LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
What up hoes,
At this moment, we are all barefoot in the Herald office. Rafi and Etai have wet socks and dry feet. Funny how that happens. The wet socks hang above the radiator, but the radiator is turned off because it smelled too much like burnt toast. When you are reading this, which will be a significant number of moments after this one, we are probably all wearing shoes. Except for Arthur. This is our final issue of the semester. It’s getting colder and Rafi made hot chocolate with water instead
of milk and Arthur’s mom is organizing our archives. And our designers are on strike (but don’t worry—we have scabs).
In this issue, Cal Barton, MC ’25 tries to figure out why he likes an untitled Rothko painting. Will Sussbauer, JE ’27 will miss George Santos. Josie Steuer Ingall, TD ’24 and Lucy Santiago, MC ’24 debate what the skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra means for us as a species. Sophie Lamb, JE ’27 writes about reason, or lack thereof, in times of war—in
THE MASTHEAD
Editors-In-Chief
Arthur Delot-Vilain/ Rafaela Kottou
Managing Editors
Madeleine Cepeda-Hanley/ Lydia Kaup/Hannah Szabó
Creative Directors
Sara Offer/Etai Smotrich-Barr/ Iris Tsouris
Senior Writers
Madelyn Dawson/ Nadira Novruzov/Jack Reed
Columnists
Joshua Bolchover/Irene Colombo/ Hardy Eville/Lyle Griggs/James Han/ Maude Lechner/Judah Millen/ Hailey O’Connor/Joanna Ruiz/
Lucy Santiago
Design
Alexa Druyanoff/Angela Huo/ Helen Huynh/ Grace Kim/Kris Qiu/ Claire SooHoo/Alina Susani/
Liza Tsidulko/ Vivian Wang/ Silvia Wang/Miya Zhao
a short story adapted from her mother’s high school diary.
Read this issue of the Herald after you finish writing your final paper and while you write it and before you start writing it. We’re certainly putting this together while writing ours. Rest and eat cheese with your siblings and come see us next semester at 305 Crown St. For real. Talking to you, Angelique.
Most daringly, Rafi and Arthur
Reviews Editors
Theo Kubovy-Weiss/Natalie Semmel/ Aidan Thomas/Elena Unger
Reflections Editors
Eva Kottou/Chloe Shiffman
Culture Editors
Emily Aikens/Isabella Panico/ Alex Sobrino
Features Editors
Connor Arakaki/ Madelyn Dawson/Jack Reed
Opinion Editors
Ariel Kirman/ Daviana Rodriguez Zamora
Arts Editors
Jess Liu/Eli Osei
Voices Editors
Cal Barton/Ana Padilla Castellanos
Inserts Editors
Jack Rodriquez-Vars
Copy Editors
Zoe Frost/Jisu Oh/Ece Serdaroglu/ Tessa Stewart/Alina Susani
Staff Writers
Lillian Broeksmit/Kaylee Chen/ Elizabeth Chivers/Kate Choi/ Krishna Davis/Leo Egger/ Aidan Gannon/Oscar Heller/ Helen Huynh/Cameron Jones/ Anna Kaloustian/Megan Kernis/ Sophie Lamb/Hannah Nashed/ Jisu Oh/William Orr/Colin Quinn/ Will Sussbauer/AJ Tapia-Wylie/ Aidan Thomas/Amalia Tuchmann/ Ellen Windels/Ashley Wang/Avery Wayne/Elio Wentzel
Web Editor
Kris Qiu
Business
Abby Fossati/Evan-Carlo Fowler/ Avery Lenihan
Calendar
Jess Liu
Photography
Fareed Salmon
This Week's Cover
Iris Tsouris
Aidan Thomas on Nicolas Cage Dayne Bolding on Dolly Parton's Rockstar
Danya Blokh on Terminator 2
Terrifying Turkeys and Harrowing Holidays by Everett Yum
The scariest time of year.
Secrets in the Stacks by Emily Aikens
Forget about Dante’s Inferno. Instead, read about my sex life!
Little Deaths by Jack Rodriquez-Vars Family, scrapbooks, and loss. 8 CULTURE
Overcoming My Flower Faux Pas Fears by Ella Zuse
A florist moves to Chapel Street.
My Parasocial Relationship with Former Member of The House George Santos by Will Sussbauer
Non-mutual and entirely delusional.
An Interview with Khatumu by Jasmine Gormley
Khatumu on music, friend crushes, and 17o1.
Why Do You Like It? by Cal Barton Mark Rothko’s Untitled.
Simulacra and (Nipple) S(t)imulation by Josie Ingall
For the skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra.
On the Pleasures of the Real by Lucy Santiago
Against the skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra.
A Santa for Any Occasion by Cameron Jones
Santa Claus: the noble lie.
music journalist Madelyn Dawson ranks the 23 best albums of the
Westville Village is Drawing Eyes, Ears, and Dollars by Ben Card In Westville, small businesses and the arts reign supreme.
A Broken Sonnet on the 2nd by Maude Lechner The broken, bleeding, pumping iron drive.
1+1 by Sophie Lamb
From my mother’s high school diary: why 1 does not equal 1
Ask Joehoru by Joanna Ruiz
Harold Recommends
Office Redesign
Our Breast Crossword Yet by Hannah Szabó
Diamond in the Rough by Jem Burch
Calendar by Jess Liu
Nic Cage: Your Worst Nightmare
Aidan Thomas, DC ’25
I smirk a little every time I see the long, dreary face of Nicolas Cage in new trailers nowadays, amused by the “just having fun” phase of his career he has sunk in and out of so frequently since the early 2000’s. My smile at these projects is usually short-lived, as I skip the trailer after five seconds, but every few years he’ll catch my attention, and I’ll let it play out. There was Pig in 2019, and there is now Dream Scenario, Norwegian filmmaker Kristoffer Borgli’s new film.
The film follows unassuming college professor, Paul Matthews, who inexplicably suddenly begins to appear in an increasing number of people’s dreams. His lectures about evolutionary biology are soon filled with students eager to see his familiar face in real life. When they describe their dreams, though, he doesn’t actually do anything in them—he simply walks idly by. Nonetheless, he receives worldwide recognition for his part in the phenomenon. This is until he begins to assume a more erotic, Freddy Krueger-esque role in people’s dreams, murdering people. His public perception is destroyed. He can’t eat at restaurants or teach at his university anymore, and even his wife is almost fired.
I agree with many that Borgli only dips his toes in the critique of celebrity culture but doesn’t actually add a lot to the conversation. That didn’t detract from the experience for me. It is a fundamentally unserious film, a dark comedy in every sense of the genre, and it didn’t set out to tackle an assortment of larger questions. The emotional resonance instead lies in the tangibility of Matthews’s rise and fall, in large part due to Cage’s
performance. We all know someone like Matthews: a well-intentioned, often clueless dad, making it quite easy to understand why Matthews reacts the way he does to his newfound fame. We are so intimately acquainted with his ambitions, shortcomings, fears, and internal crises that we empathize with him in the same way that we would with a close friend or family member. What more could a storyteller ask from their audience?
I also understand why many are disappointed with the third act and ending. This is because the third act is barely a third act and the ending is not an ending. Yes, Paul Matthews has finally written a book, but his wife has left him and he must forever face the world’s muddled view of him. He attempts to infiltrate his wife’s dreams in a David Byrne suit hoping to win her back, but his success remains in the dream world, and nothing is resolved. That’s the key: nothing is resolved. Dreams don’t resolve themselves; they pose the questions and we are meant to interpret and act upon them. The same goes with movies; we, the audience, are asleep, and only wake up when the credits roll. Borgli may not have known how to end his film, but it just might have worked. ❧
Acoustic to Electric: Dolly Parton’s Rockstar
Dayne Bolding, SM ’27
Never in Dolly Parton’s career has she produced a less-than-mediocre album; Rockstar is no exception. Parton’s 49th studio album is her first within the rock genre, following over 50 years as one of the world’s biggest country stars.
The album contains numerous covers and collaborations with big
name rock artists including Stevie Nicks, Steve Perry, Emmylou Harris and Lynyrd Skynyrd. But Parton also manages to enter areas of pop and disco, with covers including Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” and Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball.” Dolly’s vocals echo her country past over the 30-track album, which includes 9 original tracks and 21 classic rock covers.
Parton’s arrangements do not stray far from their originals and, as a result, are slightly underwhelming. However, Parton’s distinct voice results in a sound that feels memorable but still retains the integrity of the originals. Her vocals are distinct, memorable, and unmistakably Dolly. The grunge rock of “Rockstar” and “World on Fire” is contrasted against the sensitive saxophone and country twangs of “Long As I Can See the Light” by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
The original tracks are, without a doubt, the highlight of the album. Several of the nine were written in collaboration with Kent Wells, who partnered with Parton in 2018 for the soundtrack to the Netflix original, Dumplin’. “I Want You Back,” featuring Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler, echoes Parton’s country roots. Amid soft guitar solos and a longing, desperate sound, she weaves a heartbreaking ballad of mistake and the pain associated with hurting a lover you still crave. Another original, “Bygones,” completely deviates from Parton’s traditional sound. The strong guitar, heavy drumline, and back-and-forth modulation result in a song that could play in a movie soundtrack as the lone surviving character in a slasher makes a lastditch effort.
Parton is, without a doubt, an American treasure. After her induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, citing her lack of experience in the genre, Dolly decided to embrace the award by proving she belonged.
YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING!
The result, Rockstar, solidifies her place in the rock canon as a singer indispensable to American music since the 1960s.
Rockstar is nothing brilliant, but it doesn’t have to be. When you bring together some of the greatest artists of all time, the musicianship speaks for itself. Dolly Parton’s first plunge into rock and roll has been, without a doubt, successful, and it is an endearing testament to her vocal strength and greatness within the music industry. ❧
Formless Killing Machines
Danya
Blokh, TD ’24
James Cameron makes the kind of movies you fall in love with as a child, write off as trashy action flicks when you develop a superiority complex around film, and eventually regard as masterpieces. Watching the Yale Film Archive’s 35mm print of Terminator 2: Judgment Day on Wednesday, November 8th, I was transported to my childhood. For a second time, I sat at the edge of my seat as the evil superintelligence system Skynet sent their nefarious agent into the past to murder John Connor, the future leader of the human resistance against robot dominion.
On this watch I was struck by an aspect of Terminator 2 which had gone under my radar as a child: the film’s villain, the T-1000. An advanced Terminator model, the T-1000 is constructed from liquid metal, allowing him to morph into any shape imaginable. Cameron endlessly exploits the conceptual possibilities of the villain’s form; he turns his arm into a blade to lacerate the head of John’s foster father, then turns it into a wedge to force open the doors of an elevator. More than Terminator 2’s
plot or characters, it is this visual concept of a formless evil, a villain with no true form underlying its constantly changing appearance, that drives the film forward.
Terminator 2 (1991) introduces the scarily prescient idea of A.I. as a nebulous killer, a virtual being with no physical core and no possible limitation on its quest to eliminate its future opposition. The terrifying force of this concept has led many to read the film in a boringly technophobic light, invoking Terminator 2 alongside 2001: A Space Odyssey and Blade Runner as a warning against the dystopian potential of A.I. This past June, Schwarzenegger himself commented that Terminator’s plot “has become a reality.” But this luddite angle feels too simplistic for Cameron, whose films clearly find a certain beauty and elegance in technology, even in terrifying forms like the T-1000. Let us not forget that John Connor is only saved from the T-1000 through the efforts of a benevolent machine; technology’s allure may destroy us, but it is also the only tool that can save us.
I want to introduce another, geopolitical dimension which further complicates this reading, inspired by some introductory remarks at the screening given by Yale Professor Theodore Kim. Explaining Cameron’s groundbreaking use of reflection mapping to simulate the T-1000’s liquid metal body, Kim, who is currently working on a book about the history of cgi, mentioned that the technology that allowed Cameron to imitate the physics of liquid metal is the very same technology the military uses to replicate enemy terrain for soldiers and pilots in training. This observation, along with Kim’s comments on the film’s anti-militaristic undertones, drew me to consider Terminator 2 in a new light—not simply as a dystopian vision of A.I. dominion,
but a concrete critique of the U.S. military’s technological advances. There is a chilling resonance between the tactics of Terminator’s villainous A.I, “Skynet,” and the U.S. military’s own practices of “clean warfare.” Today, drones piloted from across the globe fire at enemies before they are even aware they have been targeted. American foreign interventions have transformed from direct combat to remote manhunt. Our military presence abroad is that of an amorphous virtual combatant like the T-1000—shifting, stealthy, and unstoppable. If technology allows, perhaps one day the U.S. will adopt Skynet’s own method of time-traveling subterfuge, avoiding combat altogether by killing their opposition in the past. Such an interpretation brings Terminator 2 closer in line with Cameron’s work, an œuvre riddled with anxieties about America’s presence abroad (most obviously in the anti-colonial metaphor of Avatar). His films portray the struggles of small, victimized groups, like The Resistance which John Connor goes on to lead, against immense, technologically advanced enemy forces. Read as a chilling distillation of present geopolitical reality rather than a mere warning about the future, Terminator 2 acquires a new urgency. Beyond its father-son dynamics and its Schwarzenegger fight scenes, the film encapsulates the feeling, experienced by many in the world right now, of being hunted down, chased by an enemy which cannot be contained, defeated, or stopped. ❧
YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING!
YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING!
Secrets in the Stacks
Emily Aikens, TC ’26
Much of Yale’s architecture is exactly what you’d expect— ornate and utterly intimidating. Nowhere is this more apparent than inside Sterling Memorial Library, where the structure’s gothic grandeur makes it look like a wannabe Notre Dame Cathedral. Even the gargoyles are similar. Instead of deterring evil spirits, though, these stone elitists ward off imbeciles who can’t recite The Canterbury Tales or are unversed in dactylic hexameter. At the end of the long foyer, a colossal painting towers over an altar-like structure. From far away, the figure looks like Jesus, ready to sort the saved from the damned. Approach, and the image of Mother Knowledge materializes. Surrounded by the Muses, she is clad in Yale blue and holds a book bearing the motto “Lux et Veritas.” If you have any lingering questions about how deeply Yale values knowledge, an Egyptian inscription nearby reads, “Would that I might make thee love books more than thy mother.”
At the end of the lobby lies the entrance to “the stacks.” Almost four million books reside in this fifteen-story tower. Ascending just a few floors, one leaves Mother Knowledge’s watchful gaze.
In the stacks, there are no stained glass windows, flying buttresses, or Egyptian inscriptions—only dingy, vandalized walls that resemble those of a gas station bathroom. Books are tightly packed onto metal shelves, but the lighting is so dim that you can barely read their titles. On each floor, there are about twenty cubicles: monastic cells that allow for no distractions. Their unremarkable, beige-col-
ored walls make your astrophysics assignment seem interesting in comparison. Until you look at the graffiti, that is.
On the wall in front of me, a collection of scribbles diverts my attention away from my p-set. They sparkle: “There are enough ballrooms in you to dance with everyone you will ever love - AL + RV.” They pronounce: “David wuz here.” They say everything: [penis drawing]. They say nothing at all: “Keep studying :)” They remind me of Yale’s origins: “god is real.” They are the words of the prophets: “I am absolutely terrified of failure.” They are dialectical: “Masturbation is a sin.” “I jerked off on this desk.”
My favorite messages are those that interact with each other. The admissions office loves to advertise Yale’s collaborative community, and there is no better evidence of Yalies working together than their graffitied correspondence. Written in bold, black marker, the phrase “Oedipus had hot sex” is the most prominent marking on the wall. In blue ink, another student responded to the comment by asking, “But did it make him happy?” A few inches over, someone wrote, “I want to hook up with my ex.” Various suggestions surround this confession, ranging from “Just do it!” to “Stay celibate.” Yale is intellectual, yes, but more than that, it is full of horny twenty-year-olds. Of course, this phenomenon is not unique to Yale. Sexually explicit graffiti has existed for millennia, popping up in unexpected places from the bathrooms of the Sistine Chapel to the walls of Pompeii. While ancient graffiti differs from
modern representations of sex (etched into one of Pompeii’s ruins is the phrase, “Celadus the Thracian gladiator is the delight of all the girls”), the lesson is the same: desire constantly plagues people’s thoughts. “Forget about Dante’s Inferno. Instead, read about my sex life!”
In thinking about the stacks, it is interesting to consider the history of graffiti as protest art. It’s unlikely that Yalies are consciously protesting the facade of Ivory Tower intellectualism when they write on the cubicles. And yet, the collection of profane inscriptions proves that intellectualism isn’t completely divorced from common desires. Take the comment about Oedipus, for example. On the surface, it is a crude remark about sex. But when you look a bit deeper, it is a reminder that even the most esteemed Classical literature is lustful. If Sophocles can bridge sexual desire and intellectualism, then why can’t Yalies? And, indeed, they have. If one wants to access books in Sterling, they must also engage with students’ graffiti—a phenomenon that probably makes the library’s architect roll over in his grave.
By etching sexual inscriptions into the walls, Yalies add to the literature available in Sterling. While the graffiti isn’t organized by the LC-Yale Classification System, it serves as its own section of the library. Between pouring over Pound’s prose and Proust’s philosophy, patrons of the stacks learn from Sterling’s newest and most frequently updated collection: the graffiti on the walls. So, although the stacks seem like the least likely place for sexual graffiti, they are actually the most appropriate. ❧
Terrifying Turkeys and Harrowing Holidays
Everett Yum, TC ’27
Against popular opinion, I find Halloween to be the least scary time of year. “Spooky season” normalizes the skeletons and ghasts and butchered pumpkins that would frighten at least the very young. Under the bacchanalia of Halloween celebrations, one indulges in behaviors that would terrify their uninebriated selves. We abandon fear, if anything.
Rather, the scariest time of year comes right after Halloween, when brittle leaves cascade down from their trees, the air turns brisk too sharply, and the infinitely romantic Happy Holidays show their faces. This period used to be my favorite time of year. Everything reminded me of something: crunchy foliage brought back crashing down Riverside Park hills on my Razor scooter; stoplights on Columbus Avenue summoned oversized jackets and processions for middle school Thanksgiving assemblies in synagogues, all of us 6th graders desperately awaiting the long weekend; any velvet hue conjured aromatic pine and the new Pokémon game that I’d play on Christmas day until sunset. I was like Proust and his madeleine.
I suppose the holiday season is still my favorite time of year (if for no other reason than I can’t think of a better one), but the feelings have lost their regularity and candescence. The constellations of twinkling rope lights and the sweet candy-cane storefronts stocked with teddy bears and mink coats and ruby-colored dutch ovens (not that I ever asked Santa for any of these things) no longer rouse awe and wonder, as if the excitement and easy expectation of warm love
and fulfillment borne within these festive totems somehow abandoned me. Over Thanksgiving break, I went with a friend up Fifth Avenue to the Bryant Park Holiday Market, an operation of temporary pop-up stores, red-green-white led lines, and a packed ice rink. It’s our tradition to go every year, but this time around, we didn’t relish in the glowing lights or in its likeness to a quaint Swede town. Instead, we bemoaned the unpassable crowds who seemed to have never developed spatial awareness and the pointless trinkets in the pop-up stalls.
Maybe capitalism ruined the holidays, or at least the knowledge that there was an underpaid creative team on the 35th floor of a gray Midtown office building that exhaustingly tested various shades of Thanksgiving and Christmas, selected careful slogans, and even manufactured the scents of the air on Fifth Avenue. Maybe I should go to these Christmas villages later in the year, or become a more avid consumer. Or, maybe whenever I look in a glass display at Saks, I see someone older in the dimmed reflection, a person irrevocably changed from the boy he used to be.
I suppose all of these things converge to the same issue: loss of innocence. Passing time, especially at my age, erodes the enchantment of the present to a point where even nostalgia—which undeservedly adopts a bad reputation in the modernist view (e.g. “you can’t live in the past”)—can’t restore it.
The salvations that once seemed so guaranteed—the instant panacean effects of a slice of turkey
breast or a mug of hot chocolate, the unbridled joy of gazing at unopened gifts—are no longer found in the same places, and nobody seems to know where they went, or if they died.
Without the ability to regain the “holiday spirit” and whatever feelings come packaged with it, I’m left unmoored, with no anchor from which I can go through life with a sense of emotional security. Every excursion outside, every interaction, every moment I might be seen by someone carries a buzzing apprehension, that if some misfortune or calamity occurs, there’s no lighted fir tree under which I can find easy refuge.
But don’t mistake me for a total Grinchy cynic. When I’m with friends and start laughing under falling maple leaves or the “je lux” lights, a small flame will swim up my nerve stem, and I’ll feel a little warmer. But those familiar feelings are hard to come by. Maybe regaining holiday nostalgia is an eternally worthy mission: to never lose child-like innocence. I haven’t had any success.
Or maybe it’s time to leave the expected comforts of nostalgia behind and instead become comfortable in the discomfort of the not-knowing. This path is less approachable. Can we ever move on? Are we cursed by Nietzsche’s Eternal Return? Is the past truly bankrupt? Can we rely on the future? All I can say is that skeletons and ghosts don’t seem that scary anymore. ❧
Little Deaths
Jack Rodriquez-Vars, TD ’26
In my life, I’ve experienced little death. Not little death as in “la petite mort,” as in orgasm. Little death as in few funerals. As in only my grandfather’s. He’s been dead since August and ashes since September. My grandmother delayed the memorial until November, when her family could fly to Oregon and grieve together.
As mayor, my grandfather Charlie secured a bond measure for the local library’s expansion. His memorial was in a room to the left of the entrance. DVDs and audiobooks are squeezed into shelves that run along each wall. The empty space in the middle was filled by chairs. An hour later, the chairs were filled by people. I recognized very few and it was easy to confuse them. White hair, white skin, white shirts. Hardly anyone wore black. The brochure called the event a “celebration of life.” Celebrations demand bright clothing. A novice, I wore navy. Lou settles a red folder on the makeshift lectern. He opens it, removing a brochure, a receipt, and a legal pad. Blue ink covers the yellow paper. It’s illegible from where I sit, ten feet away. I think it’s illegible from where Lou stands, too. He rubs his glasses with his plaid tie and bows. With his head inches from the ink, he begins: “I’d like to tell a fable.”
Technically, Lou’s fable was a parable. He and my grandfather were the main characters. They were on a trip together, somewhere vaguely Mediterranean. They laid between the rows of grapes in a vineyard and occasionally snagged some from the vine. There were olive trees and pink clouds from a sun-
set. I glanced at my grandmother, half-expecting her to be jealous. Lou and my grandfather were now on a bus. As they drove through town, they saw two beautiful women with “really nice cleavage.” Another glance at my grandmother. “One of us, I won’t say who, said, ‘Wow. Those are beautiful.’ And the other, again, I won’t say who, replied, ‘I agree. You really must enjoy the entire scenery.’”
We spent the next four days in Bend. My grandmother asked my cousin about her ex. She saw the prom photos three years ago and thinks they’re still together. No one posts breakups on Facebook. The ex-boyfriend recruits people from across the country to talk them through hallucinogenic trips. The group went to Nepal this summer. He has dreams of a new economy and took the news about ftx very hard. My cousin is seeing someone new. He plays varsity soccer and has little aspirations. She showed our grandmother pictures from the school year. Of her dancing. Of her friends. None of him. Once she was satisfied with the update, my grandmother turned to me. She asked if there are any girls in the picture. My brother laughed.
The Cowboys were on TV. My brother groaned at missed catches and checked his phone for progress on his parlay. Three years out of college, and he is still an assistant. You have to work your way up in Hollywood. He worked on holidays, worked on birthdays, worked until his girlfriend said it wasn’t working.
We sat and watched our grandmother flip through the scrapbook’s pages. Charlie’s first tooth. Charlie’s first trip to the beach. Charlie and his sister on the tractor. A penny taped to a yellowed page: “swallowed December 28, 1940; passed January 1, 1941.” Charlie and a blonde—tall and not my grandmother. That page turned quickly.
My grandmother hopes we do this when she dies. Fly to Oregon. Sit in the library and listen to anecdotes about her life. Ruminate. I wonder who will be in charge of the scrapbooks. I’m not sure she has any. I’ve never seen a photo of her childhood. They all begin with Charlie. ❧
AN EXTREMELY MUNDANE COLUMN: The Ask Joehoru Holiday Special
Joanna Ruiz, JE ’25
Hey guys. Long time no see. I missed you. Life is so empty without the Herald. I wish everyone in the world could read the Herald. And I’d like to wish all Herald readers a safe, happy, warm, cozy, cuddly holiday season. This week I am answering some very cute, wistful, non-holiday related questions (sorry for the clickbait).
Q: When’s the last time you cried?
A: Sunday night. I was crying over the two finals I had on Monday. But nevertheless, she persisted. We’re so back.
Q: What did you want to be when you were a kid?
A: I actually don’t really remember, but I feel that for a good part of my life I thought I would go to law school and be an entertainment attorney or something. But then I got to college and realized I would rather put my hand in a blender than go to law school. So I took that as a pretty good sign that I shouldn’t go to law school.
Q: What are your favorite pair of shoes?
A: My snow shoes. They’re fuzzy on the inside and waterproof on the outside. They’re also brown and duck-billed. They sound like they look really ugly and they lowkey are but they’re cute when I put them on. And they’re loose enough that I can slip them on and off. But don’t get me wrong—they also have great ankle support. Before coming to Yale, I never had a need for snow shoes (Floridian).
I bought them my first-year with the winter clothing grant (shout out poor people), which was actually huge for me because all my life, I’ve wanted a pair of brown, waterproof, fuzzy, duck-billed, great ankle support snow shoes. And now that I own a pair of brown, waterproof, fuzzy, duck-billed, great ankle support snow shoes, I get to tell you that nevertheless, she persisted.
Q: What’s something that you think is underrated?
A: I think mundane things are underrated. Like holding hands with your friends. Splitting a pack of candy. Walking to Walgreens really late at night. Writing stupid things for the Herald. Standing and waiting for a bus. Washing plates in your suite’s bathroom. Playing games on your laptop during lecture. Accidentally tripping on a stone on cross campus and embarrassingly smiling at the person who witnessed it. Small, gentle acts of kindness—like passing someone the ice cream scoop after you’re done using it—are so sweet and make us all more human. We should celebrate the mundane and be grateful that we are able to do such things! But also I heard that the @joehoru Instagram only has like 2,315 followers even though there are like 6,000 Yale students. So I thought that was really rude and mean and arrived to the conclusion that she may also be underrated. ❧
Ask Joehoru is a weekly column where Joanna answers her Instagram followers’ questions. DM her @joehoru or watch out for a weekly question sticker on her story to get her thought-provoking answers.
Overcoming My Flower Faux Pas Fears
Ella Zuse, TC ’25
Hesitations about finding the perfect bouquet have always dominated my flower shopping experience. I know you’re usually not supposed to buy roses. That’s tacky, overdone, too sappy. You must be really passionate, especially if purchasing red. Lilies are too closely associated with death and funerals, so that’s not right either. Sunflowers are too silly of a plant. And people possess a strong aversion to orchids. I still don’t understand how one could ever hate a flower.
Carrien Davis, owner of Any Occasion Creation, Chapel Street’s newest flower shop, is tired of our preconceived notions about flowers. She’s adamant about changing the mind of each and every customer she greets. “If you’re talking to me, you’re going to see my teeth,” Davis joked while explaining how often she smiles when interacting with her clientele.
Davis’s love for floral arrangement stems from her sister’s wedding. After watching a professional arrange silk flower bouquets for the ceremony, she thought to herself, “I could do that.” Initially, she designed catalogs of her arrangements and showed them to her coworkers at her last job, as a travel agent. After saving for many years, Davis was able to turn her passion into a small business.
Any Occasion Creations currently lists seventeen different occasions on its website for which they recommend flowers. Options include Holiday, Get Well, Winter, I’m Sorry, Thank You, and my personal favorite—Just Because. I wouldn’t mind receiving flowers just because Chapel Street is not Any Occasion Creation’s first iteration.
The storefront used to be in Westville, and then on Howe Street. Like many small-business owners,“location is everything” to Davis. This new storefront in the heart of downtown has allowed her to connect with more customers than ever before. This prime storefront, located next to popular coffee shops and restaurants, allows her to catch the eye of passersby who are unfamiliar with her business.
Davis’s store is also a family-run business. Currently, all of her employees are her family members. Her devotion to both her craft and her family allows her to cultivate a welcoming environment for the local community. With the help of her family, she offers same-day delivery and provides wedding services. Her website features many successful testimonials.
Early on in our conversation, I explained that I feel as though everyone else has received a floral etiquette education that I have not. Each flower seems to have a secret meaning. No option is safe, and it is still unclear to me which flower is appropriate for which occasion. My anxiety climaxed when I once tried to buy a bouquet as a thank you gift for my boyfriend’s mother. I debated with myself, fixating over which arrangement would convey my gratitude and appreciation. But by the time I decided on a satisfactory bouquet, it came three weeks late. Oops.
Davis joked that we (myself included) need to let go of these rigid associations. “They’re just flowers! You should buy whatever you want.” In particular, Davis thinks we’re overthinking roses
way too much. “There’s love in all of our relationships, right? Why would we not give flowers to our mother or our sister then?” Davis’s warmth and conviction are sure to help any customer rethink their floral fallacies.
Davis maintains her patience even for the most anxious shoppers. She’s used to advising customers on what to buy but likes to provide them with multiple options so they have an opportunity to choose for themselves. Her care is evident in every aspect of her business. One testimony from BloomNation, a flower review site, reads, “I was elated when my call was answered by the owner, Ms. Carrien Davis. Listening as she spoke with such deep-seated passion, and hearing the immense pride in her craft, I immediately knew that this was a no-brainer. Ms. Davis promised perfection, and that is exactly what was delivered.”
Any Occasion Creation even has a solution for broke college students. Davis’s “flower buffet” offers cheaper, individual flower stems you can construct into a larger bouquet; this “make-your-own” option appeals to those for whom a $65 arrangement might be too expensive.
As we wrapped up our conversation, Davis thanked me for stopping by. I did not walk out empty-handed, either. She offered me a bouquet of dried flowers, free of charge, which she offers to everyone who stops in. I’m eager to visit again soon when one of my friends presents me with an occasion. And if you’re thinking of sending me a gift, just because, don’t worry, I’m not picky. ❧
Answers to OPENING NUMBER, page 27
Image by Fareed Salmon
My Parasocial Relationship With Former Member Of The House George Santos
Will Sussbauer, JE ’27
Imiss him already. I missed him on Friday, I missed him all weekend, and today, too, I miss him. Who knows how long this wistful state will last. Perhaps a month, a week, a matter of hours; like so many others, he’ll be gone tomorrow, dancing into the dusk in a tight quarter-zip. And there he will stay, a stolen baby in one hand and a volleyball in the other, until evening fails to fall. Or until HBO begins production on his biopic, during which the media circus will return and he will rise from the ashes in a top hat and cape. A fitting outfit, I think; according to Deadline, this film will be a “Gatsby-esque journey of a man from nowhere who exploited the system, waged war on truth and swindled one of the wealthiest districts in the country to achieve his American Dream.” Oh, how he will flourish.
But I will admit I have thrived this weekend, skating through life with a glee that comes not from the expulsion of Rep. George Santos from Congress, but from his name being once more in the mouth of the media. Swifties claim tears and devastation when their idol is proven false, but in those moments, they are at an apical exhilaration; out of the woodworks do fandoms scuttle most fervently not in times of success but of scandal, for it is then when the most eyes are locked upon their affection. This is the nature of a parasocial relationship: non-mutual and entirely delusional, it flourishes not on conversation or connection but on content. In that, I am lucky, for Rep. George Santos is an over-full and
ever-spilling cauldron of content. I am very aware, of course, that his exploitation of actual tragedy—falsely claiming he is family to those killed in both the Holocaust and 9/11—carries an undeniable weight and is deeply disrespectful to those for whom his claims are true. Politically, too, he has acted immorally, stealing money from voters and spending it recklessly. And while lies and frauds are a constant in politics, those of Rep. George Santos are particularly notable, for they are delivered with such revolutionary charm and mischief that I cannot help but see these actions as not only harmless, but perversely delightful. Perhaps this is a scathing self-indictment: one could claim my defeatism regarding politics and nonchalance at his lies is a projection of my contextual privilege, and they would doubtless be correct. I nonetheless cannot detach myself from my enjoyment. His face smirking in a notification always causes my face to brighten. Who knows what new and delicious thing he has done today? Did he claim he was never a Disney-singing drag queen in Brazil, despite the photographs? Did he lie on his fake website that he acted in Hannah Montana and The Suite Life of Zack and Cody? Did he run through the halls of Congress with a baby in his arms, and when asked if it was his baby, respond with “Not yet”? It does not matter which! All are fascinating! And all are content!
Content spreads like a delightful carcinogen. The thrill I feel at hearing his name in the media arises not only from his own actions, but from the assessments
of them as well. Did you know Rep. George Santos is not actually a pathological liar? Christian L. Hart, co-author of Pathological Lying: Theory, Research, and Practice, walked a journalist from Insider through his distanced-diagnosis of him, saying at one point that, “Part of being a pathological liar is that the person has distress, and dysfunction, and wants to stop.” This is absent in Rep. George Santos. He seems entirely unbothered, the human embodiment of a guiltless, knowing smirk. Instead, according to that Insider article, his lies may erupt from a selection of other conditions: low self-esteem, narcissism, psychopathy, Machiavellianism, or some ambiguous salad of them all. None of that is good. Yet I can’t help supporting him. I want him to be happy, and if lying enables that to occur, well, what choice do I have.
Not everyone joins me in supporting Rep. George Santos, but I do not think most people’s opinion is of much substance. Mark Chiusano, author of the novel on which hbo is basing their film, has described the story of Rep. George Santos as “a tragedy.” Politico cheekily described his year in Congress as “fantastic.” The New York Times wrote about his “pattern of deception.” My friend said, without shame, that he gives her “hope.” He claimed in a self-built ranting chamber that he was both the “Republican ‘It Girl’” and “The Mary Magdalene of the United States Congress.” And it is this defiance of definition, I think, which draws us to him. He has seemed to flit through our lives, dusting them with chaos and a knowing
wink. Oh, his mischief. Little he has done or claimed seem politically useful, instead serving merely as the next step in a ceaseless quest for attention, the next square in a game of hedonistic hopscotch.
I cannot help but respect him. Rep. George Santos wanders through time in search of pleasure and money and attention—un-
encumbered by ethics or truth to achieve these goals. When called out for this flippancy, he simply shrugs, grins, and walks away. And I let him. I allow, perhaps encourage, him to walk from fib to fib, victim to victim. For, as with any parasocial relationship, ours is underlaid by envy.
Oh, how I wish to live briefly with-
in his head. To roam through the meadow of possible things, pluck a few, and claim them as grown from my own palms. To look over my shoulder at rows of my victims, blink, and return forward, still effulgent and smirking and ready to create more. To do so, and walk away into the dusk, knowing the sun will rise again tomorrow. ❧
YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST
YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST DARING! YALE'S MOST
A Broken Sonnet on the 2nd
Give me a gun and I’ll show you what it means to end a life.
You haven’t chased the bullet to its source: the broken, bleeding, pumping iron drive— mechanical—to stop the things that buzz inside our brains; the need to be alone; the need to sleep; a wish, oblong, that all this noise would cease. Encased in steel, the bullet seeks a bone to snap clean through.
I’d watch life drain away, I have the strength to grasp the silent trigger, just a tug enough to end a man or—flintlock, match— to set the world on fire.
- Maude Lechner, BK ’24
Sophie Lamb, JE ’27, Herald staff
A story adapted from my mom’s high school diary. It’s written in Persian—it’s been so long since my mom has been to Iran that she couldn’t translate it in full, so most of what I write here is an interpretation of what she told me. The journal is orange, held together by string, and kept in an old health sciences notebook.
The man at the front of the class sends spires of chalk dust into the air as he screams about math. The most basic of human myths: that one must equal one. He scrawls it across the chalkboard, two ones facing each other like a pair of pasty soldiers.
The class doesn’t care. A girl in a pink hijab passes a plastic bag of gojeh sabz—sour green plums— around, and the room swells with the smell of roses. Everyone cries at the taste of acidic juice; their faces turn as red as the man’s, but they laugh, their hands sticky with fruit instead of chalk. A group of boys in the sunlit corner of the room—their uniforms dirty and hair cast over their eyes—try to juggle the green fruit, but can only throw two in the air before they scatter across the dirt floor.
One does not equal one. A tall, thin, dark girl at the front of the class interrogates the man. How can one equal one if I must go to school here while my brother gets fat off American schools?
That girl’s father is dead, whispers one of the juggling boys. That’s why she is so sour.
The man wraps two white circles around the lines as if to emphasize their equality. One must equal one. But he doesn’t succeed; one circle 1+1
is fat and the other is skinny and leans slightly left.
How can the two be equal, the girl says again, if we look so different? She gestures over to the pink hijabi. She is nothing like me, yet according to you, we are both one. You are nothing like me, but one equals one, right?
This turned the man an even brighter crimson, as if his face were stained with pomegranate.
That is not the same! He yells. This is math!
Where is the line between math and reason? The girl stands now, her black curls falling down her back, her feet planted firmly in the hard-packed dirt. You worship math as you would a God. If you believe in something so deeply, what’s to say you don’t simply see me as a one that equals one?
The rest of the class has stopped playing with the gojeh sabz. Their eyes, still watering from the acid, give them a look of mourning.
Why do you cry, children? the man says, opening his arms to the still room. This is no sad thing— this is a joyous thing, to know the perfect rules of the universe.
There is no perfect, says the pink hijabi. Her eyes are wide and crystal blue, two skies at the core of her beautiful face. Everything mixes and tangles in the universe. I love a boy but he never loves me. My bedroom has no windows. My brother lives across the ocean.
And my mother cannot afford sangak! calls the smallest of the boys, voice high and ringing. The class hums in agreement; the dark girl grins in triumph. The sun stretches across the room and bathes the children in gold.
We have lost ourselves to a war, remarks the standing girl. The sound of war slaps the man across his face. He lets a weak smile slip from his lips and fall to the floor. You silly girls and boys. Within a second he wipes the soldiers from the board, and returns to the class to its original state: chalk swimming in the hot air, tears dried, bag of gojeh sabz tucked under the girl’s desk. ❧
Best Albums of 2023
Madelyn Dawson, SM ’25 Herald staff
List week is upon us, my friends, and so, continuing in the tradition I established last year that absolutely no one regards as tradition, I am once again positioning myself as the mouthpiece of the Yale Herald and offer what I believe to be the 23 best albums released in 2023.
23. Guts by Olivia Rodrigo:
The 20-year-old pop star knows how to create a world with her music—and knows how to make this world her own. Just listen to how she deadpans “fuck it, it’s fine” after her breathy soprano rises higher and higher repeating “Seeing you tonight / it’s a bad idea right?” on the single “Bad Idea, Right?”. To embrace the abject messiness that comes with girlhood is a feat itself, but to do it on pop-rock anthems that are this fun is an undertaking only Rodrigo could execute.
22. Zach Bryan by Zach Bryan
The lines between contemporary country, folk, and indie had been blurring long before the Oklahoma native’s fifth studio album was released. But if there’s any voice that was going to blow up the whole thing, I, for one, am glad it was Zach Bryan’s gravelly earnestness that hit it big.
21. Praise a Lord Who Chews but Which Does Not Consume; (Or Simply, Hot Between Worlds) by Yves Tumor
2023 was the year of the long album title, and Yves Tumor’s fifth
studio album, released in March, led the brigade. This album is substance through and through, even if that substance isn’t an earthly one. Glimmering and intoxicating when it wants to be, grounded and thumping when it needs to be, this record sees an artist at the top of their game, though I still haven’t been able to pin down exactly what game they are playing.
20. The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We by Mitski
Mitski’s seventh studio album is not only the best thing she’s done in almost a decade—it’s a complete sonic homecoming. She treks through the lush greenery of orchestral strings, entwines herself in the vines of nostalgic harmony, and arrives at the place that I have been waiting so long for her to traverse. Welcome home.
19. 3D Country by Geese
Oddball Brooklyn rock revivalists sauntered into 2023 with enough swagger to hold their heads high through the entire year. This was for good reason: their sophomore record arrived just familiar enough to reinvigorate the classic blues rock sound, but weird enough to be the coolest group doing that.
18. Fly or Die Fly or Die Fly or Die ((world war)) by jaimie branch
If liberation could sing, it would erupt with the melody sounding from jaimie branch’s trumpet. Her last album before her sudden and
tragic passing this August, Fly or Die is one of the most dynamic, heartfelt projects of the year. Don’t let it pass you by.
17. Maps by billy woods and Kenny Segal
2022 was the last year in which one could release a pandemic album. Woods described his May release and love letter to touring as a “post pandemic” record. This makes Maps into a soundtrack of deliberate, hard-hitting rap anthems that move as fast as the world in which they were created. The billy woods empire shows no signs of slowing down, and thank god for that.
16. Madres by Sofia Kourtesis
The 38-year-old Peruvian DJ, singer, and composer’s debut album sits at the perfect crossroads between heartfelt and just plain fun. For anyone who was lamenting the derivativeness of dance music this year, you just needed to make it to the end of October. Sofia Kourtesis can probably save you.
15. Dogsbody by Model / Actriz
I dare you to find another act that more powerfully barrelled into 2023 than Brooklyn four-piece Model / Actriz did on their February debut LP. Just a minute into opening track “Donkey Show,” the drums kick in and ignite a fire that burns strong until the last note. The group has a flair for the dramatic, and the whole thing turns
out like some sort of twisted dance punk rock opera.
14. Javelin by Sufjan Stevens
Sufjan Stevens knows how to orchestrate a confluence. He knows exactly what moment he should take to layer harmonies and vocalizations over themselves, twinkling percussion, choral backings, and steady strings. I’m thinking about midway through “Shit Talk,” The movement from “I will always love you” to “But I cannot look at you.” Javelin is characterized by these small moments and subtle dynamics. They’re utterly heartbreaking.
13. Rat Saw God by Wednesday
Love it or hate it, Rat Saw God kind of sits in a category all unto itself this year. If you can find me another record that is equally as deadpan yet emotionally ecstatic, noisy, yet instantly hooky, or comfortable, yet so utterly disconcerting, perhaps I will reevaluate. But for now, there’s no one hitting harder in the indie rock world than Wednesday, and Rat Saw God is only going to get better, whether you keep listening or not. Go give it another spin before the new year.
12. SOS by SZA
It’s hard to believe less than six years passed between the release of SZA’s debut album CTRL in 2017, and the late 2022 release of her sophomore SOS. A lot of artists like to play with irony, dangling their own earnestness before the faces of their listeners, but never quite staking claim to it. SZA separates herself by owning it. Her songwriting, while exciting and novel, isn’t afraid to mean what it says. SOS wears its heart on its sleeve for a whole hour of oscillation between R&B and pop and rap and rock.
11. Live at Bush Hall by Black Country, New Road
Though technically a recording of a live performance more than a studio album, the British experimental rockers had a lot to prove on Live at Bush Hall. Even without their lead singer, who had to leave the group back in 2022, they proved all they needed and more, painting a portrait of a band at the top of their weird, theatrical game. What results is some of this year’s most beautiful soundscapes—just listen to May Kershaw’s voice kick in on the 9 minute epic “Turbines / Pigs,” and try not to let it carry you away. I’ll bet you won’t be able to do it.
10. Scaring the Hoes by JPEGMAFIA and Danny Brown
When JPEGMAFIA and Danny Brown announced the prospect of their collaboration back in the beginning of the year, they set pretty much everything on fire. When they released a record two months later that kicked off with the lyric “first off, fuck Elon Musk,” they
burned everything that was left to ash. This project is so brilliant in its headstrongness, its lack of apprehension when dipping into the absolutely ridiculous. From JPEGMAFIA’s production, to both rappers’ writing and delivery, the album is almost too absurd to hold together. Almost. Instead, it’s in the top ten.
9. My Back Was a Bridge for You to Cross by ANOHNI and the Johnsons “I love you so much more” ANOHNI sings, “I never knew it before.” Reuniting her band for the first time in twelve years and recording a soul album to lament the earth’s destruction, she somehow still locates optimism, within the rich contours of her deep voice “It’s my fault, the way I broke the Earth,” she sings, yet still offers her own back as a step to a better world, still remembers to love, and still warbles the warm sound of a world that she believes in.
8. I Killed Your Dog by L’Rain
Under the moniker L’Rain, Taja Cheek runs the gamut of emotionality, sensuality and even humor, entangling and detangling different threads in the tapestry of her psyche. On the jittery lead single and final chapter “New Year’s UnResolution,” she ends by singing “will you forget me along the way?” over and over again. L’Rain’s mastery on I Killed Your Dog makes her impossible to forget. Oh—and she’s a Yale and WYBC alum.
7. Census Designated by Jane Remover
Jane Remover sounds like no other. The 20-year-old experimental rock musician’s 2023 LP is a portrait of an artist comfortably entrenched in the discomfort of her sonic world. The hour-long record unfurls into something wholly immersive—crass and visceral, but utterly celestial. Right now, we are watching Jane Remover’s real-time self-immolation; she knows it, we know it, and anyone who takes the ride from dusk to dawn on her sophomore project will quickly be made aware of the same truth.
6. We Buy Diabetic Test Strips by Armand Hammer
As far as abstract hip hop is concerned, we are all subjects of the Armand Hammer kingdom, as they bring a biting wit, sonic clarity, and cacophonous heaviness to the genre. Their recent album is as polyphonous as it is singular, featuring guest appearances from Junglepussy, Moor Mother, Pink Siifu, and heaviest-hitter JPEGMAFIA. Through abstraction and specificity, the duo meditates on a world on fire, holding nothing back in defining and describing their current moment.
5. I Inside the Old Year Dying by PJ Harvey
Legendary singer and songwriter PJ Harvey’s tenth fulllength album is her first record in seven years. It is a mystical trip through the foggy hills of the Dorset countryside where she grew up; the apparition of an Old English folk song trills alongside exalting synth loops. By pastoral and prophetic turns, Harvey’s album is less of just a record, and more so the creation of a world unto itself.
I Inside The Old Year Dying is an utterly singular release. It’s certainly not the easiest album on my list, but its reward is far worth the 39 and a half minutes it demands you spend with it.
4. Beloved! Paradise! Jazz!? by McKinley Dixon
When an album opens with a clip of Hanif Abdurraqib reading a passage of Toni Morrison’s Jazz aloud, it’s basically guaranteed to make my top five of the year. McKinley Dixon follows up that impossible start with immeasurable grace, his flows opening the space for a future of healing.
3. Raven by Kelela
Kelela tracks her second studio album with the thrum of a steady heartbeat. Whether it comes in the form of a brooding synthesizer or soft piano melody, the record never lets you forget just how alive it is. It is a celebration of the self, of Kelela herself, and of all the joys that she finds in Black queer womanhood. Oh, and nearly every song is perfect.
2. Desire, I Want to Turn into You by Caroline Polachek
Caroline Polachek’s Desire opens with a screech. Or rather, with something between a screech and a moan, equal parts piercing and orgasmic. I do think it’s a bit of a cheap shot to label a sophomore album messianic, but the moniker
is apt. Desire is heady, headless of linearity or narrative. It seeks atmosphere above all else. It is an exercise in world-building, an insight into dystopian paradise, full of lush soundscapes and brooding sensuality.
1. Why Does The Earth Give Us People to Love by Kara Jackson
It feels almost sacrilegious to top my list with a debut album, but Kara Jackson’s meditation on love and loss has made me feel more human than any other record released this year. The Chicago singer, songwriter, poet, and artist braves her most vulnerable self to the world, offers nothing but love, and leaves us with no other choice than to give our love back. ❧
Westville Village is Drawing Eyes, Ears, and Dollars
Ben Card, DC ’27
If you travel far enough down
Whalley Avenue, past the Popeyes, the Stop and Shop, and the Walgreens, you’ll be greeted by “Welcome to Westville” posters advertising the art, restaurants, amenities, and events in the semi-suburban New Haven neighborhood of Westville. If you stray even farther from downtown, you’ll encounter a small but densely packed commercial district, known as the Westville Village.
In Westville Village, local artists and businesses grow together. Two organizations have bought into that symbiosis. The Westville Village Renaissance Alliance (wvra), founded in 1996, is a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting Westville artists and local businesses. West River Arts (wra) leases 13 private studios to local artists and has worked with the wvra to spearhead artistic projects all around Westville.
“What we’re best at…is the cultivation of the arts identity,” says Elizabeth “Lizzie” Donius, the executive director of wvra. “We work to make opportunities for creative people of all levels and all ages. We have volunteers who are still super engaged in their 70s.”
For the past three years, Donius has provided an opportunity for my high school band to play at the Westville Artwalk, a week-long community event held in early May. The Artwalk is the wvra’s biggest annual project, where there are shows by local theater groups and bands, a duck race, a puppy parade, and around
50 vendors, including many wra artists, selling their works. wra artists also film promotional videos for the Artwalk and design its T-shirts. Artwalk 2024 will be the 26th Artwalk, dating back to the wvra’s founding.
Misty Hanscom, along with her husband Luke, is the owner-operator of West River Arts. In 2014, Hanscom saw potential in the Village and founded Lotta Studios, the photography studio that eventually expanded into West River Arts. At that time, Westville was still recovering from the 2008 recession, where a lot of its antique shops went out of business, creating a vacancy problem.
“Seven years ago we had 12 empty storefronts,” notes Donius. “Right now we have one…That change was a long time coming, and the result of 20 years of intentional effort by neighbors and artists here in Westville to create a vibrant community in the Village.”
Part of that intentional effort is the wra’s Anti-Mall, held in tandem with the wvra’s tree lighting for the past seven years. The Anti-Mall is a showcase of 14 artists, usually from outside Westville, and an opening of the 13 private wra studios to the public.
“The idea is to eliminate competition and focus on collaboration,” says Hanscom. “We have to think hard about who the vendors are, and how they complement each other instead of compete with each other.”
In the late 80 and early 90s, the heyday of the antique shops,
a generation of artists started the beginnings of an arts community in Westville. They bought properties, like the Hanscom’s, to create artist live-work spaces. Hanscom sees herself as part of the “second generation” of these artists.
“When Luke and I came in 2014, we were able to tap into the groupings of people that had already created something from nothing before us. It’s a really good example of the ability to show support and share knowledge between generations in Westville.”
Hanscom is already looking ahead to the third generation. She has used the wra to give more opportunities to young artists in the greater New Haven area. She has offered photography opportunities and apprenticeships to high schoolers and young adults, and four to eight spring internships to students from Hamden Hall and Amity High School.
“It’s my role as someone who has been here a long time to cultivate the next generation and pass that torch on, so cool stuff can keep happening in Westville,” says Hanscom. “It’s about being able to see somebody’s interest in photography and show them how to operate it as a business…Parents say, ‘Why would you go into the arts, you’re going to be a starving artist,’ and that’s completely not the case. You just have to know who to connect with.”
One of Hanscom’s goals is to see wra artists take their ventures outside their studios. Syrian artist Mohamad Hafez is one of many
who has done just that. In 2020, Hafez worked with the Hanscoms to open Pistachio Cafe, a coffee shop, Middle-Eastern cafe, and neighborhood hub that has recently established another location downtown.
Two other wra artists, Kate Stephen and Dooley Jackson, have also ventured out, creating the Westville Arts Market in collaboration, a showcase for local artists similar to the Anti-Mall. The Market is sometimes held on the Central Patio, a small section of Central Avenue blocked off by the wvra as a community space in 2020.
“I talked the city into closing that street,” says Donius. “We found artists to do the murals on the ground and hang the lights. So for a couple thousand dollars, mostly in artist fees, we had something that, while it doesn’t look fancy, is fun and draws people… When something is proposed, we know how to make it happen. Even if there’s holes in the organization or the event, we can fill in what needs to be done.”
A key example of that determined approach is the wvra’s facilitation of the Mew Haven Cat Cafe, which opened in 2018 as the first cat cafe in Connecticut. I went to the cafe on Whalley Avenue to talk with the owner Angela Pullo, who founded the cafe with her husband Mike Pullo. The Cat Cafe is across the street from the wra building and crammed between two small alleyways. Like many storefronts in Westville, it’s on the first floor of a multi-story residential building. Upon my arrival, Pullo, carrying groceries for the cats, handed me a box of milk to bring to the store.
“There’s usually a lull in September and October because of the weather and students settling in,” she explained, “But business really gets going around this time.”
The wvra played a key role
“No one’s going to try to do something in Westville that WVRA’s not behind”
in helping the Cat Cafe get city approval by working together to change the zoning ordinances in New Haven.
“There literally is a cat cafe definition in the zoning laws,” Pullo said excitedly. “[The wvra] helped us get that, because they were already putting in changes to Westville to make it more walkable, so they let us put in our portion of change.”
Customers looking for the uniqueness of a cat cafe, often from outside the greater New Haven area, frequently end up staying in Westville after their appointment and exploring other shops in the Village. The walkable nature of Westville, which leads to businesses often sharing customers, creates collaboration between businesses that want to see each other succeed.
“If people come into the Cat Cafe, they can stay for the shopping at Westville General, or they can go to the pizza place down the block…[the walkability] helps to rejuvenate this area.”
The wvra’s efforts have gone beyond growing a customer base— they have also attracted business owners, such as Alex Dakoulas, founder of Strange Ways, an indie clothing and merchandise shop which later became home to the Westville General Store when Strange Ways moved downtown for a larger space. Dakoulas started Strange Ways as an online shop in 2014, and soon wanted to open a storefront for it.
“I had never heard of Westville until a friend mentioned it,” says Dakoulas, “but once I visited, I thought, ‘Oh, this is really cute.’ It has really tiny storefronts and you can walk around in this one little district, you don’t need to keep driving around…The wvra was definitely another draw, because they actively care about the community, and they’re constantly promoting the area.”
“The rent [in Westville] was more affordable,” he added. “The landlords actually care about whether their business is doing well, because they live there.”
Donius notes that the wvra is careful to keep rents low: “One of our selling points is that rents are lower here than downtown. We want Westville to be a wonderful place, but not so wonderful that we gentrify everybody out of their communities. We want smaller spaces that the artists, makers, and entrepreneurs of New Haven can use.”
Though Dakoulas wanted to keep Strange Ways in Westville, as Strange Ways grew in popularity, the small space restrictions in Westville became a challenge. Dakoulas managed to keep a hand in Westville business, though. In 2021, with a turnaround of about a month or two, he opened the Westville General Store where Strange Ways had been. He soon found that local products and products espousing local pride sold well.
“We have Westville hats and New Haven hats. I’m not buying
that off a catalog, I have to get it made. It’s local pride, but it’s also that you’re only gonna find it here. If you want Yale stuff, you can get that anywhere. Local pride in stuff that’s hyper-local is important. It’s kinda cool that you walk into a store and be like, ‘Oh my god, this has my neighborhood’s name on it?’”
The hyper-local businesses of Westville stand out against the greater New Haven area, where strip malls selling general goods line multi-laned roads. The sales of small businesses everywhere depend on the uniqueness of their products; Westville is no different. Pullo doesn’t think Westville will fall into strip mall territory: “It’s not gonna work for a big box company. It’s just not that. It’s something different.”
Though Westville was starting to develop before 2020, it wasn’t until after the pandemic when business took off. People had an intense desire to get back into the community once pandemic restrictions were lifted. The Cat Cafe halved capacity in 2020, but was greeted with renewed enthusiasm in 2021 when it fully reopened. Dakoulas noted that customers were more inclined to buy things rather than browse, because they wanted to support small businesses that had struggled during the pandemic. Lotta Studios, a photography studio run by the Hanscoms, experienced high demand for promotional videos and flyers on social media, which in turn helped bring business to Westville.
This is not to say Westville didn’t encounter significant challenges during the pandemic.
Three new restaurants opened in 2020: Pistachio Cafe, run by West River Arts artist Mohamed Hafez, Camacho Garage, an upscale Mexican restaurant, and Delaney’s, a restaurant and bar that reopened after a 2014 fire. Despite the seemingly impossible task of opening a
restaurant in the middle of a pandemic, these restaurants managed to stay open and are now popular local spots. The wvra supported these establishments during uncertain times, offering grants of $1500 and $750 to every business with a storefront in the Village. These grants were funded in part by the government and in part by personal donations. Businesses were also helped by anonymous donations from members of the community.
“[The money] was genuinely helpful,” says Donius, “but it had more of a psychological effect in terms of feeling a part of a community.”
Although community organizations such as the wvra and wra allow Westville businesses to thrive, there’s more to be done. There’s one vacancy still left in Westville, in the heart of the Village where the original Delaney’s used to be (Delaney’s has since moved nearby to a smaller location). There’s a debate over what should be done with it. I reached out via email to Adam Marchand, the alder of Ward 25, for an explanation:
“The original plan was for a mixed use development with a restaurant on the first floor and housing on the upper floors. (Which was what was there before the building burnt down.) Some folks have said that it should remain an open commons. We will have to discuss this further with the community and the actual property owners.”
Another possible option is a parking lot, though that’s an unpopular option with the wvra.
“No one’s going to try to do something in Westville that wvra’s not behind,” Donius says. “They know wvra is demonstrated community support. It’s not just about me and Misty, or whoever, because the community is really engaged with what we do. If we come out against
something, it’s meaningful at a city meeting and it’s meaningful in the paper…We’re a noisy neighborhood.”
It’s easy to be tempted, as I was while writing this piece, to claim that Westville can serve as a model for other New Haven neighborhoods. It can’t. The success of Westville’s small businesses depends on purchasing power: Westville’s median income is 97,000 dollars, more than double that of New Haven as a whole. There are specific elements that can be replicated, such as the strong community organization and the drive to keep rent prices affordable. The tight-knit community also makes Westville an enclave. Westville is not necessarily a model, but it is a haven of creativity. ❧
HAROLD RECOMMENDS
1. Going vegan: more meaty men for me!
2. Sambas: have you guys heard about these?!
3. ydn: in case your imposter syndrome wasn’t bad enough
4. Open Floor Plan: easier to gossip
5. Apple a day: free healthcare
6. Global Affairs: get a cheater that will fly you out!
7. Dying your hair red: just to look like a pint of red!
Why Do You Like It?
Cal Barton, MC ’25, Herald staff
A painting: three regions of color: dirty-green, pink-yellow, purple-pink. Mark Rothko, Untitled. Finished in the early 1950s. It lives at the Tate Britain, in a room full of unfinished works by JMW Turner, the Romantic painter of shipwrecks and seascapes. Rothko’s piece is a tribute to Turner’s color palette. Rothko gave a group of his paintings to the Tate in 1969, with the hope that he might be displayed near Turner. He got his wish.
Summer was ending. It was my last week in London, and I made a trip to the Tate Britain to see this piece, this favorite of mine, one last time. I was on a bench, journaling before the Rothko, trying to make sense of my study abroad experience. Visitors came and went. Some looked at the piece; some didn’t bother. Children shuffled feet and tugged at sleeves. One guy in Mick Jagger cosplay made a show of studying the Rothko (leaning in, squinting) and then theatrically moving across the room to study the piece again, from a different angle.
You know that recent spy movie trope, where two spies meet in an art gallery to whisper some secret intelligence, and they face opposite directions while making vague metaphorical connections between the paintings and the high but personal stakes of their very dangerous mission? Picture this: I was sitting on the bench, writing, and after a while, a woman, very quietly, sat beside me. This middle-aged woman turned over her shoulder and whispered: “Do you like Mark Rothko?”
I thought saying I liked Rothko
would sound pedantic, so I said, “Yeah, I like this piece,” which felt, somehow, like a softer admission.
“Why do you like it?” she asked.
Sometimes it seems that I don’t have thoughts until I’m asked to express them. “I guess I like it,” I said, “because I think of Rothko as so original, but it’s nice to know that even originals have their influences—their patron saints.”
Vigorous nodding from the woman. “The first time I was moved by a piece of art,” she said, “it was a Rothko at the Tate Modern.”
The woman’s name was Peon. She was working on a Master’s degree, and her thesis was on “slow looking.” I had been sitting by the Rothko for so long that I’d done some mental calculus as to how fast I’d have to scurry to the bathroom and scurry back if I wanted to keep my bench. This made me a “slow looker” and thus qualified me as a worthy source for Peon’s project. Would I mind offering a quote? I could repeat what I’d just told her.
It’s a unique anxiety, being asked for a quote. She posed her question again—Why do you like it?—and I repeated my thoughts about originals and patron saints. I tried to sound like someone worth quoting.
I think I lied to her. Not deliberately—everything I said was true, I suppose—but I don’t like the Rothko painting for the reasons I provided. Liking a painting doesn’t work that way.
So: for a woman named Peon, living and studying somewhere in London, asking gallery lurkers about their looking habits, here is what I should have told you; here
is, after much thought, why I like the Rothko…
There’s a meeting place. It is in my head. It is shapeless—more absence than presence. Like all dreamed spaces, its geometry is inhuman and cannot be measured. This place resembles a tunnel, and, seeing the Rothko for the first time, I find myself in this tunnel place, looking from one end to the other. Untitled is on the other side. We have not met before.
I look at it; it looks back at me; the world hums; I shake hands with the essence of the thing. This all happens before I’ve fully accepted the dirty-green, the pink-yellow, the purple-pink. This is the looking that occurs before the looking.
“I know something now,” I tell Untitled. It nods without nodding. “I know something,” I say, “but I also know that if I try to say what I know, it will crumble, and I’ll forget whatever it is that I know in this moment.”
But there is no language in the meeting place. Even whispered syllables would shatter the walls. I’m communicating without words, and in that place, Untitled and I both bear witness to something— some thing—too complex to recapture. What I feel is not the zoomedout knowledge of time-lapses: no blurred stream of traffic, no opening chrysalis. Just pure color.
Of course, after this encounter, I try to capture what I newly know, and as soon as I write, the knowledge falls apart. The meeting place does not permit re-entry. But I sit with the hope that I can write my way back, that I can conjure it again by force. I sit and write. I look at Untitled and I sit and write until a woman sits next to me (she too has met the piece in her own meeting place) and asks what we both know to be an innocent but impossible question. ❧
An Interview with Khatumu
Jasmine Gormley, TD ’24
Khatumu Tuscherer, TD ’24, sat down in my tiny attic room to have her makeup done and chat before her 17o1 Records debut on Howe Street this November. Khat says she usually goes for a dark eyeliner and a red lipstick because it’s an easy grunge look—I think she just pulls it off so well. We chatted as I applied her look for the night, but as you read, it is pivotal that you do NOT imagine the application of foundation. Covering the singer-songwriter’s freckles would be a crime. Khat is wearing a black leather jacket and a white button-up with a long black tie, untucked over jeans. It is like she stole your dad’s work clothes and is wearing them far better than he does. Sorry, dad.
JG: So, how did it all start? Did you sing in high school, or as a kid, or with your parents?
KT: I feel like I really wanted creative things like that as a kid. My mom’s an immigrant from Sierra Leone. My dad is from Wisconsin. Growing up, they would never, ever like to sing or do anything musical. And for some reason, my parents would never want to draw. And I was like, Why? Why can’t you draw?
JG: Do you like to draw?
KT: Yeah, like, in the same way that all little kids like to draw—to doodle or whatever. And I always remember feeling like, damn, I wish I could do something artsy with my parents. It’s such a good way to express so much.
JG: So you never sang or anything before college? How did it really start?
KT: I actually got into music over covid! Believe it or not, I didn't
do music in high school. Nothing at all. Like I would sing in the shower, and I could stay on pitch. And my first year, I was in TD, and I shared a wall with sophomores. Some girl came up to me in the dining hall. And she’s like, “Are you in a room I-whatever? I can hear you from my bedroom.” And I was like, “Oh, I’m so sorry if I’m being loud.” She was like, “No, no, no, you should try out for this folk thing that I’m in. It’s called TUIB (Tangled Up In Blue),” And I was like, “I don’t actually sing.” But she gave me information about their recruitment concert. I remember I left after one song.
JG: Were you a folk fan before?
KT: No, I had never even heard of folk music. I didn't even know what that was. And then over covid, I started playing guitar a little bit. And then we got back junior year. I didn’t take time off [during the 2020-2021 school year]. And I was like, what was that thing that girl was talking about? I went and it basically changed my life. Now music is a huge part of my life, and it wasn’t at all before. And it’s all because of Francesca Dezza Parada (TD ’23)! She’s like a hug. She’s so for the people.
JG: Had you tried out for things in the past?
KT: No. I tried out for TUIB and for the Whiffenpoofs, and that was it.
JG: Oh my god. Have you ever had to deal with stage anxiety or stage fright?
KT: No. I’ve never had to deal with that, really. The only time is when I feel like I’m not prepared. Well, actually, now that I’m writing songs, it is kind of different. Sometimes they’re kind of dark. And I want to
be able to say what I'm thinking, but I wrote a song and it was like, super dark. But I don't feel that way 99% of the time, you know? But my friend listened to it, and he said, “How are you? Are you okay?” And I was fine, but then I thought maybe I shouldn’t sing it.
JG: Well, everyone has their sad playlists.
KT: Of course! Of course!
JG: What’s your playlist-making style?
KT: I have a lot of mood-based playlists. I have one called Oldies, and it’s like 200 songs, and it’s all of the old songs from my childhood that I have amassed over the years. I went on a date with somebody the other day, and he told me that the day before was the first time he ever made a playlist. And to me, that was just such a crazy fact!
JG: Yeah, I have like 100 playlists. KT: Me, too. I have some I can’t even look at anymore, like if I go through a breakup or something… devastating. I add photos, little descriptions, just everything to my Spotify playlists. Sometimes it’s a little bit toxic. I have one ex who I just know looks at my Spotify, so if I know I want to be toxic, I can just @ him in the description… I’m not a toxic person I promise!
JG: It’s something about Spotify, dude. It’s so easy on there.
KT: Yeah, it’s not even that toxic. I’ll just put a description like, “You really broke my heart…”
JG: Typing passive-aggressively in that description box like, “That time at the park with the sunset!!
KT: [Laughing] Yes, exactly, that’s like the upper echelon of me being toxic… just, “I hope he sees this!” That’s my little secret for the Herald
JG: How has this whole 17o1 process been for you to start? When did you get involved with 17o1?
KT: I saw them on cross-campus early in the year. And I was like, wow, it would be so sick to be a part of a record label. Like, I write a ton
of my own songs. And I’ve recently started using TikTok. I used to be really anti-that stuff. But it really is such a great way to promote yourself. It’s kind of terrifying. And having strangers in your life… I mean it’s really cool. But it’s also scary. For example, I just posted something. And because I just linked my Instagram to my TikTok, two people DMed me being like, “Oh my god, I love your music.” I was like, “This is so surreal!” But with 17o1, I just got involved because I thought it’d be a really fun experience. I have a manager, which is insane. And a stylist!
JG: Did the stylist pick out this fit for you?
KT: No, well, this is from my closet, but he was basically vetoing certain things. They did a run to Savers yesterday, and he picked up some really cool stuff for other people. I should have said that I wanted that too.
JG: It’s a great outfit! Those are the sickest earrings.
Large, ornate silver earrings swing back and forth from her ears, semi-circle tips poking out from between her braids.
KT: Thank you! I got them in India, during the Whiffenpoofs tour… the girl whose house we were staying at, her grandmother was great and gave all of the ladies earrings.
JG: So what have you been up to with 17o1 in the background? People know about this performance, but what’s been going on that people might not know?
KT: We basically have one commitment to 17o1, which is that we have to release a song per semester for them under their label. But it’s not really pressure… they get in the studio and they want you to do really well. It really feels like family. They don’t want any money from any of the stuff we’re doing… they just want to help us. And so next semester, since I’m a senior, I have booked out a ton of studio space. And I'm just going to record a ton of my songs that I have written in my journal since the start of covid. And I’m so excited. For example, I sang at Yale Spring Fling Tiny Desk, and I wanted an upright bassist. So I just texted Sage, who's one of the executive team members, and within an hour, she had found me Yale’s best upright bassist. I was blown away. It was so fun to play together, just to have that…
JG: What has been your favorite part of this whole record label process?
KT: I’ve been meeting so many people that I’ve wanted to meet, if that makes sense. Like, for example, there’s a guy called Truth Templeton, which is an awesome
name, for one thing. And we have now started a band! We don’t have a name yet. I went to a Shades concert last year and I saw Truth sing with so much emotion. I was like, “He slayed! I love him! But he’s a first year, am I even gonna be able to meet him?” And now we’re friends, and we spend so much time together. So wonderful.
JG: Do you have a current friend crush like that right now? Pick one. You don’t have to say a name, but pick someone you don’t know that well yet, but you want to. What is your imagined version of that person like?
KT: I love this question. So interesting. I think they’re… weird, in the best way. I imagine you walk into their house and they have a lot of interesting artifacts, like, instead of a chair, it’s something that functions as a chair but isn’t one. A ton of quirky stuff like that. I love that kind of stuff. For example, at my friend John’s house, instead of having party lights, he went to a consignment shop and bought a real traffic light, like a literal traffic light. It’s just in his house and it’s so huge and it lights up. I love it.
Khat’s performance on Howe Street went on to be interrupted by the arrival of the New Haven Police. She was so good that it was illegal. ❧
Photo by Kathryn Ortiz, PC ’27
Simulacra and (Nipple) S(t)imulation
Josie Ingall, TD ’24
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a Hanes Boys Ribbed Tank must be in want of her nipples being visibly erect under said tank. This truth dates back to at least the Regency era, though the same cannot be said of the Walmart five-pack of the aforementioned garment, reasonably priced at $9.98.
But! I am not here to talk about little boy-sized tank tops! You have long known that you can buy those at the store. With the release of skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra, now you can buy the nipples, too.
skims, for the uninitiated, is Kim Kardashian’s shapewear brand. A month ago, they debuted a pushup bra with molded foam nipples embedded in the cups. It costs $62 and is currently sold out in every size and color. I believe this is a triumph of the feminist movement.
Let me explain. I am now in my post-post-bra era. A couple of years ago I felt liberated at the prospect of the entire shape of my (real) breast and nipple being discernible to everyone I met. No longer. I am a super-senior at Yale College on the precipice of adult life. I have real responsibilities. People expect things from me. For God’s sake, I am the Monday-Wednesday undergraduate front desk associate at the Poorvu Center for Teaching and Learning! I have appearances to keep up! I have sweaters to fill out! My back hurts!
That being said, when I do go braless, I hope to be a little cold all day. This is because erect nipples are sexy. I am constantly striv-
ing to take advantage of this fact. When I hear my lover’s key in the lock of the front door, I crack the window. Sometimes, I look up at the likeness of a particularly sexy monastic schoolteacher in the lead glass of the Slavic Reading Room, and I crack that window, too.
But this constant window-opening is not tenable in the depths of winter. I have dry skin.
Now there is another way. Women should not have to choose between a supportive underwire and nippular visibility! And soon, the notion that they once did will seem just as antiquated as the mutual exclusivity of children and ca reer.
Some would criticize the molded foam nipple on the grounds that it is “fake.” As these critics surely recognize, our world is otherwise one in which the female body is sacrosanct—never unduly modified or distorted, and represented in popular culture with only the highest regard for authenticity. Just kidding. Everything is fake, which is fun. I especially like those pink frosted grocery store cookies. Read Baudrillard.
The fact that everything is fake is the premise of our shared culture and our main source of stable selfhood. Nietzsche wrote that “it is no more than a moral prejudice that truth is worth more than mere appearance.” He exhorts us to “risk trying even what is artificial—as the real artists of life do.” RIP Nietzsche. You would have loved skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra. ❧
Our Bre s Cr swor e
By Hannah Szabó MY ’25, Herald staff
On the Pleasures of the Real
Lucy Santiago, MC ’24
The sexual appeal of the hard, visible nipple is undeniable. Just google Brigitte Bardot. But Kim Kardashian’s skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra perpetuates the Barbie-boob monolith.
For far too long we have been valorizing this shape. A near-spherical breast, with a nipple protruding meekly from the center, has become the order of the day. It is in imitation of those dubious fake tits that we seek the skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra.
But how easily we forget the diverse knockers of the past! The milky, heaving bosoms of Josie’s Regency era—the pigeon-like low breasts of the Victorian Era—the flat chests of the Jazz Age—the nightmarish cones of the 1950s— such creativity! Such vision! Now, we serve the hegemony of the boob job. It is dull work.
The real breast is alive with energy. Malleable, soft, full of motion! It begs for your touch. The skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra begs for your camera lens.
I say no. The skims ultimate bra nipple push-up bra is overindulgent. It modifies the shape, size, and position of the nipple on the breast. What is left of the true breast? What is left of the true self? Perhaps artifice is the basis of art, but so too is nature.
Women, breast-lovers, and those in the center of that Venn diagram, I implore you: listen to the nipple—gateway to breastmilk, feast for the senses. Do not smother it with a poor imitation of itself. Should that beautiful nipple go silent, let it not be for long. Reach out, touch. Stimulate. ❧
from the archives:
Across:
1) Favorite sex position for ghosts who want to ride it
OUR BREAST CROSSWORD YET
2) Widespread fear about the spreading of some social taboo
3) Other word for fake, as in “ an orgasm”
4) Round bands one might put around their member to increase pressure
ACROSS
5) Did badly in class, did well getting laid
1. Favorite sex position for ghosts who want to ride it
6) Reorganization of the letters of “GEIST”
2. Widespread fear about the spreading of some social taboo
7) “Just The Two Of , ” famous sensual song by Bill Withers
3. Other word for fake, as in “____ an orgasm”
8) Two-letter abbreviation for Iowa (the sexiest state)
9) Pithily put ‘power play’
10) Over-detailings of salacious acts
4. Round bands one might put around their member to increase pressure
5. Did badly in class, did well getting laid
6. Reorganization of the letters of “GEIST”
7. “Just The Two Of __,” famous sensual song by Bill Withers
8. Two-letter abbreviation for Iowa (the sexiest state)
9. Pithily put ‘power play’
10. Over-detailings of salacious acts
Down:
1) Technical term for ‘getting railed’
2) Acronym for the Snapchat feature in which you might keep naughty pics
3) Creative acronym for ‘bisexual’: ucking irls nd oys
11) The sweet release
12) Hermione’s special vibrator
DOWN
13) Manga featuring two female lovers
14) Book series (12D) is from
1. Technical term for ‘getting railed’
15) Implements for propelling a boat –used by sexy crew men
2. Acronym for the Snapchat feature in which you might keep naughty pics
16) Monobreasted, unlike this crossword
17) Phallic Hindu symbol for the god Shiva
3. Creative acronym for ‘bisexual’: _ucking _irls _nd _oys
11. The sweet release
18) Technology for creating graphic art; often used for making entirely-digital porn videos
12. Hermione’s special vibrator
19) Temporal unit, homonym of this issue’s theme
13. Manga featuring two female lovers
14. Book series (12D) is from 15. Implements for propelling a boat – used by sexy crew men
16. Monobreast, unlike this crossword
17. Phallic Hindu symbol for the god Shiva
18. Technology for creating graphic art; often used for making entirely-digital porn videos
19. Temporal unit with a racy homonym
Hannah Szabó, MY ’25
A Santa for Any Occasion
Cameron Jones, BF ’26
After much research, I have concluded that Santa is not real. Apparently, everyone else has already discovered this. Despite the public consensus, parents continue to weave the lie of Santa for their children, engaging in a collective fiction that grows more elaborate every year. Mall Santas, elves on shelves, and the NORAD Santa tracker appear to be desperate attempts to prop up a myth that crumbles under the least scrutiny. Are parents not coddling their children with this fantasy? Are they not just postponing disappointment until the truth is revealed? True, Santa is a bloated lie that few people over the age of ten believe. But just because he’s not real doesn’t mean he’s not useful.
Imagine you’re a parent. You’ve put off the shopping or you’ve forgotten the Christmas list at home. Your child has either asked for too much, asked for something you cannot find, or, even worse, has left you to guess what they want. Your knowledge of your kid and your tolerance for their demands are being put to the test. Unless, of course, Santa is the one responsible. Missing, misassigned, and misconstrued presents can be blamed on Santa’s improper judgment—not your forgetfulness. If you ask your kids to write a cute little letter to Old Saint Nick, do them the favor of slapping on the stamp and putting it in the mail. Then, do the mailman a favor and don’t even send it. Rip that envelope open and get straight to it. While you credit the lesser gifts to Santa, you can claim responsibility for the big-ticket items. Compared to this Santa guy, you’re suddenly
the gift-giver of the year. It may be far wiser, though, to let Santa have the biggest gift while you fill out the supporting cast. After all, the cooler Santa appears, the longer your kid will believe.
The lie need not stop when doubt begins to creep in. In fact, the less Santa is believed, the more instructive he becomes. Any question becomes a teachable moment. “How come in some books and movies Santa is with Mrs. Claus and in others he’s alone?” Marriage is hard. “How come the elves make all the toys but Santa gets the cookies and the credit?” Duh, labor is undervalued in capitalist society. “How come Santa can get into our house even though we don’t have a chimney?” I don’t know, but when you get your own place, get good locks.
Eventually, the jig will be up. Your kid will fall victim to a clever classmate or malicious older sibling or their own doubts, and the truth will be revealed. The last gifts Santa gives are a mistrust of authority and the realization that the belief systems we hold dear often collapse under the least scruti-
ny—gifts that truly last a lifetime. But Santa isn’t only for believers. Santa somehow sticks around even when no one buys into his schtick anymore. When it comes to giving gifts to family and friends, attributing your gift to Santa is a great way to side-step the discomfort you have with emotional intimacy of gift-giving and the fear you have of appearing like you actually care for those you love. Even better, taking on the pseudonym of Santa can make you appear humble, even though everyone knows it’s you that brought the $70 gift to the $20 gift exchange.
Santa may be a symbol of generosity and kindness, but he is only a symbol. Even if it’s against everything he stands for, Santa is best used selfishly. He’s not here to show us what we love about giving gifts, but to mask all the inevitable awkwardness that comes with it. So, next time you show up to a holiday occasion with a gift destined to disappoint, put Santa’s name on the tag, sneak it in the pile while no one's looking, and, if anyone asks, refer all complaints to the North Pole. ❧
ACROSS
1. Tennis legend Arthur
5. Pamper
OPENING NUMBER
10. Wood strip
Jem Burch, JE ’25
14. Particle named by Democritus
15. Piñata diacritic
16. Sheltered from the wind, nautically
ACROSS
Jem
1. Tennis legend Arthur
17. Hurricane or tornado
5. Pamper
20. None too bright
creates crossword puzzles. Some of them get published in the
10. Wood strip
21. Bauxite, for aluminum
22. Glossy look
14. Particle named by Democritus
15. Piñata diacritic
23. Popular show setting
27. Plethora
16. Sheltered from the wind, nautically
Some of them get published in the
Answers on page 9
29. Georgia sch. for painters
17. Hurricane or tornado
20. None too bright
30. Atingle, perhaps
32. Nintendo competitor
21. Bauxite, for aluminum
22. Glossy look
33. ___-pronoun
35. Knighted ones
23. Popular show setting
37. Pretty stone
27. Plethora
38. Confusing comparison
29. Georgia sch. for painters
30. Atingle, perhaps
42. Solo of sci-fi
32. Nintendo competitor
43. Etymological ancestor
44. Icky stuff
33. ___-pronoun
35. Knighted ones
45. Children's author Blyton
37. Pretty stone
47. Goes bad
38. Confusing comparison
DOWN
2. House flight
1. Discontinued grocery franchise
3. It might pick up a gaffe
2. House flight
4. Australian ratite
36. Back
38. "Good gracious."
31. Toot one's own horn
39. Haze, perhaps
34. Stench
42. Solo of sci-fi
49. Social expectation
3. It might pick up a gaffe
5. Begin, or beginning
36. Back
40. Tie up, as a boat
43. Etymological ancestor
52. Go quickly, perhaps
4. Australian ratite
6. Board all at once
41. Night sound
38. "Good gracious."
44. Icky stuff
54. Catch, of sorts
57. Animal coats
45. Children's author Blyton
59. As well
47. Goes bad
60. Bill of science
49. Social expectation
52. Go quickly, perhaps
61. Childhood pal for the solitary
54. Catch, of sorts
65. Game over in chess
57. Animal coats
66. Turn away
59. As well
5. Begin, or beginning
7. Getting up there, say
6. Board all at once
8. Dictator Amin
39. Haze, perhaps
40. Tie up, as a boat
42. Do some sewing, perhaps
7. Getting up there, say
9. Without
8. Dictator Amin
10. Printer components
9. Without
11. Alias
10. Printer components
12. Rebellious one, often
11. Alias
13. 2013 Spike Jonze film
12. Rebellious one, often
18. Antlered animals
41. Night sound
46. Just escapes
48. Panic creatures
42. Do some sewing, perhaps
50. Go back (on)
46. Just escapes
51. Is forbidden to
48. Panic creatures
50. Go back (on)
53. Camping gear store
51. Is forbidden to
55. Towering
67. Wide-eyed
60. Bill of science
68. Small bills
69. Garden flower
61. Childhood pal for the solitary
65. Game over in chess
70. Dole (out)
66. Turn away
DOWN
67. Wide-eyed
68. Small bills
69. Garden flower
1. Discontinued grocery franchise
70. Dole (out)
19. Lightbulb sound
13. 2013 Spike Jonze film
18. Antlered animals
24. Language related to Breton and Welsh
19. Lightbulb sound
53. Camping gear store
55. Towering
56. Rock climber's resting place
58. Break
56. Rock climber's resting place
26. Let out
24. Language related to Breton and Welsh
25. Small backpack
28. Major Nigerian export
25. Small backpack
31. Toot one's own horn
26. Let out
34. Stench
28. Major Nigerian export
61. "I think" in text
58. Break
62. Director DuVernay
61. "I think" in text
63. ___ Faire
62. Director DuVernay
63. ___ Faire
64. Billie Eilish's "Therefore ___"
64. Billie Eilish's "Therefore ___"
Burch
New York Times
Yale Herald
wed. 12/13 thu. 12/14
ATTEND: Wei-Yi Yang. From Scriabin to Schubert—a piano performance full of passion and technical prowess. 7:30 p.m. Morse Recital Hall. $8. Tickets on music-tickets.yale.edu.
ENGAGE: Tarot Card Readings. Get your fortune read by Tyler Watts, or scan materials dealing with forces unseen from Haas’s special collections. 12-1 p.m. Haas Library.
District Sip & Shop. Handpicked vendors, tasty treats and cocktails, live holiday beats, and a 360 photo booth. 5-8 p.m. District New Haven.
Hump Day Jazz. Taste delicious food, soundtracked by some of CT’s best musicians. 7-9:30 p.m. South Bay Mediterranean Kitchen.
Game Night. A cozy night of friendly competition. 8 p.m. Never Ending Books, Volume Two.
ATTEND: New Haven Improvisers Collective Showcase. Free, improvised music. 7 p.m. Never Ending Books, Volume Two. Bassoonarama. YSM bassoonists come together for a night of ardent blowing. 7:30 p.m. Sudler Recital Hall.
Open Mike Eagle. A sonic exploration of solitude with the rapper who coined the term “art rap.” 8 p.m. Space Ballroom. $27. Tickets on spaceballroom.com.
ENGAGE: Story-Sharing Group. Spin a yarn, real or fictional, in an informal and friendly setting. 7-9 p.m. Institute Library.
Glitter Militia. Dance to Richard K’s all vinyl, all queer DJ set, full of early punk, Queercore, and New wave. Dress “aggressively sparkly.” 9 p.m. Cafe Nine. 21+.
mon. 12/18 tue. 12/19
ATTEND: Casablanca (1942). Nightclub owner Rick Blain chooses between life as a WWII hero or a happy ending with his lover. 11-1:30 p.m. Meriden Public Library. Register on meridenlibrary.org.
ENGAGE: Open Jam. Bring your own instrument to this communal jam session, or just listen in! 10 a.m. Stella Blues.
Small Shop Love. Take a trip to Milford’s premier shopping center to browse seasonal carts and kiosks with local goods. 10 a.m.-8 p.m. Connecticut Post Mall. Sip, Pour, and Shop. Head over to Branford, learn to make a large soy candle, sip on Stony Creek’s brewed drinks, shop from local vendors, and order some tasty food. 6-8 p.m. Stony Creek Brewery. $55. Tickets on stonycreekbeer.com.
Open Mic & Industry Night. Tell a story, sing a song, do some stand up, or listen and nurse a drink. 6-9 p.m. East Rock Brewing Company.
ATTEND: A Christmas Story Christmas. A screening to enter the holiday spirit and childhood nostalgia. 1:30-3:15 p.m. North Haven Memorial Library. Dragula S5 Screening. Finding the world’s next drag supermonster. 7-10 p.m. Witch Bitch Thrift.
Streams of Whiskey. New Haven musicians pay tribute to Irish punk icon and Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan. 8 p.m. Cafe Nine. 21+.
ENGAGE: Knit n’ Sip. Knitting, sipping, and conversation for those of all levels. 6-8 p.m. gather cafe.
Open Mic. Join the band or fly solo—all genres welcome. 8:30 p.m. Stella Blues.
ATTEND: Art Opening. Showcasing Ismail Abdul Jabbar's new exhibition, “Totally Dope Rehab Art SAMSHA Doesn’t Want You to See,” with live music. 7 p.m. Never Ending Books, Volume Two. Yale Cellos. Celebrating 40 years of the instrument at the YSM with a performance by the School’s cellists. Morse Recital Hall. 7:30-8:30 p.m. Loren Stillman Quartet. Loren Stillman, one of jazz music’s leading saxophonists, makes the ambiguous and complex sound natural. 8:30 p.m. Firehouse 12. $20. Tickets on firehouse12.com.
ENGAGE: Holiday Celebration. Happy Hour prices, free cake for December birthdays, and salsa dancing (after 7 p.m.) at one of Westville’s coziest cafes. 4:30-7 p.m. Manjares.
Happy Hour Jazz. If you can’t make a live jazz performance, listen to records pulled from the Institute’s collections with other music nerds. 5:30-7 p.m. Institute Library.
ongoing
Pride of Doves. Survivors of the world’s end search for the culprit of a dove’s brutal murder. Yale Cabaret. Dec. 14-16. Tickets on yalecabaret.org.
The Nutcracker. A beloved holiday ballet classic. Shubert Theatre. Dec. 15-17. Tickets on my.shubert.com.
Mysterious Circumstances. An exhibit of haunting art, family photographs, and rare books. Dress accordingly. Institute Library. Until Jan. 24, 2024.
ATTEND: Deck the Hulls. A punk rock Christmas spectacular, complete with a motorcycle-riding Bad Santa available for photo ops. $10. 9 p.m. Cafe Nine. 21+. Tickets on cafenine.com.
ENGAGE: $13 Fill-a-Bag Bin Sale. Cheap thrift therapy to soothe Reading Week stress. 11 a.m.-7 p.m. Witch Bitch Thrift.
NXTHVN Holiday Market. Browse from local vendors selling unique products, hot chocolate, and tasty treats. 12-5 p.m. NXTHVN.
Crafters of Color Holiday Market. Unique, handcrafted goods perfect for holiday gifts. 1-5 p.m. Strange Ways.
New Haven Go Club. Plateauing on your chess.com rating? Try out the oldest strategy board game still played. 2-4:45 p.m.
Ives Main Library, Lower Level.
ATTEND: Handel’s Messiah. New Haven Symphony Orchestra plays Handel’s traditional oratorio, “The Trumpet Shall Sound,” with Christ Church Choir. 3 p.m. Woolsey Hall. $10. Tickets on newhavensymphony.org.
Kyla P & the Revolving Door. Sit in a beer hall and listen to live funk folk rock from this CT-based trio. 4-6 p.m. East Rock Brewing Company.
ENGAGE: Arts Meet Up. An open art practice and hangout session. 11 a.m. Never Ending Books, Volume Two.
Hot Buttered Sundays. Enjoy Southern soul food, crafted by chef Skyller Melton, to tunes from DJ Hugh Betta and Nature Boy. 4 p.m. until food runs out. Cafe Nine. 21+.
FIM. Free, improvised music. 6 p.m. Never Ending Books, Volume Two
Illustration and Original Design by Cleo Maloney
THE HERALD BLOCKLIST
(things we hate this week)
Widening Gyres
Oceanographically concerning.
Falcon
Couldn't hear the falconer.
Things fall apart
Just ask my ex-wife.
Mere anarchy I like supply chains.
Blood-dimmed tide
Yeats flop line.
The ceremony of innocence
There's blood on your hands.
Conviction
Uncertainty is the refuge of hope.
Passionate intensity I don't do "eye contact."