for his comment, I’d argue that as far more morally unforgivable than a slap. Further, the media’s subsequent vilifcation of Will Smith as violent and dangerous, as well as his decade long ban from the Oscars was an overreaction that has its roots in racist stereotypes of Black men as dangerous, animalistic predators. This type of coded rhetoric is best evidenced by Judd Apatow’s now-deleted, post-slap tweet that read, “He could have killed him. That’s pure out of control rage and violence. They’ve heard a million jokes about them in the last three decades. They are not freshmen of Hollywood and comedy. He has lost his mind.” While I hope I don’t have to elaborate on what a deranged response that is, the characterization of Smith’s actions as “pure out of control rage and violence”, whether intentional or not, points towards the storied American history of the perception of Black men as unthinkable, violent beasts. This is the type of perception that leads to the seeming omnipresence of police violence against unarmed Black men and boys. Especially when considering that Chris Rock has a history of ofensive, unfunny jokes (and has complained about cancel culture to boot) it’s hard not to understand how Smith must have felt at the moment. Overall, this ranks as the worst piece of drama for me because of the abundance of barely coded racist takes it has spawned, the damage it has undoubtedly done to

Smith’s family and reputation, as well as its staying power. My criteria for a good piece of celebrity drama is if the drama is fun to talk about or joke about and if discussion around the drama is not harmful towards its subject. Not only did the cultural conversation around the slap turn very sour very quickly, I doubt that the situation would have garnered much attention if it hadn’t happened during one of the most highly viewed televised events of the year, and a fairly dull year for the Oscars at that. There just isn’t much internal substance to the matter outside of the highly publicized reactions it provoked, reactions to the reactions, and on and on.

9. UK Prime Minister Speedrun Challenge

While usually I would consider politics outside of the realm of celebrity gossip, Britain’s fip-fopping from one bungled prime minister to another has reached the level of satire. While governments globally have been dealing with the COVID pandemic and its aftershocks for two years now in diferent ways, the former British PM, Boris Johnson, who was initially elected in 2019, chose a lax approach to the disease, hoping that added economic packages would help the country through the crisis. However, the UK’s poor response has led to a total of around 210,000 deaths as well as tens of millions more sick and the country’s economy down the drain. In January, reports began to appear that Johnson as well as other members of the British Conservative Party frequently broke COVID restrictions by attending and throwing parties while the country was under lockdown. This reasonably sparked outrage amongst the British public and other members of British governance, many of whom could not say goodbye to loved ones dying of the virus as Johnson was meanwhile founcing the rules just to celebrate his birthday.

In a slight act of karmic retribution, though, Johnson, who had previously underplayed COVID’s severity, caught the disease and even went to the ICU before making a recovery. By summertime, Britons were fed up, the fnal nail in the cofn being his promotion of Chris Pincher, a lawmaker previously accused of sexual harrasment and sexual assault. While initially Johnson claimed to have no knowledge of the allegations, it was later revealed that he had referred to the lawmaker as “pincher by name, pincher

by nature”. Lacking respect amongst his party members for a track record of lying and general tomfoolery, Johnson fnally resigned in July. However, Johnson was just symbolic of a larger mass exodus that took place in the UK administration that month, with a total of 62 elected ofcials resigning as a culmination of “partygate” as well as the Chris Pincher fasco.

However, those hoping for the return of respectability to UK governance would only be further disappointed. Liz Truss was subsequently elected to ofce in September as the new leader of the Conservative Party, running on promises to revive the British economy with tax cuts for wealthy citizens and corporations. However, due to infation and rising energy costs that have come along with the ongoing war in Ukraine, this actually only drove the economy into a worse depression, crashing the value of the British pound. In another bit of unfortunate timing, Queen Elizabeth died two days after Truss’s appointment, sending monarchy-stans into an emotional depression. In response to growing doubts about Truss, the Daily Star, a British tabloid, started live streaming a head of lettuce on October 14th with the caption, “Will Liz Truss outlast this lettuce?” Hilariously, it did, with Truss resigning on October 21st after a paltry 45 days in ofce.

The next in line to replace Truss turned out to be her previous opponent in the race for post-Johnson leader of the Conservative Party, Rishi Sunak. His election to Prime Minister on October 25th also came after he had resigned from parliament earlier in the year for his involvement in partygate and the promotion of Chris Pincher. Sunak is Britain’s frst ever Prime Minister of color, as well as the youngest in over 200 years at a sprightly 42. With a former career as a banker at Goldman Sachs and a current net worth nearly double that of King Charles equally to around 844 million dollars, Sunak seems like the Conservative party’s “centrist” wet dream, moldable into whatever the party needs to save face after a year of turmoil. This piece of drama ranks near the bottom because even though it’s funny to point and laugh at, then you remember that these wet pieces of amoral cardboard in ironed suits are actually making global policy decisions.

8. Dream’s Face Reveal

While 2022 was undoubtedly full of infuencer scandals and drama, from Tiktok creators to Twitch streamers, only Minecraft youtuber Dream had his face plastered on every social media site this past October after years of keeping his likeness a secret. Dream, who has been active on Youtube since 2014 but blew up over the pandemic for his “Dream SMP” series that features a host of other Minecraft youtubers, may also be known by those older than 15 for being accused of (and later confrmed to be) cheating on his record-beating Minecraft speedrun. Before getting into his face reveal, it’s worth mentioning that other than cheating, Dream has been called out in the past for allegedly grooming fans, as well as saying the n-word and making racist jokes. For more on that though, I recommend watching Ro Ramdin’s youtube video “Dream: How Fans Handle Allegations”, because I’d like to keep this as light as I can.

Prior to the reveal, his 30 million subscribers and devoted fan community had speculated wildly as to who could be the devilishly handsome face behind that prepubescent voice. After two weeks of teaser clips showing various Dream SMP members and other random celebrities like Addison Rae reacting to seeing Dream’s face for the frst time, 1.2 million fans tuned in live for the momentous reveal. Unfortunately, this dramatic build-up might have actually been to Dream’s detriment, considering trending twitter topics after the reveal such as “HE’S UGLY” and “PUT THE MASK BACK ON”. The reveal also garnered unfavorable comparisons to other popular internet punching bags LeafyIsHere and Shane Dawson. Perhaps more strange is the subsection of fans who responded to the reveal with public carnal desire, but whatever foats your boat I suppose.

As someone who has learned everything that I know about Dream against my own will, I think he looks…like a guy. He’s just fne. If anything, this situation just seems symptomatic of the wildly parasocial relationship that exists between Dream and his fanbase, which he continues to foster, I’m sure, to his own beneft. While I think that many reactions veered too far to the extreme both ways when it comes to public judgment of one’s appearance, all publicity is good publicity I guess, especially when the other main association people have of you is that you’re a cheater.

7. Ezra Miller On A Rampage

In a truly strange turn of events, Ezra Miller, the actor known for their roles in the Fantastic Beasts series as well as Perks of Being a Wallfower, got into multiple police altercations this year over the course of a few months. While in 2020 a video surfaced of them appearing to strangle a woman and throw her to the ground while at a bar in Iceland (with Miller’s representative claiming this was a response to a group of teenagers doubting the actor’s mixed-martial arts skills), Miller’s string of run-ins this year seemed to come out of the blue. It began in March after they were arrested for disorderly conduct in Hawaii after they began hurling obscenities and a fght broke out in a karaoke bar. Just three weeks later, they were picked up for second degree assault after throwing a chair at a young woman during a private get-together.

In June, a Massachusetts woman and her 12 year old child fled a restraining order against Miller, claiming they had threatened the family and exhibited inappropriate behavior in front of the child. Miller knew the family after taking an interest in the child for their “style and maturity level”, ofering to send the child to design school and help them create a clothing line, apparently considering them to be a “mystical being”. Supposedly, Miller showed up unannounced in a bulletproof vest while brandishing a gun and touching the child’s hips. Another incident involved

Miller showing up dressed as a cowboy and ofering to buy the child horses.

That wasn’t even the only restraining order fled against Miller in June, as he was also accused of intimidating 18-year old Standing Rock activist Tokata Iron Eyes. Apparently they began a relationship together in 2016, when Miller was 23 and Iron Eyes was 12, with Miller fying the child out to visit them on set in England. Iron Eyes’s parents also alleged that the actor had groomed and abused her, though Iron Eyes continues to support Miller and deny the allegations. Just further adding to how wild this situation is, apparently Miller stated that they believe people are against their relationship with Iron Eyes because she is “an apocalyptic Native American spider goddess” who, along with Miller as Jesus Christ, will bring about an indigenous revolution.

If this all wasn’t enough, supposedly Miller was living with a Hawaiian woman and her three young children on a Vermont farm, with easily accessible guns and ammo on the property. While the mother claims that Miller is ofering refuge for the family from the children’s abusive father, other concerns such as heavy marijuana use in front of the children and even assault rifes next to their toys led to police investigation. However, when they showed up to the farm repeatedly, the family was not present, with Miller saying they had not lived on the farm for at least two months.

In August, Miller was also picked up in Vermont for felony burglary of alcohol bottles from a private residence. This appeared to end Miller’s border-crossing crime streak, as a week later it was announced they were beginning mental health treatment in response to continuing paranoid delusions. I’m not sure what there is to add on my part other than remarking on how sheerly impressive it is to manage to commit so many strange and varied crimes in so many places in such a short timespan. I hope that these children get some therapy out of all of this because… oh boy!

6. Machine Gun Kelly Gets Engaged To Megan Fox

Rounding out the bottom half of the list is the culmination of a trainwreck relationship the world can’t help but look at. Machine Gun Kelly, “rapper” slash musician and illustrious actress Megan Fox began dating in 2020 after meeting on the set of Midnight in the Switchgrass, but fnally got engaged this January. While the relationship seems to be fairly stable, the drama has primarily come out of the details shared with the press, such as their infamous meeting story, where Fox approached Kelly to say, “You smell like weed”, to which he replied, “I *am* weed.” Other choice moments include Kelly saying he believes “Megan has the most beautiful feet that exist”, the pair showing up to a red carpet physically chained to-

gether, as well as Kelly revealing he wears a necklace with Fox’s blood inside. There was also Fox saying it was important to ask Kelly whether or not he was breastfed as a child before they began dating, a photo captioned “Kill me or get me pregnant. Those are the only two options”, and of course, the pair revealing they’ve drunk each others’ blood.

One moment that especially caused a stir was the reveal of Fox’s engagement ring, which was specifcally designed with thorns inside that would hurt if she tried to take it of. While much has been said about this being manipulative, it does seem like it was consensual. Though I don’t understand why Megan Fox, contender for most beautiful human alive, is so deeply in love with a man who looks like the physical embodiment of a menthol Juul pod, the heart wants what it wants. As much as the two are hated, they do genuinely seem to make each other happy, far be it from me to shame them. However, they defnitely still do have the energy of the two emo kids from your high school who are physically incapable of not oversharing about their relationship, but if they’re having fun sharing and we’re having fun listening, in my opinion, it’s a win-win.

Top 5 celebrity scandals of 2022 to be revealed at a later date…

Illustration by Derya Taspinar Contributor

Is That a Plush Ranch Bottle?

Hidden Valley’s New Elf on the Shelf Spoof Visits Oberlin

Max Miller Staff Writer

As a Jew who is not a fan of ranch, I am virtually the exact opposite of Hidden Valley’s new Elf on the Shelf-inspired promotion “Ranch on a Branch.” Regardless, I found myself particularly intrigued by the ad campaign. Why would a ranch company produce a stuffed animal? Who is buying this? And what the hell does Hidden Valley have to do with Christmas?

As it turns out, the love the world has for ranch is so strong that the plush ranch bottle and corresponding children’s book sold out in ten hours and now resells for about $130 on eBay. What I thought was a strange oddity was, in fact, the hottest commodity on the plush market.

When I went home for Thanksgiving, I found a Ranch on a Branch box lying untouched on my stairwell. It felt like a gift had been bestowed upon me from the heavens; It was destiny. After some excitement, my mother revealed that Hidden Valley had sent her the box for free (she is a food writer) and that she was happy to give it to me. It felt meant to be. I eagerly accepted, shoved the stuffed ranch bottle in my backpack and headed back to Oberlin.

After getting back to Oberlin, the plush was quickly named Rango (Ranchy was a close second) and taken on field trips around campus (I forgot to take it out of my bag). Once I remembered, Rango was placed on my shelf to do Elf on the Shelf-like things. (For a ranch on a branch, I assume this includes watching and reporting to a

ranch version of Santa Claus? Is this Santa Claus just a really big ranch bottle? Is the ranch version of the North Pole a place called Hidden Valley? So many questions.) Every once in a while, I would look over at Rango. Having gotten a taste of the outside world, he looked glum sitting on my bookshelf. It was a little depressing seeing him so cooped up after being exposed to the excitement of Oberlin. So, I decided to show Rango the Ranch the best weekend of his very young life.

On Friday night, I took Rango to a bowling tournament. He served as a good luck charm for Harry, my doubles partner, and me as we meandered our way to a cheeky little second place finish. Rango seemed relatively excited perched behind the bowling alley desk, though he was clearly a little upset we didn’t win the whole thing. (As they say, if you’re not first, you’re last.)

The next day, I kinda sat around for a while, which I can only assume pissed Rango off a bit. (My bad, Rango. I had some work to do and some Phineas and Ferb to watch.) To compensate for my lazy day, I brought Rango out to the Walkin’ in a Winter Oberlin Christmas festival. Rango and I met up with some friends to watch the parade, which consisted of a pack of children rhythmically jumping rope and a performance from the Oberlin High School marching band. It was truly a sight to behold. The real Santa even showed up, which was a treat. Men in trucks joined the parade, throwing Dum Dum lollipops out of their driver side windows directly onto the road, where onlookers bent over to grab the sweets. As a lollipop-grabber, I admittedly felt a little undignified, though Rango seemed pretty unphased. We quickly moved with the paradegoers to a fire and ice sculpture, which Rango appeared to absolutely love. It was cute and toasty. The crowd around us was into it, with one onlooker remarking, “This is the weirdest Christmas thing I’ve ever seen.”

Rango and I then mosied over to the Studio B party. Rango was given a hero’s welcome and was handed a glow stick and propped on top of two orange juice cartons at the party’s juice bar. I left Rango to his own devices for a bit so he could watch the party unfold. After several lovely DJ sets, I fought through the thicket of people to

rejoin him and head out. He had clearly enjoyed the party, but was in a bit of discomfort from being drenched in orange juice. I got him home, washed him off, tucked him in and let him dry.

Midday Sunday, a fully recovered Rango watched my talented teammates and me take a quick first round L in dodgeball. (The official YeoFit Instagram account described our team on their story as “Number 1 in our hearts,” which was a bit upsetting but appreciated nonetheless.) Rango the Ranch and I then headed on over to the final week of Oberlin College Lanes’ Fall League (it was a big bowling weekend), where he once again served as a good luck charm and mascot, this time leading the team to a league championship. Rango seemed ecstatic at the victory.

Though he doesn’t talk much, I have appreciated Rango’s company over the last few days. He’s a chill guy. Everyone seems to enjoy his presence. And though I think he’s seen enough outside for a while and will be put back on the bookshelf, I am sure that I will take him out every once in a while, if only as a good luck charm for bowling tournaments and a fun companion at parties.

Christmas Cheer is Annoying

Jewish Views on Christmastime

Max Miller Staff Writer

As the air turns brisk and the amber leaves begin to fall, I have no choice but to be confronted with inevitable signs of corporate Christmastime. It starts out slowly, probably around mid-November, beginning a slow crescendo into wintery chaos in the name of Christmas cheer. It’s always a frustrating moment when the frst indicator of Christmas hits, like the frst drop of rain before a hurricane. This year, the frst sign occurred in the form of a surprising podcast ad for Hallmark shopping. The second I heard those joyful sleigh bells, I knew it was over. Whenever those bells begin to ring, there is an instant in which I am transported back to being a young Jewish boy, feeling lost and alone in wintertime.

When I was very small, likely about four or fve, my grandmother gifted me a menorah. The nine candle holders (one for each night, plus one for the shamash) were meant to look like coral reef. The menorah had a light blue cartoonish backing with a cute green octopus and charming pink jellyfsh foating in the water. I would excitedly put the candles in the menorah in an alternating fashion that satisfed my strange immature brain (a blue candle, then a yellow one, then blue, then yellow, and so on). I loved the light that the candles emitted when refected by the window they had been placed next to, glowing until they melted into multicolored wax on tin foil sheets. I would observe the candles relatively obsessively, watching the orange light bounce of of seemingly every surface it touched. Just like the light emanating from my multicolored candles, Hanukkah always felt warm, welcoming, and somewhat sacred, like a cozy Jewish pocket in a Gentile world.

The more I grew, the more I became aware of my Christian surroundings. No matter where you looked, there were acknowledgements of Christmas: The tree markets on every other corner; The infatable reindeer on front lawns; The annual report on how much destruction that year’s Santacon caused; The elaborate trees in apartment building lobbies with the occasional

small, sad electric menorah at its feet; The excitement over Macy’s displays; The same Mariah Carey song played over and over again. It was inescapable.

Signs of Christmas often felt isolating. Was I missing out on something specifcally because I was Jewish? Was I supposed to engage in Christmas cheer? And if I did, would it be inherently transgressive and insulting to my ancestors? It felt like the whole world was unifed in its excitement for Christmas. Would it be easier to join them instead of hanging on to a sense of Jewish duty? I never truly considered fully buying into Christmas excitement; in fact, I planted my feet and weathered the Christmas hurricane with a youthful defance. But, in truth, I felt confused and alone in a Christmas-loving world.

In my pre-teen years, Christmas lights were the main source of my confusion. The whole ordeal felt strange to me. Every few years, my family would drive into Dyker Heights in Brooklyn to see the lights. We would watch elaborately decorated houses pass by the breathfogged windows of our well-loved Toyota Avalon with a sense of wonder. It was truly a spectacle; Each house was more extravagant than the last. There were clear rivalries in the neighborhood, with each household attempting to outdo the rest, resulting in a plethora of extravagant decorative structures seemingly everywhere within sight. Aside from the heavy foot trafc, it

was utopia for Christmas lights enthusiasts.

The lights were astounding, and yet, they were hard to enjoy. They invoked the same sense of confusing isolation that I had had as a child. The decorations were stunning. But, was I allowed to enjoy them? Was I supposed to?

As the security I have in my Judaism has grown, I have developed a sort of afnity for Christmas lights. They have a peculiar sort of familial charm to them. When I see a house with modest lights, I like to imagine a family getting together to drape them on the shrubbery in their front yard on a cold evening, clad in winter coats and knit mittens. There is something endearing about enduring this discomfort of decoration to bring temporary joy to any who happen to pass by.

I still use my coral reef menorah from childhood. Every time I light it, I feel an unrivaled warmth. There is an unspoken nostalgia hidden in the orange light that fickers in the windowsill. I can only assume Christmas lights elicit a similar response in the decorator; The care with which the lights are placed intimates as much. When I pass a winter-y looking house with a string of multicolored lights strewn intentionally on the trees in the front yard, I am reminded of my menorah, and for a moment, the world melts into pleasant memories, just like a candle in a window. Happy holidays.

Illustration by Ellie Sabel Contributor

Who are We, and What Have We Become: Individualism on the Left

Hanna Alwine Contributor

Picture this: a twenty something Ohioan who smokes cigarettes, is really into farming, wears Carharrt jeans, has a penchant for red hats, and is a staunch individualist. Am I describing an Obie with lots of school spirit or a Trump-sign-toting election denier?

While some of these similarities are pure coincidence (Carharrts have made a remarkable comeback) there is a strange intersection between the individualistic tendencies of the right and the left. In both groups, MAGA hat and mushroom foraging alike, there is an emphasis put on separating

oneself from the pack.

Oberlin College seems to be a prime example of this phenomenon. Oberlin makes its claim to fame through a historically progressive campus culture. Admitting women since its founding and black students two years after, Oberlin was years ahead of its collegiate counterparts. It is consistently ranked in the top ten most liberal arts colleges in the United States. It boasts what was one of the first student run cooperative housing and dining organizations in America. It was a spot on the Underground Railroad. In an article from 2016 it was cited as “the gayest college in America.” And yet, despite Oberlin’s apparent love for all things left leaning and cooperative, it holds a streak of stark individualism we generally associate with the right. Oberlin is a gold mine of niche interests and the discovery of all things ‘underground’ and ‘new wave.’ If you’ve heard of it, there’s sure to have been an ExCo taught about it. The more a band name sounds like it was created via a random phrase generator (Soccer Mommy, Camper Van Beethoven, They are Gutting a Body of Water, Car Seat Headrest, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, the list goes on) the more likely it is to have a cult following here on campus.

Individualism takes on a more serious tone in Oberlin political identification. Before I came to Oberlin I didn’t know the number of prepositions one could add or the number of ways one could combine the words anarchist and communist. And while this diversity of opinion could be construed as evidence of a critically thinking campus, at times the emphasis on these identifiers can seem performative, a means of separating from the herds of other politically active students. There is something dissonant about the ways in which self-proclaimed ‘leftists’ insist on separating themselves from the very communities they are meant to be working alongside.

While, to a certain extent this dissonance echoes a lack of engagement with or understanding of real world issues and communities – in other ways it seems to reflect a want for community and a means to self-define. It is here that left wing individualism and right wing individualism diverge. Republican individualism is characterized by “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” ideology, the popularity of Andrew Tate, and regular invocations of their right to “free speech” in order to avoid taking respon -

sibility for their actions. It is continually used to separate from community and from others. On the other hand, left wing individualism seems to focus on the definition of identity. While this identity can be extremely individual, it can also serve communal purposes. There will always be those who gate-keep music and books and political thought, but there will also always be those who find common ground with individuals who are passionate about similar subjects. As this yearning for definition enters a political realm it points to a larger problem affecting left leaning groups nationwide –an inability to find a home in their political beliefs.

In a presentation J.M. Purvis, recent author of Democrats 101, gave to the Young Democrats of Northeastern Ohio, he identified this same perceived lack of leftist identity, though he focused specifically on identity in the Democratic party. His book and his talk highlighted a set of “Democratic Ideals” he had designed, what is essentially the Declaration of Independence restructured and reiterated. The list includes, but is not limited to: “All people are created equal, that this is America’s fundamental ideal” and “That America is a democracy by and for the people: ruled by the Constitution and its interpretations, protected by the Bill of Rights, and inspired by the Declaration of Independence.” His solution to the lack of cohesive Democratic identity is to link the values of the party to the values of America as a whole.

And while I agree with Purvis’s diagnosis – the Democratic party and left wing America are scattered and without direction on a good day – I don’t agree with his remedy. His stance promoting a bland, uninspiring overarching American/Democratic definition, highlights a key failing of Democratic leadership within the United States. Rather than recognizing the individual communities – the young and the marginalized – that make up the Democratic party and left wing constituents, the party has moved to make the party “more palatable” to moderates in hopes of gaining votes. But the sacrifice the Democratic party makes in appeasing the middle is this gradual loss of identity. The Democratic party of today no longer stands for its constituents. The problem is not that constituents are unsure of what they want, but an adherence to white bread, moderate ideology. In trying to appeal to everyone, the Democratic party has lost its sense of self.

It is here that left wing individualism and its propensity to bring together small groups of likeminded people, may be its saving grace. Though some of the individualism we see on the left seems performative – there remains value in defining who you are and what you believe in. In leaving the definition of a Democrat broad, ambiguous, and open to interpretation it loses the support of those who have been its strongest supporters. If the Democratic party wants to continue to be the party of the people, it needs to recognize the views of the individuals that make it a reality.

Illustration by Derya Taspinar Contributor

College, or the Haven of Unspoken Loneliness

Ellen Efstathiou Contributor

Director

One of the first activities during my year’s on-campus orientation was to go to the Allen and look at art. This was supposedly a mandatory activity, although I don’t think anyone was taking note of who was there, so I’m not sure how they were checking everyone did this. We were also supposed to look at one particular piece of art, but I haven’t met anyone that actually saw that piece

Anyway, my roommate had gone to something earlier and I didn’t know anyone else yet, so I showed up to the Allen alone. While I was standing there, someone came up to me and cheerily said, “You look lonely!” Looking back at this, I think they were trying to be friendly and offer themselves as someone to talk to, but at the time, I was startled. I hurriedly assured them I was fine and not lonely and they walked

Ten or fifteen minutes later, I was looking at some art and someone different said to me, “Are you okay? You look sad.” I assured them I was fine. I was not that moved by the art, and we walked away from each other.

I actually had been fine, but after having been told by two different people that I looked sad and lonely, I started to doubt myself. I began to feel sad, and I found myself getting choked up as I stared intently at the art so no one else would notice I was sad.

Luckily, I found my roommate a couple minutes later and was no longer alone. However, me getting choked up, almost crying, or actually crying happened every day for at least the first week I was here. Multiple times I showed up to an orientation event, didn’t see anyone I recognized, got overwhelmed by the possibility of having to walk up to a group and ask to join their conversation, left the event, and walked around Tappan and cried.

So you might be saying to yourself, “Wow, Ellen, you seem like a lonely person. Are you the only one at Oberlin that’s so lonely?” And the answer, I’m pretty sure, is no. Let’s take a look at some various forms of social media. If you’re on Instagram, everyone seems to be hanging out with friends all the time. If you’re on Yikyak, everyone seems to be lonely and think that their friends hate them. So what’s the truth?

Part of why going up to people during orientation seemed so insurmountable

to me was because it felt like everyone had arrived at Oberlin already having friend groups. Before getting here, people met on social media and made group chats and already had friend groups when they got here. Even in classes, people seemed to already be friends with the people they were sitting by on the first day.

Last year, we were also required to wear masks whenever we were inside. I know I personally struggled with communicating when wearing or interacting with people wearing a mask. I felt like my emotions weren’t coming across the way I wanted them to or I felt like I couldn’t understand the emotions other people were trying to get across. There was also a significant amount of the year where we weren’t allowed to eat at dining halls. This, in particular, really constricted socialization. Meals are a pretty regular time for people to just hang out, eat, and talk. At least in recent years, the pandemic has certainly affected how lonely we feel.

A lot of people in college are lonely, this isn’t something special to Oberlin. A quick google search will tell you that. But sometimes it feels like everyone at Oberlin is an introvert. We walk around, avoiding eye contact as much as possible and being as busy as possible. People at Oberlin get so caught up in whatever they’re involved in (academics, clubs, etc.), that making time to just hang out with friends can go forgotten. And while many people have friends in those things that they do, they aren’t necessarily friends that they hang out with outside of that activity.

Maybe part of the reason why college feels so lonely is because the way you interact with friends is so different than in high school. If you had strict parents you had to ask to hang out with friends outside of school, and even if you didn’t see them outside of school, you were still going to see them pretty much every day. In college, especially if you’re in a single dorm, it is easy to go weeks without talking to anyone outside of class. To go back to the pandemic again, a lot of us had gone almost two years only talking to people online.

I don’t know if there’s a solution to this. I know firsthand how difficult “just going up and talking to people’’ can be. However, if it’s any consolation, if you think you’re lonely you are not the only one that feels lonely. So in that way, you’re not alone.

Illustration by Maia Hadler Art

It’s Not the Economy, It’s You: The Rise of Corporate Mindfulness

Katherine Doane Contributor Illustration by Julian Crosetto Layout Editor

“For instance, the darker your skin, the more likely you are to be ‘loitering.’ Though a Patagonia jacket could do some work to disrupt that perception. A Patagonia jacket, colorful pants, Tretorn sneakers with short socks, an Ivy League ball cap, and a thick book that is not the Bible and you’re almost golden. Almost. …[A]nother of the synonyms for loitering[, ]‘taking one’s time,’ makes it kind of plain, for the crime of loitering, the idea of it, is about ownership of one’s own time, which must be, sometimes, wrested from the assumed owners of it, who are not you, back to the rightful, who is.” — Ross Gay, “Loitering,” The Book of Delights

At the start of the Covid-19 pandemic, a myriad of new words and phrases infltrated our vocabularies. “Rapid test,” “social distancing,” and “quarantine” plastered bulletin boards on campus; a new assortment of Covid slang danced through dorm hallways and classrooms. As the Great Lockdown loomed closer on the horizon, humanities and science professors alike began peppering lectures with words like “efcacy” and “comorbidity.”

In March, when the lockdown was frst instituted, a new rhetorical shift seemed to be underway. News headlines and blog posts no longer solely focused on “fattening the curve,” but now also considered the mental health of the so-called unafected population. “Resilience,” “gratitude,” and “stress-reduction” were some of the frst words to pierce the rapid currents of the covid-speak tide. Piggybacking on the public hunger for a shared vocabulary for crisis, mental wellness went mainstream. One word, in particular, kept cropping up in headlines and reports by essayists and ftness gurus alike, a word that promised to erase all of our problems. That word, one from which I still mentally recoil, was mindfulness. Mindfulness is the exercise of being fully present and aware of what is happening around you and within you, and accepting your own thoughts without judgment or reaction. Mindfulness was originally intended to help people to be more present and reduce chronic stress through exercises such as body scans and walking meditation, but in the last decade or so, the tool has been gutted and scaled by radical new advocates. Sufering, they say, exists only in our minds, and it is our responsibility for how we react to the problems we encounter. New mindfulness ignores the possibility that these problems are broad and systemic, and equips us with tools to adjust ourselves to the very system that creates our problems in the frst place. Sufering is depoliticized, and people are disincentivized from creating change. Mindfulness has become a social anesthetic, improving not our happiness, but our productive output. Beyond mindfulness, countless other CBT techniques have been subtly extricated from a vision

achieving maximal performance in the ever-more mercurial “workplace;” taking a break from work is seen, primarily, as a way to return to work as quickly as possible. Recent growing obsession with self-improvement, dubbed “wellness syndrome” by Carl Cederström at Stockholm University, demonizes idleness and “negative” emotion — anger, grief, despair — towards the same end. This tendency towards exclusively upwards emotional growth emerges from the close-knit relationship between western consumerism and Christian enlightenment, which preaches ascension in the same way that economists preach the gospel of upward social mobility. These ideologies have colonized mindfulness, which traces its roots back to the Buddhist Seven Factors of Awakening, into a secular means towards rugged individualism. Wellness syndrome’s vilifcation of idleness at its worst jeopardizes the disabled and vulnerable, as Johanna Hedva highlights in their infuential essay Sick Woman Theory.

“‘Sickness’ as we speak of it today is a capitalist construct, as is its perceived binary opposite, ‘wellness,’” they write. “The ‘well’ person is the person well enough to go to work. The ‘sick’ person is the one who can’t.” Sickness is a deviation from the norm and is assumed to be temporary; when being sick is temporary, “care is not normal.”

Examining the wellness obsession from the dis -

abled perspective clarifes its efect on a multitude of other identities: continuous mutual support, which once was an inseparable feature of human civilization (and still is in many communities outside of the West), is now a luxury. There is extensive research into studies where patients with long-term illnesses or symptoms were cared for with compassion and support during the treatment process, and subsequently experienced greater relief from their symptoms. Relaxing had visible physiological benefts that helped them heal and recover faster or more thoroughly. This data, when considered alongside the vast number of people who reenter the healthcare system multiple times after initial treatment, confrms that medical professionals are not trained to ofer holistic support, but instead dole out temporary fxes for problems that they are trained to isolate in ways that are incongruous with reality. CBT techniques have undergone much the same treatment as antidepressents and antianxiety medications: they are no longer seen as interconnected factors in creating a social support system, but are individually packaged commodities, unmoored from a coherent spiritual practice.

Consumerism is also changing the face of public infrastructure. Public spaces that enable non-productivity and idleness are disappearing, via either physical reconstruction (see: anti-homeless architecture) or a shift in functionality. This social

privatization of public space works hand in hand with loitering laws, not-sodistant echoes of the Jim Crow era, to discourage us from engaging with our non-productive selves in meaningful ways. Because we so rarely engage compassionately with these parts of ourselves, we fail to recognize the essentiality of spaces where non-productivity is accepted and celebrated, and so these spaces are not created. Because we do not see this part of our identities refected in our physical surroundings, we fail to recognize the essentiality of non-productivity to our own well being, and so neglect these needs even more.

It is difcult to discuss the consequences of leading this consumable lifestyle because our ideas of happiness and productivity are so closely entwined. Why is it important to honor the joy we take in idleness, in what cognitive scientists have called play? Once we reject the doctrine that productivity is the ultimate goal, what reason do we have to pursue happiness? The question may seem cynical and ungenerous, but it might be a step in the right direction. As an ascension culture, we are obsessed with rising, and avoid exploring our own depths. But it’s there that we are most human. As poet Kahlil Gibran wrote, “the deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” The idea that positive and negative aspects of humanity should enrich rather than undermine each other is not new, and yet its implications are perhaps more revolutionary than ever before. Many Native cultures such as the Pueblo and Mohawk have built-in rituals for collective grieving, and recognize the importance of letting anger and grief excavate spaces for healing and progress. In the current day, welcoming our socially unacceptable emotions is an act of self-salvation. Confict, too, ranks high in the list of productivity’s enemies. Engaging in healthy confict in our relationships — the kind of confict that says, “I love you, but I disagree, and I believe this relationship is strong enough to handle it” — can strengthen communities and create a powerful counterculture of authenticity. Perhaps most essential to the success of both of these tactics is that we practice them together.

In November 2006, 39 Oberlin Conservatory students and staf performed

Erik Satie’s Vexations in Fairchild Chapel. The piece, written for piano, consists of a single short melody repeated 840 times. Satie’s convoluted notation for the piece contains C fats where Bs would be expected, and E double-fats instead of Ds. Each performer played 20 painstaking repetitions, spending 18 minutes each at the grand piano. The piece lasted 14 and a half hours. Joshua Morris ’06 was the only audience member to stay for the entire performance.

“Listening to Vexations was like a clock with a blank face and only the second hand, and I was not quite sure which way was up. It ticks and ticks, very intently and it is intensely going from nowhere to nowhere,” Morris said in an interview following the performance. “It is very actively doing nothing. This was my only sense of time, only that surely time must be passing because notes are being played, but always the same notes.” Students could listen to part of the piece in the morning and return in the afternoon to fnd that virtually nothing had changed. The performance was a highly-technical demonstration in nonproductivity.

It’s no secret that Oberlin is riding the waves of post-pandemic ascension obsession. The institution’s graduate success rankings are receiving more publicity than ever before, and, if poster dimensions are any indication, wellness and resilience workshops seem to be amassing more resources than most other student groups. But the college’s most enduring feature as a liberal arts school is its endorsement of environments of structured play. Even as the infuence of consumerism grows in higher education, liberal arts colleges will always create multidisciplinary spaces for unexploitable joy. Vexations is just one event in the college’s history that suggests that Oberlin is primed for the dialogue needed to decenter productivity from the pursuit of well-being. As the pandemic recedes, it is critical that this remains central to sustaining generational student knowledge, and that we revitalize the institution’s underlying structures for channeling joy by initiating intimate conversation around grief, confict, and healing with one another. A cultural reckoning is close at hand, and we happen to be in an optimal place to participate in it.

Illustratoin by Frances McDowell Production Assistant

Hey cutie schnookums, its Gags. I’m out again this week so you’re going to have to sort out your sexual frustrations alone. Since you’re here though, take a look at this!

REJECTED WINTER TERM PROPOSALS 2023

Dishwasher Repair

I don’t have any dishwasher soap anymore so I have blocked out most of January to deal with this. During this winter term, I will investigate and purchase dishwasher detergents (week 1), explain to my roommate what’s going on (week 2), and reflect on this experience (week 3).

Spotify Wrapped Boot Camp

This year, my Spotify Wrapped accurately reflected my music taste, which was hugely embarrassing, so I’m going to head it off at the pass in 2023. During this winter term, I will engage in a rigorous listening schedule of zydeco rap, French film soundtracks, and a genre I’m going to pioneer called “SlimJim-core.” Come next December, everyone will know that I like music, but not in a stupid way.

Signs and Signifiers

Every day I will find a sign in front of an elementary school and I will rearrange the letters into something funny like in Captain Underpants.

Podcast Pedagogy

I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts lately and I want to take this opportunity to explain them to the people in my life. Every day, I will call a random person in my contacts and tell them which 5-6 men who are all best friends they should be listening to!

Writing “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers

Some might say, “That song already exists.” Some might also say, “I’m not really sure what you mean

by this.” Well, I mean this: it’s time Kenny Rogers’ seminal masterpiece “The Gambler” gets an electroacoustic facelift, and I am the only person who could ever take on such a mammoth task. This winter term, I will write and record the definitive version of “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers, adding remarkable new instruments such as the cymbals and the default GarageBand piano sound. Save your thanks for February.

My Original TV Pilot

In my pilot, five queer friends share a shoebox apartment in Bushwick. You won’t believe what quirky-shenanigans-slash-downcast-introspectivebouts these five mulleted coveralls get into – they might even do a drug! What’s for certain is that my pilot will have a certain offbeat New-York-i-ness to it that only approximately seven million people have managed to capture before.

Deodorant Testing

I am very sweaty and I’m at my wit’s end. I’m also requesting funding to purchase all the types of deodorant I am going to test. This project is going to be international so I can test the deodorants at a Swedish sauna.

Which Icicles Taste the Best

I will take icicles from different buildings on campus and taste them. I’m also thinking of adding squirrels to the menu so I can make a charcuterie board of sorts.

Tracking Down all the People that Buildings are Named After

I am going to find “North” and “South” and “East”. They cannot hide from me anywhere. I will use all the resources in my disposal. I’d like to request funding for detective gear. Also, why does every wing of these buildings have a different name? Who wanted that? “Use my money to build this hallway and only this hallway.” What?

Working on Resume and Exploring Career Options

I feel like this is self explanatory if you read the title. Does anyone at the winter term office even read these? Is my advisor even going to read this? I know, I’ll test it! Fuck you!

Making Up Winter Terms For Next Year

This year, it took me a harrowing 25 minutes to bullshit my way through a winter term project description, and I don’t want to be caught in the same situation in November 2023. In January, I will spend 4-5 hours a day thinking of new and educational ways to phrase “I’m going to rip a piece of paper into little shreds while watching Bear Grylls” and “I’m going to do drugs.”

Carving

This winter term, I will carve.

My Mom Loves to Tell Me that She Listens to Podcasts with Gay Hosts

Flip Ptarmigan

Son of a Proud Ally

As we all know, mom love podcast. And sometimes, podcast is hosted by gay. Whenever my mom listens to a podcast that has a gay person on it, she loves to tell me about it. Here are some of the highlights.

1. Health & wellness podcast (gay host count: 1 out of 2) This one’s a given.

2. Reply All reboot, but with gay people (gay host count: 3 out of 3)

Right, ‘cause that was the problem with the first one. My mom was always a huge fan of “Yes Yes No,” the recurring segment in which the hosts gauged how well they understood the internet joke of the day; but even she has to admit she prefers the reboot’s version, “Gay Gay Straight,” the recurring segment in which the hosts gauge the relative gayness of popular internet jokes.

3. “Wings” recap podcast (gay host count: 4 out of 4)

She doesn’t even really like this one, but she listens to it anyway because her allyship truly knows no bounds.

4. Homoerotic subtext analysis podcast (gay host count: 1 out of 8)

This one threw me for a loop at first, but the

seven straight hosts provide great counterbalance to the one gay host, and they’re surprisingly literate in the audiovisual markers of homoeroticism.

5. My Dad Wrote a Porno (gay host count: 0 out of 3)

I keep trying to tell her none of those people are gay.

6. Unscripted comedy podcast (gay host count: 2 out of 3)

You couldn’t get me to listen to an unscripted comedy podcast for a million smackeroos, no matter the ratio of gay to straight hosts. My mom is trying to start one of her own, though, so she listens to them for the love of the craft. The gay-to-straight ratio on this one is just a perk.

7. The weekly news podcast produced by our local public radio (gay host count: 0 out of 2)

Just because there are sometimes gay people in the news doesn’t mean that the people reading the news are also gay. Some of them are, of course, but my mom cannot tell the difference.

Overall, it’s clear that mom love podcast and gay, both. The degree to which she keeps me updated on her podcast exploits is exciting and burdensome in equal measure. Thanks, Mom!

Illustration by Julian Crosetto Layout Editor

Real foods in my roommate’s recipe collection that you should totally bring to your

The Professional Grape Food Critic

We’re coming upon the most wonderful time of year, time to decorate the tree, kiss under the mistletoe, write heartfelt letters to Santa, make the yuletide gay, dash through the snow, jingle your bells, kindly ask Rudolph to guide your sleigh, etc. Whether you’re going home, meeting a signifcant other’s entire extended family for the frst time all at once, or just hanging out with some friends, this year is defnitely a year to get your housewife on and wow everyone at the dinner table. I could think of no better place to turn than my roommate’s novelty 1970s recipe cards (bought at a yard sale right here in Oberlin!), flled with hair-raising recipes that will leave your boyfriend’s Aunt Carol begging you to dump him and become her live-in chef. I’m not talking about the average pie or the tired, dry casserole. This isn’t just adding a few fresh-baked gingerbread men along with the store-bought variety or cooking an impossible roast, these recipes will literally knock everyone’s socks of and quite possibly give your diabetic uncle a third heart attack. I’ve taken it upon myself to place the dishes into handy little categories, giving each a ranking of 1 to 5 stars, just to make life a little easier for our dear readers. Feel free to add as many grapes as you want to these recipes, we won’t judge… Bon appetit!

(Recipes are from McCall’s Great American Recipe Card Collection)

Cocktails, for if you wanna get crunk with Grandma: Tarragon-Wine Jelly

Ingredients:

1 cup fresh tarragon leaves, packed

½ bay leaf

1 cup boiling water

1 ½ cups dry white wine

4 cups sugar

1 bottle liquid fruit pectin

1 drop green food coloring

5 fresh tarragon sprigs

Instructions:

Wash and dry tarragon leaves; chop fnely. Put into a small bowl with the bay leaf. Add boiling water. Let stand, covered, for 5 minutes.

In a 3-quart saucepan, combine tarragon mixture, wine, and sugar. Heat, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Bring mixture to a boil and stir in liquid pectin. Boil for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add food coloring.

Pour through a strainer lined with cheesecloth and suspended over a bowl.

Place a sprig of tarragon in the bottom of each of 5 glasses. Pour hot jelly into glasses.

Let the jelly stand for 10 minutes, then cover and store in the refrigerator.

4 out of 5, this sounds like something fresh out of a liquor treat recipe book. Could be fun to mix it up with the food coloring; what if it was orange? Purple? Rainbow? Also, why stop at white wine? Pull out that bottle of Bacardi you’ve been saving for a rainy day and watch family secrets unfold before your own two eyes…

holiday festivities this year:

On-the-go dishes (for if you have to spend the holidays in transit):

Picnic on a Stick

Ingredients for Sandwich Kebabs: 6 (1-inch) chunks dill pickle

6 (1-inch) cheese cubes

12 slices salami or bologna

6 cherry tomatoes 6 slices boiled ham

6 hot dog rolls

Soft butter mustard

Ingredients for Fruit Kebabs: 6 (1-inch) chunks cantaloupe or banana 12 canned pineapple chunks 12 maraschino cherries

6 (1-inch) chunks watermelon

Instructions:

To make sandwich kebabs: string 1 pickle chunk, 1 cheese cube, 2 slices salami, 1 cherry tomato, and 1 slice of ham onto each stick

With a spatula, spread one side of a hot dog roll with butter and the other with mustard Place sandwich kebabs on rolls

To make fruit kebabs: string 1 cantaloupe chunk, 2 pineapple chunks, 2 cherries, and 1 melon chunk onto each stick

I’ll grant this recipe a whole 3 out of 5 stars! You get 3 food groups on the one stick, and that’s something you don’t see every day. I’m also obsessed with everything being cut into a “chunk.” That’s such a vague size, it really gives our readers the creative license I think they’re looking for in a recipe. If you really wanna have fun, you can make a little picnic basket, a little picnic blanket–put those all on sticks too. Put your whole family on sticks, all your friends too. Sticks should be involved in food more often.

For if you’ve ever made a salad and thought, “hmm. Something’s missing, and it’s gelatin”: Molded Shrimp Salad

Ingredients:

2 envelopes unflavored gelatin

1 ½ cups yogurt

1 cup mayonnaise

½ cup chili sauce

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons green onion, finely chopped

1 teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon dried tarragon leaves

2 lb shelled deveined shrimp, cooked

½ cup chopped celery

Lettuce

Instructions:

Sprinkle gelatin over 1 ½ cups cold water and let soften. Bring to a boil and stir until dissolved.

Set in a bowl of ice cubes for 15 minutes.

Add the yogurt, mayonnaise, chili sauce, lemon juice, onion, salt, and tarragon to the gelatin and stir. Cut shrimp into ¼ -inch pieces and add chopped shrimp and celery. Place into molds.

Refrigerate for 6 hours.

Run a spatula along the edge of the mold and place a warm cloth over the top of the mold. Shake onto a tray. Garnish with fresh lettuce and remaining whole shrimps.

5 stars out of 5. Why would anyone ever choose to have turkey when you could have this? This meal is perfect for anyone who has ever had a really hard time chewing shrimp, because now it’s in a mush with mayonnaise. A cold, gelatinous mush. The combo of dairy and seafood are also sure to make all your relatives opt for an early night in, no awkward conversations about your sexuality with your cousins who rushed for a Christian sorority this year!

Illustration by Maia Hadler

Enemies To Lovers: Econ Bro and Rich Marxist

Captain Ruffles Contributor

Part 1: Him

He was an upper-middle-class kid from New York, and he never let you forget that. He stood out because, well, because he was a cis straight white Obie and dressed accordingly. Which is to say, he didn’t have much fashion sense at all. The way he walked into class, all 5 foot 10 inches, was full of the exaggerated swagger of a white boy who thought growing up in a post 9/11 world made him tough like his immigrant grandparents.

His parents voted for Biden and Obama. He, too, was a liberal. But being a liberal didn’t cut it at Oberlin. Especially when he was an Econ major. People called him nasty things. They called him the b-word, the cword, and even the f-word. Bidenist. Centrist. Fiscally responsible.

Part 2: Them

They were a blue-haired they/them from the Bay Area. Well, they were actually from Orinda, but that’s basically the same thing if you’re a rich white Cali kid in need of an identity. They read the Communist Manifesto in ninth grade and voted for Bernie. Twice. Like a real revolutionary.

Their parents voted for Biden and Obama. They’re still mad at their parents for being reactionaries. They were a communist. This meant they called Econ majors names. Like bitch, cuck, and fuck.

Part 3: When Worlds Collide

It’s a Politics 200-level class at Oberlin College. Today’s lecture is on Das Kapital. When the professor completes their summary of Marx’s class analysis, the Bro raises his hand.

“But Professor, while they aren’t perfect, markets are still the best way to generate wealth.”

Two seats in front of him, a crochet needle drops. The Communist, who had been making a green bucket hat this whole time, reaches down to pick up their needle off the floor. They scratch at the anarchist patch on their black denim jacket. They swing around in their chair, replying, “Mar -

kets depend on the existence of an underclass of people to funnel wealth into the hands of a small capitalist minority.”

The Econ Bro purses his chapped lips, firing back back, “Markets create inequality, sure, but the wealth they produce can be redistributed with the right legislation. I don’t see how an economy is supposed to work without them.”

The Communist smirks. “All economies are planned in some way or another, darling. The free market is an ideological and social construction. Not that you’d get it.” They turn back to face the front. The Econ Bro bites down his lip too hard. He bleeds a little.

The professor and the rest of the class are impressed by how bad at

listening these two are.

Part 4: Two Ships In The Night

The Communist saunters down the hallways of King. As they make it to the entrance of their next class - GSFS this time - a voice calls out to them.

“Umm, excuse me.”

They turn around to face the vaguely whiny, faux frat guy voice behind them. It’s Econ Bro.

He continues talking, “I don’t think you understand how markets work.”

They retort, “I understand that capitalism is a system fundamentally based on exploitation.”

“Capitalism has brought millions of people out of poverty.”

“Have you ever even met a poor

person?”

“Have you?”

“Obviously.”

After that especially idiotic exchange, something became painfully obvious to anyone who overheard the Rich Marxist and the Econ Bro. Something that escaped both of them. That, standing there in the halls of their overpriced liberal arts college, failing to think through what they said, failing to hear each other, lazily invoking poverty as an abstract concept when it was convenient for their arguments, they had much more in common than they realized.

Or maybe they did know.

The Econ Bro looked down at his worn-out sneakers and then looked back up. “Are you doing anything Friday night?”

*Play Taylor Swift’s Wildest Dreams while reading for maximum effect*

Illustration by Lucas Ritchie-Shatz Contributor

4-Way Intersections

I’ve Watched Instead of Editing Articles for the Grape

Isabel Hardwig Bad Habits Editor

I love working on Bad Habits, but it takes a lot of dedication, as well as hours upon hours of meticulous research. When I got the job, I became worried that it would eat into the time for my other hobbies, and I vowed to do my best to maintain a steady worklife balance. Because of this, I make sure that for every 20 minutes I spend editing a Bad Habits article, I spend two or three hours silently watching 4-way trafc intersections.

It’s done wonders for my mental health, and I really encourage everyone to follow my lead and set strong boundaries in the workplace. Try communicating times that you will and won’t be available by saying things like, “I will edit that Bad Habits article as soon as cars stop coming up to this intersection and going through it.”

Once you’ve earned yourself some free time, consult this list of 4-way intersections that are great to watch when you could be editing Grape articles.

5) Science Center and Tappan Intersection (N. Professor / West Lorain)

This is a very beginner-friendly intersection, so it’s a good place to start if you’re new to this. If it’s overwhelming to try to take in the whole intersection at once, try focusing on one vehicle at a time. This is not a good intersection to watch for people who feel strongly about pedestrian trafc laws, but it’s great for avoiding your responsibilities to the alternative newspaper for which you work.

4) New Russia Township Intersection (Butternut Ridge / N. Main)

Its proximity to a park, a pharmacy,

and a package store makes this a perfect intersection for all your intersection-watching needs. For a little extra fun before you go back to your Bad Habits work, watch for bikers and joggers who invariably fail to set of the motion-activated stoplight system.

3) Downtown Oberlin Intersection (E. College / S. Main)

These cars go straight, but also turn, which is what we in the business call a “4-way-intersection.”

2)

Baumhart Road Roundabout

If you like watching 4-way intersections, just wait until you see what’s new in intersection technology. The roundabout is smooth, seamless, and pulls the cars into a gentle, hypnotizing circle. After a hard day’s work editing Grape pieces, it means a lot to be able to watch a bunch of trafc play ring-around-the-rosie.

1) Downtown Elyria Intersection (Middle Ave. / 2nd St.)

I’m sure that you all understand that nothing in the world is more pressing than watching this intersection. Between two relatively busy streets in downtown Elyria, this 4-way intersection not only sees constant trafc, but is dictated entirely by stop signs. To any writers who have ever noticed my hour-long, stagnant presence in your Google Doc, I’m very sorry but they TAKE TURNS. All of them! There are always multiple cars at every stop sign and they all take turns! None of them drive into each other! Pretty soon, we’re gonna need a 4-way intersection just for all the people coming to watch this 4-way intersection, which is what we in the business call a “joke.”

Nepo-Babies of the Grape:

Jules

Max

Raghav: Also son of Nick Cannon

Isabel: Heir to the Cracker Barrel fortune

Frances: Grandchild of the guy who invented the little shiver you do in the water when the pool is too cold

Zach: Child of the Lord (#Blessed)

Saffron: The reincarnation of Queen Elizabeth II (the monarchy! talk about nepotism…)

As a collective, we still want to remind the Oberlin community that we have all worked hard to get where we are. Even though a couple of us may have been born with a leg up in life, (or a leg in another dimension) remember, that only gets your foot in the door! We all work so hard, like so hard. And for all of those who have asked us how you might end up like us, we suggest that you work harder – like we do!

Skye: Granddaughter of the first rock thrown at Stonewall

: Danny Devito’s knees (not niece, knees)

Miller : Son of Nick Cannon

Illustration

ACROSS:

Put someones ashes in a fancy vase

Girl group behind "no scrubs”

Word often paired with either "win" or “fail"

By Taso Mullen