Issue 2 Spring 2020

TUFTS OBSERVER

II. SURROUNDINGS VOLUME CXL

table of contents staff EDITOR IN CHIEF: Owen Cheung MANAGING EDITOR: Myisha Majumder CREATIVE DIRECTOR: Abigail Barton

feature Page 3 - Living in the Shadow of Development

opinion

FEATURE EDITORS: Ethan Lipson Evan Sciancalepore NEWS EDITORS: Yumei Lin Cana Tagawa

Page 6 - We’re Self-Centered

Page 9 - Counting Our Communities

Page 12 - III.

VOICES EDITORS: Rachel Dong Siddhant Talwar

Anonymous creative inset Page 13 - Art and Photography

CREATIVE INSET EDITOR: Brigid Cawley

poetry & prose

ART DIRECTOR: Laura Wolfe LEAD ARTIST: Kelly Tan

By Jessie Lan and Issay Matsumoto poetry & prose

CAMPUS EDITORS: Ryan Kim Juliana Vega del Castillo POETRY & PROSE EDITOR: Akbota Saudabayeva

By Martin Gao news

ARTS & CULTURE EDITORS: Wyoma Chudasama Josie Wagner OPINION EDITORS: Sonya Bhatia Mahika Khosla

By Ethan Drew Lipson

Page 17 - Mimesis

By Emma Rao

LEAD COPY EDITOR: Mira Dwyer

COVER, TABLE OF CONTENTS, AND BACK IMAGES BY ABIGIAL BARTON

+ surroundings find a cafe in a city where you know no one and no one knows you. take the seat by the window. the sun burning a hole into your back. taste bitter espresso, swirl it around in your cup. open your ears and listen to the conversations around you. tune out, watch lips, not words. begin to make sense of the chaos.

STAFF WRITERS: Sevie Browne Rachel Carp Aroha Mackay Issay Matsumoto Myles Platt Lee Romaker

voices Page 18 - A Love Letter

By Cate Tam

DESIGNERS: Evelyn Abramowitz Kate Bowers Janie Ingrassia Joanna Kleszczewski Richard Nakatsuka Brenna Trollinger Sofia Pretell

arts & culture Page 20 - Keytar Hero

By Sonya Bhatia and Rachel Carp

COPY EDITORS: Robyn Lee Melanie Litwin Addie Lovell Unnathy Nellutla Gloria Revanche Amanda Westlake

opinion Page 22 - A State of Inequality

By Aonkon Dey arts & culture Page 24 - Canceling Each Other Out

By Amanda Westlake and Melanie Litwin voices Page 26 - Profile: Brandon Stafford

By Siddhant Talwar and Myisha Majumder poetry & prose Page 28 - Give Me a Break, I’m Really Sincere

By Abigail Barton

PUBLICITY DIRECTOR: Nasrin Lin MULTIMEDIA DIRECTORS: Madeleine Oh Esther Tzau PODCAST DIRECTORS: Ethan Lipson Arely Mancia EDITOR EMERITUS: Lena Novins-Montague CONTRIBUTORS: Vera Dai Megan Kang Shannon Lawler Mike Norton Lily Oliver Matilda Peng Kelila Weiner

FEATURE

LIVING IN THE SHADOW OF DEVELOPMENT: THE JOYCE CUMMINGS CENTER’S IMPACT ON THE MEDFORD COMMUNITY

By Ethan Drew Lipson

“I

t’s not hyperbolic to say that Tufts is stealing our sunshine,” said Laurel Ruma, who lives with Mike Korcynski directly behind the site of the Cummings Center and is leading the neighborhood movement to halt construction of Tufts’s newest building.

For students returning from winter break, there was a new presence on campus: the magnificent steel skeleton of the Joyce Cummings Center. While the construction promises students and faculty an exciting new space and a much-needed investment in facilities, it will permanently change life for the surrounding Medford neighborhood. “A 135-foot high-rise will cast shadows on six out of 14 houses on Burget Avenue, including ours. That means the house will be in shadow from November to April,” said Ruma. Korcynski and Ruma have lived in Medford for almost 20 years, 13 of which have been in their century-old Burget Avenue home.

The neighbors are frustrated with Tufts’s neglect of the impact that the Cummings Center’s plan and layout will have on the surrounding community.

Tufts Director of Community Relations Rocco DiRico emphasized Tufts’s

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ART BY LAURA WOLFE AND KELLY TAN, DESIGN BY BRENNA TROLLINGER

FEATURE

commitment to working with the local community throughout the process of construction. DiRico said, “My office sends an email to our neighbors each month to update them on the project. I also regularly meet with a neighborhood working group to address any issues that arise between our larger neighborhood meetings and identify agenda items for the neighborhood meetings.” The Cummings Center, which at its inception in 2015 was both an MBTA station and an academic building, was no different. The community had been involved in the early stages of planning, and that collaboration resulted in a consensus that was supported by both the community and the local government.

However, in 2017, the MBTA determined that the plans were too expensive and pulled out of the collaboration, opting instead for a simple station on Boston Avenue. Tufts was left to redesign the project, and this time, the community was barely informed. Thus, when it became clear that the Cummings Center would not follow the agreed upon plan, Ruma and Korcynski mobilized the neighborhood to ensure their voices would be heard.

The crux of the neighbors’ case against Tufts lies in zoning rules. Dr. Justin Hollander, Professor of Urban and Environmental Policy and Planning at Tufts, explained that zoning rules help communities control the way in which land is developed. “The question is really about how things are going to be rebuilt and reused, and so that result is something called the Master or Community Plan,” said Hollander. “It starts off with a map of all the different zones and different parts of the community. And then a table in written form that is associated with all those maps says, ‘in these different zones, these are the uses that are allowed or not allowed.’” But zoning gets complicated by what Dr. Hollander termed “gray areas.” Gray areas are spaces in which buildings can be used for multiple purposes.

Hollander elaborated, “What typically happens with any kind of big development, for example the Cummings building, is that whatever the zoning might say, [the building] doesn’t conform. That’s a typi-

cal thing. So, the university would need what’s called variances, which are like legal permission from the city government to be able to have different types of uses and activity.”

The 135-foot-tall Joyce Cummings Center breaks the zoning code in five ways: exceeding height codes, unpermitted uses of the space, improper side yard, parking placement, and proximity to adjacent homes. New buildings routinely have such violations, and they can be bypassed on a case-by-case basis by securing variances.

Obtaining a variance is an extensive political process. To do so, the property owner must appear before a city zoning board, made up of either elected or

TUFTS HAS USED THE DOVER AMENDMENT ON ALMOST EVERY BUILDING PROJECT SINCE THAT RULING. appointed citizens. The Medford Zoning Board is made up of three appointed members. These hearings are public, and therefore are the best way for community members to voice their concerns about the plans. If a member of the community can persuade the board not to grant a permit, the property owner must draft modified plans that comply with zoning or request a different variance or appeal.

Tufts has worked through this process multiple times with the Cummings Center plans. In 2015, Tufts acquired an air rights variance to build the walkway across Boston Avenue connecting the Cummings Center to the Academic Quad. When the MBTA decided to move the station out of the building, the construction plans changed and therefore the old variance expired. The next building proposal also received a variance as the plans were farther

from the neighborhood, and the tallest part of the building was in front of Halligan Hall. But Tufts changed design firms, and by the time that the new firm had a plan, the former variance had expired.

“In January 2019, [Tufts] went back to the Medford [Zoning Board of Appeals] to get their final design approved, but they never got approval, and that meeting was never made public,” said Ruma. Despite a lack of variances and approval, the Cummings Center proceeded according to plan.

Over the summer, Ruma and Korcynski organized a campaign to protest construction and the use of Stearns Estate Field, located directly behind EliotPearson Children’s School, as an area for preparing construction features. Former Medford Mayor Stephanie Burke stepped in and helped to find a solution. Burke was able to sway the Zoning Board of Appeals to ensure that the Stearns Estate Field would not be used as a semi-permanent staging and dumping ground, but the Board would not halt the construction.

The expired 2017 variance required the building to be 95 feet away from the neighboring homes rather than the 35 feet away where it currently sits. It gave permission for a six-story building; according to Korcynski and Ruma’s Request for Zoning Enforcement, “the Tufts Cummings Center will be a 135-foot building (including parapets and mechanicals) that is six stories, a height that is much more typical of a 10-story development.”

With the foundation laid both in the ground and the community movement, Korcynski, Ruma, and a group of neighbors attended the November 7 Zoning Board of Appeals meeting, wielding a petition for the revocation of the Foundation Permit. After hearing the community complaints, Tufts’s delegation, made up of a group of lawyers and DiRico, offered a simple defense: the Dover Amendment.

First written into Massachusetts state law in 1950, “The Dover Amendment speaks to the ability of local nonprofit organizations to be exempt from certain zoning and state laws,” said Hollander.

Through the Dover Amendment, religious FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 3

FEATURE

institutions and universities do not have to apply for certain variances. This is intended to protect these groups from discrimination. For instance, in 2016, Dover was cited when the community of Dudley tried to block the Islamic Society of Greater Worcester from building a cemetery. The Dover Amendment protects these groups from religious suppression.

“It gives universities and religious organizations better latitude in terms of seeking variances,” said Denis MacDougall, secretary of the Medford Zoning Board of Appeals. MacDougall clarified that Dover only applies “As long as it’s used for the university, so like dormitories, classrooms, and things like that.”

The Cummings Center will be an academic building with classrooms, study spaces, and faculty offices and therefore qualifies for Dover Amendment protection. Ruma and Korcynski, however, feel that the Dover Amendment is being abused. “Dover does not allow carte blanche for these organizations,” said Ruma. “Cities do have the ability and right to try to enforce as much as possible, and the City of Medford did abso4 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

lutely nothing to protect the citizens of this neighborhood.”

In 1994, the City of Medford sued Tufts based on the noncompliance of three proposed buildings to the zoning code. These plans were for an extension on Wessel Library (which would later become Tisch Library), the construction of Olin Hall, and an addition to the Cousens Gymnasium which would become Hamilton Pool—all three failed to meet adequate parking regulations. Tufts claimed the Dover Amendment applied in these cases.

For the construction of Hamilton Pool, the judge ruled that the Dover did not extend to that use and deemed that Tufts must build an off-site parking facility, which can be found across College Avenue. For the other two buildings, the judge deemed that the spirit of the Dover Amendment was appropriate given that the paving of driveways and parking lots for those buildings would reduce the green space of the campus to an extent that it would negatively impact students’ lives.

Tufts has used the Dover Amendment on almost every building project since that ruling. This includes the extension of Dowling Garage, the power plant

on Boston Avenue, Community Housing (CoHo), and the maintenance garage located on Boston Avenue across from Semolina. “[The Dover Amendment] is now a blunt tool for the university’s rapid expansion,” said Ruma.

Tufts is not the only Massachusetts university to take advantage of the Dover Amendment. “It’s used by pretty much all of the universities [in Massachusetts],” said MacDougall. In 1981, Cambridge voted to become exempt from the Dover Amendment in an attempt to protect residents after Harvard University became the majority landowner of property in the city.

Somerville and Medford are attempting to join Cambridge in Dover exemption with the proposal of the “Home Rule Petitions.” These petitions are state bills requiring institutions to provide their master plan to the municipality for approval.

However, the Home Rule Petition is met with impressive opposition from a group of lobbyists on Tufts’s payroll known as the Association of Independent Colleges and Universities in Massachusetts. The Tufts Daily reported that Richard Doherty, president of AICUM, argued “an exemption would threaten the academic and

FEATURE

religious freedom of private colleges and put them at the mercy of local zoning politics.” While this logic is held up in the case of Olin Hall, where the Dover Amendment protected the Residential Quad from being turned into a parking lot, it neglects the right of local residents to have a say in how their community is developed.

While the larger movement to hold Tufts accountable progresses with the fight to enact the Home Rule Petition, Korcynski and Ruma are staying focused on the immediate problems posed by the Cummings Center. Despite a two-to-one majority ruling from the Medford Board of Appeals, Korcynski and Ruma’s appeal on November 7 for the Foundation Permit revocation was not granted because the vote needed to be unanimous. Construction of the Cummings Center continued according to plan, but the Burget Avenue neighbors have not given up.

Ruma and Korcynski, along with the surrounding community, will try once more to halt construction at the upcoming Zoning Board of Appeals meeting on Wednesday, February 26. It will take place at 7:30 p.m. in the Alden Council Chambers in Medford City Hall. If the ruling does not go their way, either party will have the opportunity to appeal the decision in Land Court, a judicial body specializing in disputes over property. Such a move would require serious money and lawyer power—it would be difficult for the city and its residents to match Tufts’s legal team from Mintz Levin, one of Boston’s premier law firms.

It is no question that the Joyce Cummings Center will be an incredible asset for Tufts, featuring an outdoor plaza, public café, and fifteen classrooms including a 160-seat auditorium. Newer projects including the Collaborative Learning and Innovation Complex (574 Boston Avenue) and the Science and Engineering Complex are perfect examples of the benefits that Tufts students and faculty gain from renovations. However, we must remain cognizant of instances where student life improves at the expense of the surrounding community. O

FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 5

OPINION

WE’RE SELF-CENTERED CORONAVIRUS and CONCEIVING ASIAN AMERICA

By Martin Gao Author’s note: Asian America is not a monolith. In this article, I speak from my experiences as an Asian American and my conversations with others around me. When I write “Asian American” in this piece, I am focusing on Asian Americans who are, visually or otherwise, coded as Chinese Americans.

M

y mom was born and grew up in Huangshi, a city about an hour’s drive from the epicenter of the coronavirus outbreak, Wuhan. Parts of my family live in what is now the quarantine zone for the virus. In this zone, all forms of public transportation are shut down, including subways and the public bus. People are encouraged to stay home to avoid exposure to others. The Lunar New Year break was extended for many companies and schools, and many employees are still encouraged to work from home. However, my aunts work for the city’s electricity plant, which cannot stop its operations, especially in these times of crisis. Every day they leave their homes and go to work having to find ways to get to work when there is no public transportation available.

In the past few months, a flu-like virus originated in China, commonly known as the “coronavirus,” and has escalated into a national emergency that caused international alarm. The virus originated in Hubei, a landlocked province in central China.

I was at Tufts when I first heard about the coronavirus outbreak. I remember the news felt very distant, seeming abstract and far away. Despite the fact that I was at home in China only a few weeks before, I somehow felt like the virus did not have much to do with me. Me, who is at a private university in a suburb of Boston and who is planning to live in the US after graduation.

6 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

A few days later, I called my parents and heard about cancelled flights, missed work days, and repeated visits from local health officials. The picture slowly came into focus; I realized that my family was possibly in danger and that the virus was seriously impacting their lives.

Then came a mixture of anxiety and denial. At first, I suppressed the bad thoughts and tried to ignore the news. When I finally decided to look into the issue, I could not figure out which news sources, Chinese or English, to read or trust.

I was devastated to realize that the coronavirus outbreak was being used by American media as justification for racist attacks on Chinese Americans and Asian Americans. The coronavirus acts as a convenient vessel for the reproduction of antiquated ideas of yellow peril—the idea that Chinese people are contaminated, a contagion capable of shaking the foundations of the US empire. Also at play is the framing of Asian Americans as perpetual foreigners, outsiders who are bringing the virus to the US. This reinforces the image of Chinese Americans and Asian Americans as foreigners who will never truly belong to the US. There is a false narrative that there is something intrinsically sick about Chinese people that made this outbreak an inevitability. People online are wildly circulating unsubstantiated claims that the Chinese

OPINION

lifestyle, with its bat soup and “wet” markets, led directly to the virus. People in the US feel comfortable policing Chinese cultural traditions and what Chinese people can or cannot eat. All this is in support of the moral argument that Chinese people are deserving, culpable even, of the pain and suffering that they are going through.

(The irony is palpable, for the US is a nation that was founded on a land whose indigenous peoples died en masse from diseases brought by the first European “explorers.”)

Even in progressive Asian American spaces where people confronted harmful tropes such as the yellow peril and perpetual foreigner, and denounced acts of xenophobia and exclusion, I felt like something important was missing from the discussion. Why was there no conversation about how to support people in China who most needed help? Why was my family not included in their construction of Asian America?

A defense I have heard from Asian Americans is “don’t be racist towards me, I’m not even from China” or that “I haven’t even been to China in years.” I see these statements as the embodiment of a dangerous strand of assimilationist ideology.

It is a pattern for Asian Americans to push away their Asian identity in order to secure the privileges of being pseudo-American.

This reflects a problematic submission to the false doctrine of Western superiority. Why do we need to distance ourselves from our sending countries in order to be seen as fully human? As Asian Americans, we are forced to repeatedly denounce our connection to the foreign, so that we are not considered a foreigner, contagion, or state enemy.

As Asian Americans, we should not be fooled by false doctrines of Western superiority or satisfied with conditional promises of belonging. The rejection of one’s connection to Asia does not guarantee a sense of belonging. For Asian Americans, assimilation into white society means the violent erasure of their sense of self and identity. Also, even as they attempt to assimilate into mainstream white society by taking up US culture and language, achieving US citizenship or accruing social capital in the form of education or wealth, Asian Americans are not accepted into American society.

ART BY KELLY TAN, DESIGN BY RICHARD NAKATSUKA

Assimilationism is also harmful because many in our community are left out when Chinese Americans and Asian Americans reject their connection to China. This mode of thought places people on an axis of foreign versus native, and declares that only those who are “native” have a claim to humanity.

As a Chinese person living in the US, I feel tremendously privileged to be included in the anti-racist discussion about coronavirus. But it is painful to realize that so many Chinese nationals, like my family in Hubei, are left out of our definition of community. For immigrant and diaspora communities, the line between the citizen and foreigner is often blurred. It is a tremendous injustice to draw these violent boundaries that exclude the people that we love and care for.

On coronavirus, Asian American apathy towards Chinese nationals signals a problematic form of assimilationism. By accepting the premise of assimilation, we create deep fissures in our communities and leave behind those who are most vulnerable.

In discourse around coronavirus, I see the ways Asian Americans have displayed not only the internalized doctrine of Western superiority, but also internalized belief in Orientalism and Asian inferiority.

Anti-Asian racism, as it upholds white supremacy, operates via the systematic Othering of Asians along the axis of nationality and race. Coronavirus has been an opportunity for Americans to criticize Chinese people for ways of life are different from what is viewed, in an American context, as proper and legitimate. There is a biased condemnation of the culture and eating habits of Chinese people. It is through upholding an artificial division between Us (Americans) and the Other (Asian people, in this instance) that white America ensures the continued subjugation of Asian bodies in and outside of the US. I am disheartened to see these Orientalist ideologies are also echoed in Asian American spaces. I have heard Asian Americans say that it is “unsurprising” that coronavirus originated in China, because of how “dirty” Chinese nationals are.

When Chinese people are getting sick, the response is that they are somehow deserving or culpable.

Furthermore, it is crucial for the US imperialist agenda to denounce not only the Chinese people, but also the Chinese state. It is central to the empire-building project of the US to denounce foreign entities, in order to reaffirm its own legitimacy. Coronavirus is cited as evidence of the failures of “authoritarianism” compared to supposedly superior systems of Western democracy. Instead of supporting a country in crisis, the outbreak is used as an opportunity to denounce the Chinese government. This government sanctioned Sinophobia leads to deepening resentment of the Chinese state and individuals at a critical juncture for international support and aid.

Imperialist ideologies are compounded with the racist arguments against “bateating” Chinese people, contributing to an image of China as the land of bizarre people living under an erratic government, morally depraved and beyond rescue. Chinese people are dehumanized, and people in the US reproduce Sinophobia in a time when China is most in need of empathy and support.

The ways Asian Americans reproduce Orientalism signals the depth of internalized racism and trauma. As Asian Americans, we need to recognize that when we repeat Orientalist tropes, we are reproducing our own oppression and the oppression of Asian bodies everywhere. Racism transcends state boundaries—as Asian Americans, our liberation is bound up with those of Asian bodies everywhere. When Asian Americans, and especially Chinese Americans, fail to stand in solidarity with Chinese nationals, it reproduces and legitimizes the climate of apathy in the US towards the victims of coronavirus.

Asian Americans are also reproducing a supposedly scientific and factual paradigm of disease control that, in reality, serves to reinforce systems of oppression.

Foundational to a “scientific” conception of disease is the idea that certain bodies are disposable and not worthy of resources or care. Pseudo-scientific ideas of health and disease are used to justify indifference towards the victims of coronavirus, and are used to support discrimination along racial and national lines.

It is important for Asian Americans to acknowledge that rhetoric around disease FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 7

OPINION

control in the US is racist. Being Asian American does not automatically preclude us from reproducing racist ideas about disease control. I have heard Asian Americans say that they are “healthy” because they are “American.” We should be wary of defending ourselves as “healthy” and “clean.” When we say that, who is implied to be the opposite? Who are we accusing of being “dirty” and “contagious?”

In an age where patterns of racism around coronavirus are spreading much more aggressively than the virus itself, we as Asian Americans are also choosing to distance ourselves from the source of contagion. We have to ask ourselves, what do we mean when we talk about health and care? Whose health are we talking about, and to the detriment of whom?

I am not criticizing Asian America for having conversations about microaggressions and racism they experience day to day. In fact, I think those conversations can be important sites of self-determination and healing. I am, however, criticizing Asian America for the absence of conversations about how to take care of those who are most vulnerable. I am asking, who is included in the community we call Asian America? Who do we relegate as the Other? Who do we consider truly human, deep down?

Can we imagine a transnational theory of Asian America that does not abandon those who are most vulnerable? I can imagine an alternate universe where when Asian Americans address the hostility and xenophobia that they experience in the US, while we also acknowledge that the people who are most impacted by racism are also those who are most impacted by the disease—namely, people living in China. When Chinese Americans reject their connection to China as a tactic for self-preservation, we are condoning casual Sinophobia and the rejection of care from those who need it the most. At the same time, we are condoning rhetorics of confinement, the strengthening of borders, and policies of exclusion.

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NEWS

COUNTING COMMUNITIES

By Jessie Lan and Issay Matsumoto

I

n less than a month, each household around the country will receive a letter from the US Census Bureau, inviting every person living in the US to participate in the 24th decennial Federal Census. After respondents answer 12 basic questions such as their name, sex, age, and race, the Bureau will determine funding services and government representation that will affect the everyday lives of all US residents.

Without an accurate count of the nation’s diverse communities, local, state, and federal funding for health care, public schools, affordable housing, Section 8 vouchers, Medicaid, language access, childcare, senior services, roads, and public transit, won’t make it to the communities who need these services most.

The Census Bureau has historically neglected working class communities of color. Within Massachusetts and across Boston, neighborhoods such as Chinatown, East Boston, Roxbury, and Dorchester are consistently undercounted. This cycle, in which an estimated $16 billion of funding is at stake for Massachusetts will determine whose lives will be counted for representation for the next 10 years.

Beth Huang, director of Massachusetts Voter Table, a grassroots coalition of community organizations in Massachusetts, has worked with over a hundred community-based groups in hard to count census tracts throughout Massachusetts. Many of these trusted organizations provide social services and help non-English speakers file

taxes, apply for affordable housing, or acquire legal aid. Organizations have begun setting up census assistance centers—or as Huang calls them, Census 2020 “office hours”—to replace some 30,000 census questionnaire service centers that were established for the 2010 Census, but have not been established due to budget cuts for this year’s Census.

Census budget cuts under the current administration have only compounded fears and misinformation circulating within many vulnerable and undercounted immigrant communities—many of whom have never experienced a federal decennial census before. In particular, fears and misinformation about the Census in the current political climate persist despite federal FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 9

NEWS

judges striking down Trump’s proposed citizenship question on the 2020 Census.

Caroline Wolinsky, the founder of Tufts Census Action, a student-run organization mobilizing the Tufts community for the 2020 Census, explained that even providing accurate information to address people’s privacy concerns may spread fear, such as hosting an event to dispel fears about the citizenship question. “Just seeing that kind of event would make you think that there is a citizenship question,” Wolinsky said. “And the whole point is to make the Census more accessible and stress how confidential the data is and how important it is to be counted.”

Daniela Carvajal, an organizer at Centro Presente, which is based in East Boston and serves Latin American communities across the state, noted similar challenges.

In addition to campaigning for the Census, CP also runs a Know Your Rights Campaign meant to protect vulnerable immigrants from law enforcement regardless of citizenship status. Although CP has previously cautioned community members against divulging personal identifying information to strangers and officials, the Census asks for exactly that.

If a household does not respond to the initial Census invitation sent out in March, Census enumerators then follow-up in person to collect the data—which could feel similar to unsolicited and possibly threatening law enforcement visits. “You’re asking them to share information about their families… [But] if you’re not expecting anyone to come to your house and you just hear a knock on the door, you think, ‘Is that ICE?’” Carvajal said.

Activists in MVT’s network use local knowledge about their communities to ensure everyone is accounted for. “I think the political climate has been really challenging,” said Huang. “And I think the way that we’ve responded is to train trusted messengers in low-income communities of color to share accurate information about the 2020 Census, and share why the Census matters to our daily lives for the next ten years.”

The Chinese Progressive Association, a community organization based in Boston Chinatown that partners with MVT, responded to issues of accessibility and misinformation specifically facing the Chinese community in the Greater Boston 10 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

area. Winnie Chen, a service administrator at CPA, noted that 2020 Census’s language and technological accessibility has been a major challenge for CPA’s constituency.

With the Census responses moving online for the first time and the Census’s initial “invitation” letter only offered in English and Spanish, CPA’s elderly and predominantly monolingual Chinesespeaking members will face difficulties getting themselves counted this year. This year, CPA has begun planning educational workshops with management in subsidized housing where elderly Chinese in and around Chinatown live. Rather than begin educational programming early in the year, programming will start after the Census Bureau sends the initial invitation letters so that the elderly do not forget to fill out the Census online.

“The census itself is not— or should not—be a divided issue.”

Despite challenges, the Census is also an opportunity to better understand people’s everyday needs and to collaborate between organizations across political differences. In the past year, CPA has built support among and beyond its constituency for progressive policies such as data equity and rent control. But for the Census, CPA has collaborated with business and family associations—organizations that don’t often support its progressive platform.

Chen explained that every year from late January until early April, Chinatown’s 20 to 30 family and business associations hold banquets that gather leaders and residents from across the community. CPA has used these gatherings to spread the word about the federal census, rewarding grants to Chinatown organizations committed to Census outreach. “2020 Census has been a great opportunity for CPA to reach out and strategize with groups we don’t normally

work with,” said Chen. “The census itself is not—or should not—be a divided issue.”

Beyond issues with undercounting, an often overlooked issue regards representation for incarcerated people. Prisoners are counted towards the communities at the location of the prison, but they have no voting power. As a result, the places that gain voting power from counting their incarcerated population only benefit residents of the surrounding area, which tends to be wealthier, whiter, and more rural.

“If I could have done it all over again, we would have made [this] an issue back in like 2016,” Huang said. “Hopefully after this federal census, and in the 2021 to 2022 legislative session, we will end prison gerrymandering in Massachusetts.”

In contrast, students who are counted by the Census as residing in their college towns or cities use many of the same services that long-time residents use: local roads, businesses, and housing. The burden on community resources increases as nonprofit and tax-exempt institutions like Tufts continue to increase student enrollment and displace local housing. An accurate student count is just one step to ensure that both longtime and student residents receive proportionate allocations for community resources.

Armani White, a Roxbury resident, Democratic State Committee candidate, and member of Reclaim Roxbury, Coalition for Truly Affordable Housing, and Right to the City Vote, added that college students can play significant roles in supporting local organizations that are working to make the Census more accessible to hard-to-count communities. “College students have a lot of free time, and sometimes a lot of resources or friends and family with resources. Redirecting those resources to surrounding communities can be a powerful thing,” said White.

Reaching out to the Group of Six student centers, language departments, and cultural and language housing, TCA has worked to recruit multilingual students to become enumerators in communities in which English is not the preferred language. Not only does this make communication logistically easier, that this language skill can be a sign of cultural competency or similar lived experiences that foster more trust between the doorknockers and DESIGN BY JANIE INGRASSIA

NEWS

residents and that language level doesn’t need to be a barrier against getting involved.

“They ask what level of language proficiency you have but I don’t think it has to be very high, because you have a really set list of questions,” said Wolinsky. “So it’s awesome for college students because it’s a really good opportunity to actually practice the language you’re learning.”

Wolinsky also stressed that framing the importance of the Census must be sensitive to the real fears many people have.

While many may not trust the federal Census Bureau’s official materials, studies show that underrepresented communities are more likely to answer the census when people in their own community encourage and provide them resources that are specific to their community.

Community organizations have established these trusted relationships. Tufts Census Action has begun to connect students with local immigrant and refugee advocacy organizations like those in the Massachusetts Immigrant and Refugee Advocacy (MIRA) Coalition. Alongside MVT, MIRA has partnered with MassCounts, a coalition of trusted community organizations mobilizing undercounted people across the state to fill out the 2020 Census. According to Wolinsky, students and TCA best serve communities outside of Tufts when supporting these existing efforts. “[Individuals] know their communities best and what their specific needs are,” she said.

The distribution of resources is discussed in every election year to improve working people’s everyday lives, but not always with gratifying change. This year, communities across Massachusetts will continue the fight for services such as housing, healthcare, education, and transportation. “[In 2020] there are so many important opportunities for people of color and working class people to claim our power,” Huang said. For this critical year in US politics, the Census is one opportunity that allows us to actualize the changes we hope to see in our communities.

ART BY LAURA WOLFE

FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 11

POETRY FEATURE

I’ve run out of ways to tell you I love you, so I’ll just say this: you are the smell of the fresh mint growing between the porch steps of my grandmother’s backyard you make me feel the jitters of the first warm rain of spring, the first blizzard of December, the first leaf to turn crimson you are the lake that was home to streaky headlights and our first nervous kiss you are the pond that was home to tiny fish just fast enough to slip between my fingers as they raked across the surface

III.

Anonymous

with the smell of bug-spray and sunscreen emitting from the sweat beads on both our hairlines I want to exist in these places, spread myself across them until my skin becomes translucent, leave pieces of myself under the sand, in the glovebox, by the hair in the corner of our cinderblock room each one like breadcrumbs to follow but no way to retrace my steps without landing at your feet

12 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020 12 TUFTS OBSERVER OCTOBER 14, 2019 PHOTOGRAPHY BY KELILA WEINER / DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

(center) New Kitchen New Town. By Lily Oliver.

Photography. (top and bottom) Untitled. By Kelly Tan. Watercolor.

OCTOBER 14, 2019

TUFTS OBSERVER 13

(top and bottom left) Untitled. By Myisha Majumder. Photography.

(top right) Untitled. By Matilda Peng.

Photography. (bottom right) Further Down on this River I saw Fourty-Seven Swans at Once. By Shannon Lawler. Photography.

(top three photos) Untitled. By Mike Norton. Photography. (bottom right) Bird in the Hand. By Brigid Cawley. Pencil.

POETRY

mimesis

by Emma Rao

she is nowhere and everywhere all at once, as inescapable as the smell of morning coffee clinging to the fabric of a well-worn sweater, lingering on the laces of dusty, mud-caked boots she seeps into life in fragments and pieces, mirror shards that offer the wrong reflection the branches of trees echo the curve of her back, while her laugh lines are etched into the coarse bark, layered hues of leaf veins like the words sunk deep, shrouded by her eyes

and the moon, whose light plays with the color of her hair as it paints the somber sky, snatches stars through the creeping growth like stolen glances, soft smiles in the slope of a woodland path with

no end in sight.

FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 17 PHOTOGRAPHY BY MEGAN KANG / DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

VOICES

a love letter by cate tam

18

TUFTS OBSERVER

FEBRUARY 24, 2020

I

love words. I like how they taste, how you can roll them around in your mouth or snap them between your teeth or melt them on your tongue when you write. I can feel them, the outline of them and the shape; I can feel their weight and their give. I know their nooks and crannies, I know how to use the spaces between them, I know commas and colons and em dashes like old friends. Sometimes I think I love words more than the sentences they make.

Listen, I really like words. Down to the letter.

The name on my birth certificate is Kate Wang Tam, Kate with a K. My mother named me after Cate Blanchett.

“She was not the typical actress—always played strong, smart, independent roles,” my mom explained.

So my dad was the one who changed it to a K? “Your dad didn’t want you to spend your entire life telling people how to spell your name,” she said. “I guess I wanted you to be different—he wanted you to blend in.”

Despite my father’s efforts, I will most likely spend my entire life telling people how to spell my name. This is because I care too much about words—down to the letter. In second grade, I decided that I wanted my name to be written with a C instead.

Earlier that year, I had toyed with names like Laura and Clara, disyllabic names that I could roll in my mouth like a lozenge with their l’s and their r’s, the a’s at the end suggesting a certain feminine elegance I felt my own name lacked. “Kate” was too short, too sharp. There was nothing pretty about it; where Laura was sweet and full, “Kate” was naked, angular, and dry.

Kate was boring.

My parents put me in summer school that year. My mom came to pick me up one day and told the teacher she was here for Kate Tam. The teacher was confused. She didn’t have a Kate in her class.

“That’s her,” my mom said, pointing at me.

“Oh, you mean Laura!” the teacher said.

I had gone by Laura the whole day, writing the name in the corner of all my drawings, trying it on for size. Shortly afterward, I became taken with the name Clara, which was essentially just Laura with a C at the beginning. However, as much as I loved these names that felt and tasted like candy in

VOICES

comparison to mine, I never really felt that they were meant for me: dresses never look as good on you as they do on the mannequin. “Cate” was my compromise.

“All the things you like started with C: candy, cookies, cake,” my mom explained when I asked her what reason I had given for wanting to change my name. “You also liked the rounded form of the C. You didn’t like how angular the K was.”

“Wow,” was all I could think to reply. I had hoped that my younger self might have had a better justification for the sudden change, for adopting the new spelling so absolutely that none of my classmates next year knew my real name, for being so insistent that even my teachers humored me and allowed me to write my name how I wanted to on my assignments, for having the school (and the school after that) change my name in their official records, for disassociating myself from “Kate” so completely that my dad helped me legally change my name when I was fifteen, but no. I liked desserts and I thought the letter K was too spiky. That was it.

Or maybe it was this: I liked to read. I liked to read a lot. I woke up at six in the morning every weekend to read. I would sit on the couch and read until everyone was awake and even then I wouldn’t stop. I would read walking around the house, up and down the stairs, in the bathroom. My parents both told me, independently of each other, that I should probably stop reading in the bathroom. I did not. I was addicted to books, to stories and sentences. Let me tell you, when you’re that obsessed with reading, you will become equally obsessed with words. And what is a name if not a word that denotes you? I had absorbed and processed so many words that letters began to take on weight of their own, assuming distinctive textures and tastes: Cate is bright and crisp, as short as “Kate” but not so stark. It’s softer. Still tart but not too acidic.

My obsession with words sometimes gets me into trouble.

My ninth-grade English teacher was Mr. Ralston, a generally encouraging but blunt and incredibly picky middle-aged man who loved his dog and had very strong opinions about literature. After giving me As on nearly every assignment I turned in that year, he wrote on my report card:

ART BY MADELINE OH, DESIGN BY JOANNA KLESZCZEWSKI

Cate, it pains me to have to give you a B+ in English for the semester, but I’m afraid I must. Both papers of your final exam continued a trend you began earlier this semester: trying to make essay-writing into personal, creative expression. Analytic writing must be well-structured and, above all, persuasive. Take the challenge seriously and I know you will master it.

After stewing in equal parts furious indignity and feelings of inadequacy for a few days, I re-read my final essay, realized it was indeed mediocre at best, and decided I would “take the challenge seriously.” In 10th grade, I learned to kill my darlings (well, most of them). I learned how to structure an essay and the paragraphs within the essay and the sentences within the paragraphs, not caring so much about the words that formed those sentences. My 10th grade English teacher loved my writing. Students in her other section told me that she constantly brought up my essays in their class; it became a bit of a running joke.: “Ms. Salhab loves you,” they would marvel, laughing. I laughed it off with them, but I felt a swell of pride whenever it happened; I was so happy to be good at English again. I don’t really remember anything I wrote that year.

I cared too much about how the words tasted, how they fit together and broke apart, more than anything else. My school’s English rubric did not care about how words tasted. It cared about knowledge and understanding and organization and presentation.

All I wanted was for people to want to read my writing. I wanted to build sentences around words I loved instead of choosing words to fit the sentence. I wanted to make the letters dance.

I love the unbounded possibilities that words give us, I do.

But I also love their atoms, their stardust. How the letters look on the page. How the syllables feel against your teeth when you mouth them as you write. To me, a kid who became obsessed with the word “milkweed” in second grade because I loved how it broke so delicately against the roof of my mouth, words are more than what is written beneath them in the dictionary. Words are also letters.

Lines and loops and arcs and plosives and fricatives and sibilants. I think this is too often forgotten. Is it so wrong to love the stars more than the constellation?

FEBRUARY 24, 2020

TUFTS OBSERVER 19

THE BEARING STRAIT/THE KEY TAR LIVING AND LOVING WITH THE BEAR/HELLO KEYTAR BEAR ARE YOU THERE? IT’S US, SONYA BHATIA AND RACHEL CARP/KEYTAR HERO/THE PERKS OF BEING THE KEYTAR BEAR/KEYTAR HERO/HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE

By Sonya Bhatia THE KEYTAR BEAR/DON KEYHOTE/THE FAULT IN OUR KEYTARS/THE and Rachel Carp KEY TAR OUR HEARTS/KEYTAR AND CARRY ON/THE LABEARA KEYTAR PITS/I DUG MY KEYTAR INTO THE SIDE OF HIS PRETTY LITTLE SOUPED UP 4 WHEEL BEAR/KEYTAR OF HEARTS BY CHRISTINA BEARRI/KEYTAR SHE BLOWS/LOWKEYTAR//KEYTAR HERO//PRIDE AND KEYTAR/LOVE IN THE TIME OF KEYTAR/LOCK AND KEYTAR/BEAR OF MY HEART/THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE KEYTAR BEAR/TEARDROPS ON MY KEYTAR/ RAISE THE KEYTAR/THE RIGHT TO BEAR KEYTARS/BEAR WITNESS/ IT’S MY KEYTAR TO BEAR/GOLDILOCKS AND THE KEYTAR BEARS/ONE FLEW OVER THE KEYTAR’S NEST/100 BEARS OF SOLITUDE/CALL OF THE KEYTAR/KEYTAR IN THE RYE/CRIME AND KEYTAR BEAR/TO KILL A KEYTAR BEAR/THE BEARS OF WRATH/OF KEYTARS AND BEARS AND MEN/THE BEARING STRAIT/THE KEY TAR LIVING/ANTIGONE/ WITH THE BEAR/HELLO KEYTAR BEAR ARE YOU THERE? IT’S US, SONYA BHATIA AND RACHEL CARP/THE PERKS OF BEING THE KEYTAR BEAR/ANTIGONE/HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE KEYTAR BEAR/DON KEYHOTE/THE FAULT IN OUR KEYTARS/THE KEY TAR OUR HEARTS/KEYTAR AND CARRY ON/THE LABEARA KEYTAR PITS/I DUG MY KEYTAR INTO THE SIDE OF HIS PRETTY LITTLE SOUPED UP 4 WHEEL BEAR/KEYTAR OF HEARTS BY CHRISTINA BEARRI/ ARTS & CULTURE

KEYTAR SHE BLOWS/LOWKEYTAR/THE TZAR OF KEYTAR/PRIDE AND KEYTAR/LOVE IN THE TIME OF KEYTAR/LOCK AND KEYTAR/LORD OF 20 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

E A R E E R D R E E / / E OF LL S / S, R E Y R D /

D OF

ARTS & CULTURE Authors’ note: I remember the day vividly. It had been a long day full of weekend activities with friends, the kind where the homework schedule is thrown out the window and all that matters is the day in front of you. I fantasized about my Twin XL bed towards the end of our journey as we finally descended into the Harvard T station. I could feel the dampness of the underground station and the darkness clouded my mind. We walked down the stairs to the Alewife track when I heard music. Piano, was it? In my Harvard T station? Across the tracks from me was a bear with a keyboard in the shape of a guitar—the keytar. He was grooving as he rocked the keys, jamming to the beat of the music. I felt my spirits lifted; for a moment, I forgot where I was. I let the music overcome me and started to dance in the middle of this very public place. The Keytar Bear noticed me and my friends dancing and pointed at us. Out of the crowds, he noticed us. I felt seen. To my dismay, not everyone knows about Keytar Bear. It is my duty to allow him to be seen by the Tufts community.

Content warning: discussions of racial violence

T

hough few know the identity of the man inside the costume, Keytar Bear has been an easily recognizable symbol of Boston since he began performing in 2011. With his keytar across his chest and amplifier at his paw, he’s found on street corners, in T stations, at sporting events, and—if we’re lucky—playing at the center of our very own Davis Square. Shrouded in mystery, Keytar Bear never provides his real name, and describes his age as somewhere between twenty and thirty.

What we do know is that Keytar Bear is a Boston area local, having grown up in Sutton, Massachusetts. And when he’s not keytar-ing in his bear costume, he is both a music and breakdance teacher.

Other bits and pieces of the man under Keytar Bear’s mask we know from a rare interview in 2014 with Boston Magazine, in which he opens up about the trials and tribulations of being Boston’s favorite keytar-playing bear. Aside from special Boston events, he tends to perform mostly at night, on weekends, and sometimes during early mornings. His favorite ballads to play come from Prince or Rick James; his goal ART BY VERA DAI, DESIGN BY SOFIA PRETELL

is to play songs that are “danceable,” so that people will “hear the music and walk differently…[with] a pep to their step.” The furry bear suit he wears is inspired by a Ted themed Halloween costume. Other than a few complaints regarding the heat and the smell that his suit traps—which he describes as “horrifying”—he calls the Keytar Bear lifestyle as the “best experience ever.” He loves the thrill of his Spiderman-like alter ego—the secrecy of it all. Not even his closest friends know the truth about his identity. But most of all, Keytar Bear just likes “putting people in a better mood.”

The Tufts community finds his selfassessment to be true: Keytar Bear makes us smile. Shantel Bartolome, a senior, is an avid Keytar Bear fan and especially loves the surprise Keytar Bear brings.

According to her, “they bring a bit of whimsy, joy, and also mystery to Boston.

I love Keytar Bear sightings because you never know when or where they’ll happen and brighten your day.”

People embrace Keytar Bear because he can be a refreshing distraction.

Sophomore John Davis said, “When you’re busy or stressed or sad about a breakup, a giant teddy bear playing the keytar is the perfect distraction. Keytar Bear has made so many people smile through the years.”

Keytar Bear has also built a steady fan base that stretches far beyond our Tufts community. On Facebook, there is a group called “We Love Keytar Bear,” which has almost 11,000 page likes.

The page features videos, memes, pictures, and personal testimonies which all demonstrate great love for the Boston icon. During our interview, the admin of the “We Love Keytar Bear” group’s most memorable moment with Keytar Bear was seeing him aid a woman in a wheelchair up Park Street. Beyond Facebook, Keytar Bear’s momentum extends to other social media platforms. Coming out this year, there will be a snapchat filter for Boston locals that consists of Keytar Bear doing what he does best: jamming out. Even Trillium Beer Company came out with an IPA named after this local hero.

But despite the love and local clout he has received, not everyone reveres and respects Keytar Bear. As a foil to the “We Love Keytar Bear” Facebook fan page, there exists a “We Hate Keytar Bear” Facebook enemy page. In a post to the page, one user describes the group as a

way to “[tell] the truth about a person who has some serious issues they need to address,” though “the truth” seems to be lost in awkward selfies of group members and angry messages such as, “I hope he gets wet and his equipment fails, hate that guy.” However, there are quite a few uploaded screenshots of inappropriate Facebook message conversations—which include racist, sexist, and generally vulgar remarks—that users report to have had with an alleged Keytar Bear account.

The hate does not stop at the “We Hate Keytar Bear” Facebook page. In 2014, Keytar Bear suffered three different physical assaults. The first incident saw a Snapple bottle hurled at his keytar, leaving him with a broken instrument. This was followed by a fake-selfie stunt, in which a suspect pretended to snap a photo with the Bear only to deliver a strong punch in the nose. That same year, police charged two individuals for robbing and beating Keytar Bear, as they scooped the money from his tip jar and punched him repeatedly afterward.

However, the most alarmingly hateful attack came three years later. In 2017, three New Hampshire teens attacked Keytar Bear near Faneuil Hall. Slamming him to the sidewalk, violently ripping off his bear head, and tearing the strings from his keytar, the teens publicly assaulted Keytar Bear while calling him racial slurs.

These acts of racism stem from the larger reason why Keytar Bear originally assumed this persona. In his interview with Boston Magazine he said, “I’m trying to kill racism in my own way. I want to be responsible for the demise of racism.”

The idea to dress in costume came from a “racist ass cop.” The cop, as Keytar Bear stated in the interview, was known for unnecessarily bothering street performers.

In his interview, Keytar Bear reasoned that if the cop could not see who he is or his race, then how could this “racist ass” cop bother him?

Nevertheless, it is clear that Keytar Bear has cultivated a presence that brings joy. Revered as a local hero, he reminds us we can be silly and have fun even in horrid weather or dreadful moods; as Davis said, “Keytar Bear is a small reminder that it’s okay to have fun.” So next time y’all are in Tisch or in the dorms or are sitting in Dewick feeling glum, break out some danceable music and just jam out. Let loose—for Keytar Bear.

FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 21

OPINION

A STATE OF INEQUITY THE REAL STORY OF FINANCIAL AID AT TUFTS

By Aonkon Dey Disclaimer: This piece is no way exhaustive of the variety of experiences that students on differing amounts of financial aid face at Tufts.

“A

bout 40 percent of Tufts students are financial aid recipients and 12 percent receive Pell grants. We award more than $80 million in financial aid to undergraduate students each year and Tufts meets the full demonstrated need of all admitted students, regardless of citizenship, for all four years.” Halfway through the Diversity page on the Undergraduate Admissions website sits this paragraph.

For the many who’ve passed through the gates of this school and hopefully, for the many that are yet to come, these words spark hope.

It seems incongruous that the same institutions that have historically preserved socioeconomic hierarchies offer us the prospect of escaping these very hierarchies. Soon, this gives way into fleeting dreams of a near future where we will be emancipated from the socioeconomic circumstances we were born into. You and I read that paragraph and dared to tell our stories of aspiration, persistence, and intellectual aptitude, to prove to Tufts that we are worth the money they are losing out on and to further fortify our strive for class mobility.

22 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

Fully aware that the standards for our acceptance are different from ones for our future peers (Tufts is not a need-blind institution), we try not to get ahead of ourselves, as the financial aid offered may not be enough. Whether you receive federal aid money, Pell grants, or asked to take out loans, there exists a good company of us whose ability to afford our place here hangs on a thin thread. We justify the risks to our future by believing in the institution’s promise to value the socioeconomic diversity of our presence. With this promise comes expectations that there will be no more staggered starting lines between us and those of fortunate backgrounds. While our enrollment allows Tufts to boast about their diversity, our equitable participation and inclusion in scholarly and campus life seems to be out of step with these promises.

Housing While for some it is complaining about how filthy Lewis is, or how Latin Way and Wren’s fire alarms go off once a week, for rising juniors on significant financial aid, these complaints center around being pushed out of the housing lottery, representing a grim concern. The housing lottery remains blind to students’ financial ability to afford rent in one of least affordable neighborhoods in Massachusetts. This displacement from campus seems to bother very few.

Under the promise that existing financial aid obligations will cover the expense of off-campus housing, students are billed for $8220 of support for nine months of the school year (September–May) which averages to $913 per month. A Google search for single room rents around campus would give you a fair idea of how “comprehensive” that amount is; unless you feel that students from lower socioeconomic status should congregate in the more squalid residences you’ve passed over or live more than 20 minutes off campus. Once a suitable dwelling is found, after having avoided brokers and seemingly illegal broker fees (kudos to NYC for criminalizing it), you’re asked to fork out amounts ranging from $1000–$3000 for security deposits and first and last month’s rent—most of which is inaccessible since next year’s aid doesn’t kick in until Sep-

OPINION

tember and your family just paid their Estimated Family Contribution (EFC) for the year. This is the amount they believe your family can allocate for college expenses during that given year. There’s a reason they’re paying that EFC, given there isn’t a lot of disposable income left to throw around after that. If there was, Tufts would take note and elegantly extort it.

Most leases run for a year and Tufts’ financial support leaves out three months of summer. Three months during which you’re either bound to find stable work to support your lease or win the lottery of finding a subletter from the small pool of students doing summer courses or internships, while also competing with wealthier leaseholders who undercut your rates.

The decisions around where to live, when to sign the lease, who you live with, and what you’re allowed to do during the summer have radically different considerations in these two worlds. It is an unnecessary overhead cost to time, energy, focus, and personal freedom, the impacts of which may never seem visceral enough for petitions or protests. Although, this inertness may be because of our own efforts to feel included in the community when the efforts of Tufts admin are absent.

Work-Study On the issue of equitable participation, the idea of work-study as a precondition of our attendance stands out the most. For those who’ve never seen those two joint words listed on their SIS eBill, here’s an explanation: for a given Cost of Attendance, Tufts calculates your EFC. As for the rest, Tufts ‘meets the full demonstrated need of all admitted students’ and decides on ways to cover that bill. For most students on financial aid, the portion of the bill that your family doesn’t pay has work-study allotted, which for simplicity’s sake is like a scholarship unlocked via on-campus work. Tufts or the federal government subsidizes the wage payment from employers.

Depending on how tight your financial aid package is, this work-study money may be crucial to your ability to afford Tufts. For some of your peers, working an on-campus job isn’t a choice. Rather, it is intrinsically linked to their ability to afford anything outside of the purview

ART BY KELLY TAN, DESIGN BY RICHARD NAKATSUKA

of the Tufts eBill. Regardless of how one feels about working during the semester, the necessity to hold a job, and allocate time, energy and dedication to hours of work, inevitably shape our lives on campus. While some find themselves unable to pursue certain clubs and interests, others skip out on taking that extra class they would’ve liked to try out. In principle, this isn’t a facilitation of equitable participation in scholarly life, and it mostly remains unprotested. After all, this is an opportunity, and it already feels like we’ve been given so

When the default pupil is assumed to be one from privilege, measures of equitability for those without it will always fail to catch up. much. You don’t tend to feel entitled to a lot when your entire presence is a result of generosity from donors.

tor for scholarships when taking instrument lessons or filling out a TCU Student Assistance form when signing up to go to certain extra-curricular conferences, these daily tasks ensure that your economic status remains intrinsic to your presence at Tufts. Most of us operate through a plethora of such moments without being too fazed; after all, there is much at stake and our lives prior to orientation week haven’t left much space for a weak resolve.

Tracing each of these discrepancies between Tufts’ promise of inclusivity and the lived experiences of students from the many underrepresented backgrounds, one could ask the question: for whom has student life at Tufts and other private elite schools been constructed? When the default pupil is assumed to be one from privilege, measures of equity for those without it will always fail to catch up. The way forward involves a restructuring of student life at universities—one where the student body’s least advantaged are truly free from the foreordained circumstances of their birth.

An Incessant Reminder The ability to push your identity to the back of your head while inhabiting a space is also key to feelings of inclusivity. However, if the space requires you to constantly be cognizant of who you are and where you come from—whether it be nationality, race, gender, sexual orientation, and in this case socioeconomic class, then the conditions around you demand that this identity be used as a form of defense or justification. This projects into all the occasions where you and I have had to ask for special considerations or accommodations for things taken for granted by the majority at Tufts.

For example, let’s consider books and access codes. When it comes to access codes or a required book that isn’t at one of the Tufts book-lending services, at a cheap price or available at all during TCUBook Exchange, available online (even at LibGen), and there exists one or two copies at the library (yes, let’s make the underprivileged fight for it the night before an exam) you are reminded again of your circumstances beyond Medford. Whether it be speaking to the program coordinaFEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 23

ARTS & CULTURE

CANCELING EACH OTHER OUT DECODING THE EFFECTS OF CANCEL CULTURE

I

n our modern, technologically-advanced, social media-obsessed society, we are surrounded by hashtags, trends, and Twitter moments telling us who we are supposed to support and who is being canceled. Cancel culture involves people— usually on social media—determining that someone has committed problematic actions, holding them accountable by bringing attention to their actions and revoking all support for them. But in an era where sensationalized stories produce outrage-provoking media, what does being canceled truly mean?

Platforms such as Twitter often create echo chambers where a user’s views are reflected back at them. It is not a coincidence that sensationalized content consumes our media diets. Algorithms love outrage. Our extreme emotions are targets for exploitation, used to extract clicks and shares.

“Most of the social media feeds that we think of today—the Facebook news feed, the Twitter feed, and so on—are filtered in some way,” Nick Seaver, an anthropology professor who studies technology and attention, explained. “You

24 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBRUARY 24, 2020

don’t see every single thing that someone you follow posts, you see a subset of those things that have been filtered with a model of your interests in mind.”

Algorithms work by tracking a user’s activity, such as which posts they click on or who they follow, and then reflecting the collected data back in the posts a user sees. This means that people are more likely to come across opinions or articles they already agree with, instead of ones that challenge their viewpoints or present opposing information. The result is a system that incentivizes outrage-based media as the clearest opportunity for brands and influencers to grow.

Seaver describes how signals from algorithms shape online interaction: “On the basis of those signals, people argue that these systems can incentivize certain kinds of behavior… if you’re a ‘thing-maker’ that wants your thing to be shown to more people, you might want to set up

your headline, for instance, for people to click, even if they’re lies, even if they’re misleading, even if they’re unnecessarily sensational.”

The fact that people—and algorithms—favor outrage online helps to explain why cancel culture is so prevalent.

The intense scrutiny faced by celebrities—whether in the traditional sense or in the world of online influencers—is at the forefront of the conversation on the effects and ethics of canceling. Canceling can often lead to harassment, bullying, and even death threats.

Despite the calls to cancel that can be displayed by Twitter users, anger tends to be short-lived. We have poor online attention spans, and with the constant stream of media on our feeds, it is difficult to stay focused on one issue—especially once it’s no longer trending. Even though canceling is highly visible in the moment, there is a silent majority that may not care about the problematic behavior being called out.

These circumstances beg the question: can celebrities truly be canceled? Even when hashtags declare them to be “over,” celebrities’ careers still frequently remain successful. Scarlett Johannson, who has been canceled for accepting roles meant for Asian and transgender actors, still stars in blockbuster movies and was recently nominated for two

ARTS & CULTURE

Academy Awards. Youtubers like Shane Dawson, Jeffree Star, and Jake Paul have millions of subscribers, despite being canceled many times for controversial actions.

However, cancel culture can be useful in giving individual fans the opportunity to decide if they still want to support a celebrity and to speak out against behavior they find offensive. Freshman Ayia Elsadig expressed, “[Canceling] becomes beneficial because if you get rid of someone who is institutionalizing all their prejudices against certain people, then those people get liberated from that.”

The way people use the term cancel culture varies from situation to situation, which can confuse the term’s meaning.

Sometimes people claim a situation is cancel culture to mask the consequences of harmful behavior. This can trivialize the backlash they receive. The extreme outrage found online can make it difficult to distinguish between when people are rightfully being punished for deplorable actions and when the online masses are merely jumping on what is currently trending. Outrage over sexual assault can be trending right next to outrage over a meme. Regardless of when outrage is justified or not, online discourse can make it difficult to discuss serious matters, even when the concerns are valid.

Cancel culture permeates society

beyond the Twitter bubble and has real implications in everyday life. An anonymous Tufts student shared that there was an instance of leadership in a student organization where a member was asked to abdicate their position, but this was opposed on the basis of it being cancel culture. The student said, “I keep seeing cancel culture come up, and it’s very often misapplied and used to shield people from accountability by saying ‘Oh, no, it’s cancel culture,’ and they’re not really getting canceled for a small mistake but being held accountable for doing harm.”

A celebrity being canceled is also not the same as the type of cancel culture that is found in smaller communities, especially because of the difference in power relationships. Elsadig said, “In terms of magnitude it’s definitely different. A celebrity has a platform, has more reach, and so more people can take part in boycotting a celebrity. Where when it’s one person, it’s more of a personal relationship. In a weird way, I think it would hurt more with a regular person because those are personal relationships you have.”

“The smaller the power differential, the easier it is to hold somebody accountable. And I don’t think that that’s necessarily canceling,” junior Marley Hillman said. “So my hot take is that cancel culture doesn’t exist.”

Especially with the amount of activism on campus, it can become hard to find the space for debate, similar to how algorithms limit productive conversations online. “We’re a very liberal campus, and we sort of carry that forward with us, and that can blind us from [the fact that] there is another side,” Elsadig added.

However, in some cases it is possible to redeem oneself after being canceled, depending on the context. This can look very different depending on whether it is celebrities or friends, because their past actions tend to be judged differently. Regarding people we know in our lives offline, Elsadig explained, “These are people that we know and we spend our time with, so if they repeatedly do it, then we can give that judgement of how well we know that person.”

Hillman shared, “I think people can change, but it’s really important that they show actual change.”

By Amanda Westlake and Melanie Litwin

ART BY KELLY TAN, DESIGN BY SOFIA PRETELL

FEBRUARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 25

VOICES

A Profile by Siddhant Talwar and Myisha Majumder

Brandon Stafford is changing the way we make things at Tufts Walking into the bright orange-walled NOLOP makerspace, you’d expect to find mostly mechanical engineers making chairs (or whatever it is that mechanical engineers do). However, as soon as I stepped in, I realized that the makers in this space hail from a variety of majors, from studio art kids making sculptures to a sociology major laser cutting a plaque for her room. In the hustle and bustle of college students making everything under the sun is a man who walks around the space with the friendliest of smiles.

“That’s Brandon Stafford” I was told when I first visited the space. “He basically runs this place.”

26 TUFTS OBSERVER FEBURARY 24, 2020

VOICES The History Stafford always had an interest in making things. His penchant towards handicraft developed through mediums like the tree house in his backyard, or a skate ramp for him and his friends to goof around on. Despite his inclination towards physical creations, he opted for something far less tangible in his higher academic pursuits—English.

“I think the question that comes up with me isn’t how did an English major end up being an engineer, but rather, how did someone who was supposed to be an engineer become an English major,” he joked. It was little things that led him on that path— for one, he was inspired by an extraordinary English teacher in high school. Moreover, the major required nine core classes to complete, some of which he had already taken.

By his senior year of college, Stafford circled back to something he had wanted to do since he was sixteen: teaching. “I’ve always thought that you can either solve problems in the world, or you can teach a few people how to solve problems and then they’ll solve a hundred more than you could.”

Stafford headed to the career center his last semester at Pomona College and inquired about internship opportunities. Despite how late he was entering the job process, there was a position teaching remedial math. Stafford took the job and began his next chapter.

Stafford told me about how he was always fascinated by math. Linear algebra seemed easy enough for him to teach.

This opportunity progressed into a series of adventures teaching mathematics at a high school level. And despite his uncharacteristic background, Stafford found himself at Stanford to complete a masters program in mathematics. “Who knew teaching math eight hours a day everyday for years prepares you well for the GRE,” Stafford joked.

“But you still got in for math, not engineering,” I noted.

He chuckled, “Yep, still going for math.”

It was at Stanford that Stafford returned back to his roots—working with his hands.

He came across engineers for the first time in his life when he joined a group of students building a solar car.

“It was awesome and turned out I was good at it. I’m certainly not the best engineer… but my strength is that I don’t just clock in to my nine-to-five… I am ready to work on something all night to make it good,” he told me while demonstrating NO-

PHOTO AND DESIGN BY SIDDHANT TALWAR

LOP’s new toy—a machine that can bend sheets of metal.

While his academic path may seem irregular, Stafford thinks the notion of what defines a “normal” educational path is shifting. “In college, it may seem that your job path has to be linear, because everyone who is teaching you is a professor and they have to follow a super linear pattern. But that isn’t true for the real world.”

Stafford went through a series of jobs in the engineering industry after graduation. Eventually, he landed where many new engineers do: starting his own company. He described, “I basically developed an early version of the Raspberry Pi. It was the first board that had Arduino headers.” Stafford still swears by the software—he says that the hardware is now obsolete but the software is still great.

Stafford’s entrepreneurial venture took off, and soon his boards were all over the Boston area and even the international market. He was getting interviewed for huge websites and going to trade shows. Now, back in his sunlit office inside NOLOP, he reflected that in an alternate timeline, that could have been his life. However, he decided to stop working on that independent venture because he wanted to dedicate himself to his daughter. On top of that, he realized he liked making things, but not the marketing that came with it.

Stafford doesn’t regret leaving the glitz and glamour behind; exciting opportunities were right around the corner. “One day I was biking down Davis Square and I bumped into a customer and we got talking,” he described. That customer was the chair of the Mechanical Engineering department at Tufts, and he wanted Stafford to teach a class. He started with one course a year, then began to teach an electronics class regularly.

But Stafford was more intrigued by the concept of the makerspace that was just developing: “For about two years I was like, when they open that makerspace, they’re gonna need someone to run it, and I am going to be ready for it.”

Sitting in the Mechanical Engineering office, he was asked by the Department Chair if he knew anyone who could run a makerspace. “I’ll do it,” he replied.

What now?

Since then, Stafford has reformed the space, bringing in new machines and exposing the Tufts community to all kinds of ma-

terials. His philosophy is rooted in experimentation, on trying things for the heck of it, and making mistakes to learn. Throughout our interview, students kept approaching him asking for help. Stafford would guide them to the right place but would never do anything for them—whether it was fixing the 3D printer or finding a certain tool.

When asked why this was, he replied with an innocent smile, “Well, that’s how they’ll learn, right?”

Stafford’s philosophy is also grounded in accessibility. He wants the materials he gets to be as cheap as possible. He doesn’t want anyone to be scared of making things.

He wants anyone to come into NOLOP and be comfortable to try and make something, regardless of previous experience. He wanted busy Tufts students to have a place where they could come in, have resources to make everything, and just create anything.

His strategy is working, perhaps too well. All the 3D printers in NOLOP have broken at least once, but Stafford doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. In fact, he believes it has given students an opportunity to learn how to fix them. “So many kids can fix those things now, I don’t have to do any of that!” he said.

NOLOP is not an exclusive mechanical engineering makerspace. It’s open to all of Tufts from the Grafton Campus to the Fenway Campus. I remember being in a class that took place in NOLOP, being told the only thing we couldn’t laser cut was mirrors. But despite that warning, I brought in a sheet of mirror that I was sure was safe to cut. Stafford took a deep breath and said, “Well, you’ve done the research. Let’s try it, if it breaks it breaks.” The mirror didn’t break, and Brandon’s willingness to experiment ended up allowing me to have a unique final project.

Stafford wants people from all backgrounds to explore engineering. He came into the field as an outsider, and he doesn’t want others to be daunted by it. He doesn’t want to hand-hold anyone—he wants people to create, but he wants them to fail spectacularly, learn from their mistakes, and then build something interesting.

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FEBURARY 24, 2020 TUFTS OBSERVER 27

FEATURE POETRY

Give Me a Break... I’m Really Sincere abigail barton Gladioli cut curbside crop lines Compulsion, revulsion, grassy submission Plucking familiarity in silence, stalks of pink Ivy sprig of white tendrils: anxious to please Maiden chasms, I swear I saw a salmon Resentment, anger, your presence soothes me Egotism, formality, stay as sweet as you are Deception, gracious lady, will you dance with me?

Amongst the rivery rocks, they mock me Evening, inconstancy It’s so heavenly to be with you, grief-jealousy A shard of the inlet transforms my toes Curiosities creep over them and yes, time The sun is always Lupine, lily of the valley, how do you handle humility?

Mountains, maternal: ease with bitterness Not much movement but brown cows in mud earth spit Pitching forward in pastoral poetry Provisions not of repose, secrecy shaving away innocence Watchfulness, forced faithfulness Affection: not to surmount difficulties But to you, with your sky of violets, I will always be true Now to impressions and oblivion, sweet pea, Meaning goodbye, and thank you for a lovely time

28 TUFTSOBSERVER OBSERVERNOVEMBER FEBRUARY 24, 2020 28 TUFTS 25, 2019

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ABIGAIL BARTON, DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

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