YDN Magazine

DAILY NEWS MAGAZINE 70- 9997** t *446& t 0$50#&3

THE BITTERSWEET, AND SAVORY, LIFE OF A HIBACHI CHEF

THE MOVEMENT FOR BEAUTY...

AND JUSTICE?

AFROBEAT

THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE OF A WEST AFRICAN MUSICAL CRAZE

INSIDE 20

FEATURE

The Abami’s Afterlife

BY JENNIFER PARKER

In New York’s underground Afrobeat scene, the memory of Fela Kuti still reigns supreme. But with a growing audience, can the genre move beyond its founder?

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Ben Brody

MANAGING EDITORS

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Anthony Lydgate, Jesse Maiman

PHOTO ESSAY

Bear Mountain

BY DANIEL CARVALHO

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

The leaves of early October and the decked out scarecrows of Salisbury, Connecticut make for a glorious Yale Outdoors trip to Bear Mountain, the highest peak in the state.

Sijia Cai, Jacque Feldman, Zara Kessler, Nicole Levy, Naina Saligram, Eileen Shim

PRODUCTION MANAGER

Adrienne Wong

DESIGN & PHOTO EDITORS

Ginger Jiang, Loide Marwanga, La Wang, Weiwei Zhang

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FEATURE

FICTION EDITOR

Bunnies Make the World Go ’Round

POETRY EDITOR

Armed with philosophy and rabbits, the Movement for Beauty & Justice preaches happiness for all.

Angelica Baker

BY EILEEN SHIM

Rosanna Oh

STAFF WRITERS

Molly Hensley-Clancy, Eliana Dockterman, Isabel Farhi, Daniel Friedman, Laura Gottesdiener, Lauren Oyler, Frances Sawyer

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ILLUSTRATORS

COVER ART BY EVE KING STUDIO SPACE ILLUSTRATION BY MARIA HARAS FICTION ILLUSTRATION BY SIN JIN TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT ILLUSTRATION BY LOIDE MARWANGA

More Sake, More Happy

BY THOMAS KAPLAN

Maria Haras, Sin Jin The YDN Magazine invites letters to the editor. Please send comments to the editor-in-chief at benjamin.brody@yale.edu.

The views and opinions represented in the Magazine’s articles and advertisements do not necessarily reflect the views of the editorial staff. We reserve the right to refuse any ad for any reason and to delete or change any copy we consider objectionable, false, or in poor taste.

FEATURE

At Kumo Japanese Restaurant in New Haven, where onion volcanoes and flying zucchini are the norm, hibachi chef Tony Chi is at the center of attention.

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FICTION

Clamming

BY MARINA KEEGAN

A midnight hunt for clams on an abandoned beach stirs memories for a couple expecting their first child.

The Yale Daily News Magazine September 2009

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3

AROUND ELM CITY

Organic Haven

BY JASMINE LAU

5

MY YALE

In the Time of H1N1

BY LAURA GOTTESDIENER

STUDIO SPACE GINGER JIANG

6

Swing’s Senior Statesman

BY FRANCES SAWYER

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Tony Chi, head chef at Kumo Japanese Restaurant, cracks an egg at his hibachi grill, where patrons come for a meal and a show.

UP THE HILL

The Feelings Master

BY DANIEL FRIEDMAN

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

PROFILE

New Kid Behind the Desk

BY CHARLOTTE PARKER

17

POEM

Parable

BY ALICE HODGKINS

25

POEM

Thera

BY LAURA MARRIS

36

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

The Devil is Louise Calhoun

BY ELISA GONZALEZ

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BACKPAGE

rd

Themes of a 3 -Grade Diary

BY JACQUE FELDMAN

B

eing human, many of us have wondered if we could make this world a better place. Yet our generation contends — to an extent that no generation before ours has — with knowledge of the world’s vastness, and our own puniness by comparison. How, we wonder, could we make a difference in a world where more people have watched the squinting and glaring of that prairie dog on YouTube than any of us will likely ever meet? I think we feel often like pebbles that could spur no ripples if thrown into the violent seas.

Some challenge this, though, insisting they can help. Some found green markets like the one in Wooster Square that Jasmine Lau visited for this issue of the Magazine. Some, like those in “The Abami’s Afterlife,” Jen Parker’s cover story, find political protest and cultural expression in music. Some, like the founders of the Movement for Beauty and Justice, the group behind another of our features, insist that simply appreciating the wonders of the world can be the first step in a project of social justice.

There are other pieces to read in this issue. Turn to Laura Gottesdiener’s hallucinatory chronicle of her swine flu quarantine or the snippets of Jacque Feldman’s third-grade diary. They’re both great reads, funny and endearing.

Additionally, I’d like to congratulate our new staff, both those who have returned in different positions and those who join us for the first time. Each of them possesses exciting talent, and each of them has already begun to work hard on the Magazine. I have little doubt that they will change it, little doubt that their changes will be for the better.

I certainly hope you will enjoy all they’ve done.

- Ben Brody

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

AROUND ELM CITY ORGANIC HAVEN by Jasmine Lau he farmers’ market at Wooster Square, held every Saturday, is a feast for the senses. Vendors entice customers with samples of gourmet pastries, slices of goat cheese, spoonfuls of whipped honey. Market calls mix with sounds of cheerful chatter.

Shoppers navigate their way between the two rows of white or blue umbrella stands, strolling with a sense of purpose but also an animated cheerfulness that reminds me of Christmas shopping.

The lobsters are caught at 6 in the morning, vegetables picked at 7, and the pastries, none of which travelled more than 55 miles to get here, are made at 1 AM. It’s all that fresh, that local. The market allows small-scale, nearby farmers to retail their products at premium market prices, and it gives New Haven residents access to a higher quality of produce.

Rachel Berg, market manager of CitySeed, believes that there are tremendous benefits in having face-to-face interaction between producers and consumers: “it increases transparency and accountability,” she says. “Farmers are more responsible towards their food.”

The market first started in July 2004, largely as a way to give the community access to better products. Lamenting that there were not any grocery stores around the area selling fresh food, Jennifer McTiernan ’99 and her three neighbors decided to organize a farmers’ market.

“Before that, you could find top-notch pizza, but not a fresh tomato,” says Erin Wirpsa-Eisenberg, executive director of CitySeed, the non-profit entity founded

by McTiernan that runs the market. Over the years, CitySeed has expanded from one weekly market at Wooster Square to four markets around New Haven.

Sugar Maple Farms testifies to the power of the farmers’ market. Business has stepped up a notch ever since Jim Jahoda and Chuck Haralson joined the market three years ago. Their maple production has grown from roughly 100 gallons to 400 gallons per year.

“Normally small businesses like ours wouldn’t have a large opportunity to hit

COURTESY SHERWIN YU

A grass-roots movement led by Cityseed, a non-profit farmers’ market organizer, brings fresh, local food to New Haven.

It promotes sustainability and helps local farmers reach a broader market, but people come for more than food.

Every Saturday, the Wooster Square farmers’ market brings New Haven residents together to enjoy everything from organic maple butter to locally picked radishes. the masses without spending a lot of money on advertising,” Haralson says.

With the market, their products sell easily. “This is the most popular store with kids,” says Jahoda. As if to prove his point, a mother comes up with three little girls and pays for a jar of maple butter, letting all of them lick a spoonful of gooey liquid as they walk off, a whirl of pigtails. I try a sample of maple butter and instantly understand its appeal: it tastes more like candy than any of its constituents.

Another business that owes its success to the farmers’ market is Best Buddy Biscuits.

The stall is surrounded by a middle-aged man, his two German shepherds, and a curly-haired girl carrying a yapping cocker spaniel. The baker at Best Buddy Biscuits, Linda Patenaude, is motherly and cheerful, the type, I imagine, who sings in the shower and whose kitchen is always filled with tantalizing smells. She works at the Davenport Master’s House and is a professional pastry chef. She was inspired two years ago, when she first visited the farmers’ market. “Best Buddy would probably have never happened if it weren’t for us being so impressed and wanting to be a part of CitySeed so badly,” she tells me. “I loved the concept of the market.”

Finding the mass production of pastries difficult, she came up with the idea of making dog biscuits from organic or natural ingredients, giving them creative names: Nutty Buddy Peanut Butter, Chicken Littles, Hickory Houndz, Fresh’n Frisky Breath Mints. “I try to make them look appealing because humans are the ones buying them,” says Patenaude. Her husband, Wayne, jumps in: “Lots of times groups of Yalies would come and be like, ‘I dare you to eat it, I dare you.’”

As I watch Linda and Wayne chat with their customers and remember all the dogs by their names, it becomes obvious that the market is as much a social space as a commercial one. The market is about the relationships between people who like food, who enjoy its taste, who appreciate its process and production. An elderly man with a huge white beard approaches me and asks me where I am from. I tell him I am from Hong Kong, and his face splits into a grin: “Welcome to America! You can tell people you met Santa Claus.” I laugh.

The comment is of the wrong season, but it somehow seems appropriate in this farmers’ market, resonating with the colorful characters, the tight community, and the prevailing idea of creation and celebration.

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

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MY YALE IN THE TIME OF H1N1 by Laura Gottesdiener Stricken with H1N1 flu, running a triple-digit fever, and quarantined to her bedroom for 96 hours straight, Laura Gottesdiener discovers the hallucinatory side of the Swine. To quote a Doctor of Journalism: this is bat country. ay 1. Nine a.m.

I’m two hours late for morning crew practice.

Sunlight shrugs through the southeast window. The Venetian blinds that used to block the glare lie broken on the floor. The air smells like falafel — a rich, oiland-tahini scent that marches five feet from the neighboring Middle Eastern restaurant into my off-campus bedroom. The house is quiet. I have a fever of 100 degrees. Yale University Health Services has just informed me over the phone that I must stay quarantined in this room for the next 96 hours.

Day 1. Three p.m.

A room changes when you can’t leave it.

It’s much too bright. The insolently naked window — it hasn’t even made an effort at modesty since the blinds fell down last week — lets in the Indian-summer afternoon. I don’t have a real bed. The sheet-encased rug I’ve been lying on for the past sixteen hours is growing less comfortable. My lower back hurts, and my left shoulder, the one I like to sleep on, isn’t faring well either.

The room grows bigger and divides into two realms: The Room Within Reach and The Room Beyond Reach. The Room Within Reach extends for my three-foot wingspan and consists of: pillows; blankets; a computer charger (useless, because the computer is somewhere in The Room Beyond Reach); Burt’s Bees lip balm; a beige, broken, Chinese-lantern bedside light that I salvaged from a yard sale; Walgreen’s hand sanitizer (little good that did); polkadot eyebrow tweezers; and a circular silver clock that always reads 10:12 and “Milton Wrestling Pride Lasts Forever.” Many things are in The Room Beyond Reach.

Day 2. Morning.

The room is still very cold. I stand, inciting a wave of dizziness, and venture into The Room Beyond Reach. I return to bed with a strip of one-time-use thermometers. 102.4 degrees. I can hear the drone of ambulances and revved engines coming from the direction of the New Haven Green. My nose is stuffed, so there is no tahini this morning.

Day 2. Mid-afternoon.

New things have joined The Room Within Reach! Books: Random Family, and Promises I Can Keep, and Latina Childbearing in East L.A. Medicine: Emergen-C, and Tylenol, and Halls cough drops. A box of tissues and many, many used tissues. I read the books. The tissues feel soft against the sunken skin beneath my eyes.

I open my eyes.

Hundreds of little girls skip around my room.

Day 1. The middle of the night..

A giant rat falls from the ceiling, scraping and tearing at the white paint on the wall, his tail nearly the length of my forearm, his yellow eyes yellow and radioactive. I am scared, but the rat is in The Room Beyond Reach. I hope he stays there.

Day 2. Nighttime.

A little girl is crying somewhere in my room. I open my eyes. Hundreds of little girls skip around my room: big girls with hard, round stomachs and belly buttons, soft girls with cheeks and dimples and thick black braids tied neatly by silk pinks bows, gangster girls with drugs and do-rags and brass knuckles and oh! So many terrible, wonderful, alive, alive, (really alive?) girls!

My black desk has turned into a jungle gym, and a water slide is where the chair used to be. The girls are playing hide-and-seek in the cardboard boxes in the corner. Peek-aboo, I cry. I see you! I want to play too, but I’m pregnant.

Day 2. Early morning?

The room is colder than usual.

Day 2. Three a.m.

I wake up because I hear my two room-

mates whispering in the next room. The little girls are gone. I take my temperature: 103.6 degrees. I worry that such a high temperature might be bad for my baby.

Then I remember that I’m not pregnant.

Day 4. Breakfast time.

The trashcan — an old cardboard box that advertises “CORONA: la cerveza mas fina” — is overflowing. I have already eaten all of my chocolate PURE PROTEIN bars, so I have a breakfast of cherry cough drops.

They taste red.

Day 4. Almost nighttime.

I am on an expedition to the closet to retrieve my down comforter. The closet door is four forward steps and one side step away from the bed. Along the way there are obstacles: an electrical cord, a Yale-issued flu kit, a tan rug with the corner flipped up. When I pull the comforter down from the top shelf, an avalanche of bedding and bathing suits rumbles and jumbles down all over me. It’s very exciting, until I realize I have to pick all this shit up.

Day 5. 6:30 am.

It’s barely light yet. No little girls came last night, and it wasn’t cold, and now the whole room is within reach. The thermometer reads 99.0 degrees. I put on scratchy clothes that are not my pajamas, and my feet tingle as I navigate the leg holes of blue jeans. I walk outside. Howe Street is a bustle: rusty sedans, police cruisers, ambulances, and SUVs with spinning wheels. The speed limit is whatever your car will hit if you floor it for the fifteenfoot intervals of open road between the red lights. Two blocks to the left, past Chapel Street, I can SELL YOUR GOLD NOW or loiter at the gas station or at the YMCA. Two blocks to the right, past where Elm Street turns into Broadway, I can work out at the nine-story Payne Whitney gymnasium — although maybe not today. More than the commotion, I’m struck by the surprising amount of air and the sudden vastness of the world. The cold is teething on my bare legs, and it all feels very new.

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

STUDIO SPACE SWING’S SENIOR STATESMAN by Frances Sawyer In Sprague Hall at Yale, in Zankel Hall in New York, and even in the memories of one musically-inclined World War II veteran, Benny Goodman’s musical legacy echoes. Frances Sawyer discovers that the chords that linger ring of classical as well as jazz. arilyn and Peter were dancing. Swaying to the blare of brass and the rich timbre of the clarinet, the elderly couple revolved in the center of the floor.

They were surrounded by a semicircle of about thirty people, all crammed into an overflow room and listening to music piped in from the adjacent Sprague Hall.

All of them had assumed that a jazz concert, even one honoring Benny Goodman, would never sell out. But here they were, listening over a speaker.

Marilyn, who was in her seventies, introduced me to Peter during the intermission (both of them declined to tell me their last names); she had seen my Italian textbook and insisted that I meet him.

A World War II veteran in his nineties, Peter had spent his time in the service playing guitar and traveling with various bands and performers (including Bob Hope), entertaining the troops. In the same years, he learned Italian, his family’s native language, and acted as an interpreter.

The sound of Benny Goodman had followed him and his fel-

low soldiers to North Africa and Italy. As Peter explained, the music “was always on, it was always played.” Tonight, he had come to Sprague Hall to reminisce.

The concert rounded out “Celebrating the King of Swing,” a Yale School of Music and Yale Bands joint venture honoring the 100th anniversary of Goodman’s birth. It featured the Yale Jazz Band playing such standards as “Sing, Sing, Sing,” “Stomping at the Savoy,” and “Goodbye.”

But the concert series had opened in New York a week earlier with a lesserknown side of Goodman’s work. The Yale Chamber Music Society, led by clarinetist and Music School professor David Shifrin, had presented “The Classical Legacy of Benny Goodman,” an evening of music devoted to classical pieces commissioned by or written for the jazz great. Including works by Béla Bartók, Aaron Copland, and Morton Gould, this concert emphasized Goodman’s support of the 20th century’s brightest composing talents.

I was already familiar with Goodman’s jazz (if only from the Chips Ahoy! commercials), but this was a side of the clarinetist I had never encountered. As I later learned from Rutgers music professor Maureen Hurd, Goodman is recognized as “the first successful jazz-to-classical crossover artist.”

On January 16, 1938, he and his band played New York’s Carnegie Hall, a beacon of the conservative classical tradition. To bring jazz to this hallowed space, Hurd explained, had seemed an unspeakable affront at the time. But the night had been a huge success. Goodman and his band became a household name in jazz in 1938, but that night, the clarinetist secured his reputation with America’s most exacting classical audience.

In 2009, with Goodman’s reputation not merely established but enduring, David Shifrin and his fellow musicians were playing at Carnegie too, though this time in a smaller venue called Zankel Hall. As I rode the train to New York to see the concert, a sense of history intensified the excitement of the night. Not only was I leaving New Haven for

the evening, but I was also returning to the very place Goodman had legitimized Big Band jazz and put his foot in the door of the classical world. I got to Zankel and settled into my high-legged stool, peering over the balcony. The place, again, was sold out.

Francis Poulenc’s Sonata for Clarinet and Piano opened the program, and was followed by Gould’s 1964 piece, Benny’s Gig. In the third and final piece prior to intermission, the Atria Ensemble sparred in Bartók’s combative Contrasts. The group’s performance felt like a carefully-coordinated catfight. On stage, the clarinetist and violinist faced each other, and with expressive sways physically mimicked the bellicose spirit of Bartók’s work. Though the musicians seemed to argue, it was clear both in their body language and the joint musical flourishes that these two opponents were really of one mind. After intermission, Gould’s Recovery Music, Alan Shulman’s Rendezvous, and Aaron Copland’s Concerto for Clarinet and String Orchestra concluded the program.

As I walked out of Zankel Hall, I was left pondering Goodman’s legacy. Though he supported composers, played with symphonies, and recorded classics, the clarinetist continues to be known primarily for his jazz. Marilyn and Peter, my friends from the Sprague overflow room, knew the racing, syncopated runs of Goodman’s popular songs by heart — but they had never danced to his performance of the Copland concerto. A soldier in World War II was more likely to hear “Sing, Sing, Sing” than Bartók’s Contrasts. Still, the artist’s influence on both genres is undeniable.

Fortunately, Goodman’s papers — classical and jazz alike — now lie side by side.

Arrangements, scores, letters, photographs, and other archives that cover nearly all of Goodman’s 77 years sit in 129 boxes, in the Irving S. Gilmore Music Library here at Yale. He produced a handful of enduring pieces in the classical world, and his compositions continue to define the history of jazz. Most importantly, Benny Goodman proved that a talented artist could straddle both musical genres.

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

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UP THE HILL

THE FEELINGS MASTER by Daniel Friedman

hree weeks into my first semester at Yale College, I am sitting across from the award-winning Psychology professor Marc Brackett. He is casually asking me to explain the difference between jealousy and envy. I can only think — is there one?

The ability to decipher the difference between these two feelings is an example of Emotional Intelligence (EI), a concept developed in the 1990s by Yale Provost Peter Salovey and John D. Mayer of the University of New Hampshire. Their “ability model� separates EI into 4 key components: identifying, using, understanding, and managing emotions. Other psychologists have since developed new (if similar) models of emotional intelligence. Brackett, who heads the EI Unit at Yale’s Health, Emotion, and Behavior Laboratory, is working to gauge the effectiveness of teaching EI to children in middle school. His unit trains teachers to instruct students in “recognition, understanding, labeling, expression, and regulating emotions� (RULER). Brackett’s current study, his largest yet, extends to 66 schools across the country.

The question Brackett asked me is an example of one that could appear on the MSCEIT (Mayer-Salovey-Caruso Emotional Intelligence Test), developed to determine EI in each of the key categories. I took the MSCEIT (pronounced mesquite), hoping to discover the hidden talent for perceiving emotions that has come to feature prominently on primetime television shows such as “Lie to Me� and “The Mentalist.� This section of the test involved looking at photographs of faces and marking the extent to which I could discern various emotions (sadness, happiness, anger, disgust, etc.). It turned out to be my weakest section. Brackett politely suggested that, in traditional Yale fashion, “it’s possible you over-analyze.�

Brackett was first exposed to the concept of EI as a teenager. His uncle, a middle school teacher, was frustrated by his students’ lack of motivation and interest. He began enhancing the curriculum by connecting the material he was teaching to his students’ real-world experiences. Though he continued to teach the same literary material,

A frustrated and anxious students fails to manage his emotions. He is probably in the upper left quadrant of “The Mood Meter,� representing high energy and low feeling. he worked to help his students understand the characters on an emotional level while at the same time articulating their own emotional states.

Brackett’s uncle had picked up on one of the surprising effects of his nephew’s Emotional Literacy training: learning about emotions actually enhances academic performance. As Brackett phrased it, “if you’re not able to regulate your emotions, how will you pay attention during a test?� Though it’s preliminary, Brackett’s research suggests academic performance can be increased by as much as 10% through EI lessons. But EI is not just a narrow addition to school curricula intended to improve reading and math performance; it is also a method for teaching useful life skills. It is the answer to the frustrated calculus student’s cries: “Will I ever need to know this?�

Brackett’s Emotional Literacy training has the potential to overhaul the teaching environment. “What we find is that for student engagement, what matters most is not quality of instruction but the quality of the emotional climate.� One of the tools Brackett provides his teachers to assess classroom climate is a mood meter. The mood meter visually depicts various states in which teachers can work with their students.

Brackett instructs teachers how to bring their students from one quadrant to another to focus on different types of activities. “What

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quadrant do teachers want their students to be in when they’re writing a reflective essay vs. brainstorming ideas for an upcoming paper? If you’re doing really morose poetry, you might want to be in the blue (low feeling and low energy).�

In the broadest sense, learning about one’s own emotions is an answer to the lamentations of New York Times columnist David Brooks, who has written about the dearth of instruction related to important life decisions — especially those most relevant to our happiness. “The most important decision any of us make is who we marry.

Yet there are no courses on how to choose a spouse‌ The most important talent any person can possess is the ability to make and keep friends. And yet here too there is no curriculum for this. The most important skill a person can possess is the ability to control one’s impulses. Here too, we’re pretty much on our own.�

If my response to Brackett’s original question is an indicator, the need for emotional literacy training in schools is real and pressing. As for the difference between jealousy and envy — the correct answer was roughly the opposite of my guess: “Jealousy is about fearing the loss of something; it’s much more relationship driven. Envy is wanting something you don’t have. Jealousy would lead to more destructive behavior than envy because it’s much more personal.�

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

PROFILE NEW KID BEHIND THE DESK by Charlotte Parker With a thirty-four year incumbent leaving the office, a new politician returns to Manhattan with fresh ideas for the DA’s office. Though the renowned shoes may be hard to fill, he and his supporters feel that they fit him fine. ow does one get to arguably the second most important job in New York City? In the case of Cyrus R. Vance Jr. ’77, the obvious choice would have been to trade on his famous father’s name, as the elder Vance was Secretary of State under Jimmy Carter. Instead, Vance’s path to the job of Manhattan District Attorney, an office he will assume on January 1st barring extraordinary circumstance, has been fairly unusual for that leading to a political position.

All you aspiring lawyers, listen up: you might end up working for him someday.

Of the number of prosecutors’ offices that operate under the umbrella of law enforcement in Manhattan, the District Attorney’s Office is the largest and most important, handling approximately 100,000 criminal cases per year. Vance will be the first new district attorney in 35 years, following the legendary Robert Morgenthau.

Y

ale friends portray him as downto-earth, “a real, first-class guy,” said Liz Hillyer ’78. During his time here, Vance would paint houses over the summer to pay for his college tuition.

Watson Blair ’77, who attended both Groton and Yale with him, emphasized Vance’s personable nature. “He’s always been high principled, well-liked, very popular.” Friends remember him singing, just sitting down at the piano in Berkeley and playing.

Vance grew up immersed in politics.

His first memory of politics is of helping on Lyndon B. Johnson’s campaign as an 8-years old. “I’ve always been involved as an active citizen, in helping others on their campaigns,” he said. “But at Yale it wasn’t in my mind that I’d someday run for District Attorney.”

If anything, Vance avoided the flash of political celebrity at Yale. Yet, despite his avoidance of politics on campus, the nature of the early 70s dictated civil engagement. “We were a community of youth with a considerable amount of

power,” Blair said, adding that Vance most likely attended White House dinners with his long hair.

According to Blair, who is a lawyer in Seattle, one of the most popular choices after college was law school. “The aspiration was to do good; none of us conceived of these private practices where people make tons of money.”

With this seed of public service planted by his upbringing and watered by the times, Vance graduated from Yale in 1977 and went to work for a shipping and oil company based in Greenwich, CT, a job which took him to West Africa for a number of years. He put himself through law school with his earnings and graduated with a degree from Georgetown Law School in 1982, unsure of his next step.

He had realized early on, he said, that a career like his father’s in foreign policy was not for him.

At his father’s suggestion, Vance applied for a job as an Assistant District Attorney of Manhattan. He was chosen for a post, and soon after realized that it was exactly where he wanted to be.

“I didn’t have much of a concept of what District Attorneys did,” he recounted when I spoke with him in June 2008, “but when I went out and talked to the office and understood that this was very much working in the courtroom all the time, working for the city, with police learning how to try cases, how to deliver your talents as a lawyer in service to the county, I thought it was great.”

Vance spent six years in the District Attorney’s office, trying everything from organized crime to white-collar crime cases. “Cyrus communicates very well with the average person,” Blair told me, “and I think he learned that skill in the DA’s office,” citing the fact that he would have New York City policemen over for dinner. He continued, “cops were as much friends of his as his Yale classmates.”

“My time in the District Attorney’s office during the early 1980s was both informative and formative,” Vance told me, saying it had been “the most powerful part of my career so far.” When he left in

1988, he said, he was determined one day to return and seek the District Attorney position.

In the meantime, wishing to break from their East-coast roots, he and his family moved to Seattle, Washington.

There he furthered his law experience and co-founded the firm of McNaul, Ebel, Nawrot, and Vance. He also served, by gubernatorial appointment, as Special Assistant Attorney General and on the Washington State Sentencing Guidelines Committee.

Upon his return to New York City, he joined Morvillo, Abramowitz, Grand, Iason, Anello & Bohrer, a white-collar litigation firm, as a Principal for four years.

The first campaign issue to be resolved was whether or not Robert Morgenthau would seek re-election for a tenth term.

Although Morgenthau is 90 years old — according to an aide, a campaign slogan would have been “90 in ’09” — the legendary District Attorney gave no hint that he wanted to leave the post he has so shaped since 1975.

Vance had determined not to run against his former boss but had been fundraising since early 2008 in order to be ready to run if Mr. Morgenthau was not. The campaign essentially began with Mr. Morgenthau’s announcement in late February 2009 that he would not seek re-election.

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y’s our guy! Cy’s our guy!” The cheers ring out with such enthusiasm that Vance has trouble silencing the room before offering his extensive thanks to all who helped with the campaign. It’s seven months later, the night of September 15th, and Vance has just answered a “gracious” phone call from Leslie Crocker Snyder, conceding defeat.

Vance won the Democratic primary for the election with 44% of the vote, a substantial margin over the competition.

Leslie Crocker Snyder, a former judge who had challenged Morgenthau in the 2005 election and lost, came up with 30%, and Richard Aborn, a gun-control advocate, had 26%.

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

Although Aborn has a spot on the Working Families Party’s ballot for the November election, he has said he would support the winner of the Democratic ticket, thus practically ensuring Mr. Vance’s election in a competition without a Republican contender.

Vance had not always been the favored candidate. His campaign was “slow to pick up steam,” in his words. What worked well in the courtroom worked less well on the campaign trail. Coming from a profession based primarily on talking to others about themselves, Vance suffered the transition to becoming a politician.

When I caught up with him in late September 2009, Vance listed off the things he believes he did not do as effectively as he could have at the beginning of his campaign. “There is certainly a learning curve, and I certainly had a steep learning curve. Having to sell [myself] in a very aggressive way was new to me, and took some time to adjust to,” he said.

This difficulty, however, lent itself to a remarkably issue-based campaign on Vance’s part. He continued, “I kept my eye on a couple of simple principles during the course of the campaign that I really think ultimately worked; I believed that what I needed first was to build a set of policies that would guide the next generation of the DA’s office, were I to be DA.” Vance ran on a 4-pronged platform: that everyone is entitled to the law’s full protection; that white-collar crime should be investigated and prosecuted as vigorously as street crimes; that all crimes should be prosecuted objectively; and that the Office must attract and develop attorneys, investigators, and support staff that “reflect the full diversity of Manhattan’s communities.”

His platform is held together by the concept of “community-based justice.”

That means being “not just tough, but smart on crime,” becoming more engaged out in the field, understanding what crimes are being committed in which communities and “working hand in hand with community organizations, police, and parole and developing a specific strategy for each community.”

One of Vance’s biggest hurdles was overcoming the image of him as the privileged, “establishment” candidate, backed by what opponent Leslie Crocker

Snyder called “the old boys’ network,” namely Morgenthau himself.

The campaign’s response was to continue its focus on policy. Vance visited neighborhood after neighborhood in Manhattan, from Harlem to Chinatown, to talk about his vision and make it relevant to each. Instead of presenting his “Plan to Prevent Violence Against Women, Children, and Intimate Partners” at City Hall or on the Upper East Side, he unveiled it with Gloria Steinem in Harlem, where the majority of domestic violence cases are reported, Vance says he would have many goals as a new District and where he has Attorney, including stopping more violence against women. proposed opening a Family Justice Center. cratic clubs, prominent members of the Erin Duggan, Vance’s press secretary, legal community, New York Democrats, remembers Steinem’s endorsement, based Steinem, and New York State Senator Tom solely on the prosecutor’s vision for the Duane, among many others. office, as a turning point in the campaign.

Morgenthau also contributed his “Cy and Gloria had not met before endorsement, stating his firm belief that the summer, and with a woman running Vance is capable to fill his shoes in the in the race Gloria, weighed whether she office. “He’ll change it, and he should, should even be involved for some time. but he’ll also keep the core of excellence,” The Plan to Prevent Violence [Against the District Attorney proclaimed on elecWomen] was one of Cy’s first major policy tion night. pieces, and the strong response it generated reinforced that to win, we should he morning after the election, keep ourselves focused on the issues and Vance appeared on Fox 5’s “Good policies, and not get caught up in petty Day New York.” Greg Kelly, the political bickering.” show’s host, asked: “Did you ever imagBy late spring, attention from the press ine, at that time [as an assistant district gained momentum and added endorse- attorney], that you were the next District ment after endorsement to Vance’s plat- Attorney of Manhattan County?” form. The list of these endorsements “Well not in any realistic way,” Vance is long: The New York Times, The New laughed, then added, a small smile on his York Daily News, The New York Post, face, “I will say this, by way of confesAmsterdam News, El Diario, Jewish Press, sion: I think anyone who’s worked in the Crain’s New York Business, multiple labor District Attorney’s office probably believes unions including the United Federation that the best job in the world is Manhattan of Teachers, community leaders, demo- DA.”

COURTESY CYRUS VANCE JR.

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“BEAR MOUNTAIN,” BY DANIEL CARVALHO

Bunnies Make the World Go ’Round

BY EILEEN SHIM

Members of the Movement for Beauty and Justice are usually found staring at the stars. The group’s founders say these efforts contribute to fighting injustice all over the world. t was a typical early September evening: cool and not yet cold, breezy and not yet windy — the perfect time to sprawl in bed and flip through a magazine with the windows of my room in Berkeley thrown open to the autumn dusk. As I read the latest words of wisdom that Vogue had to offer, I became aware of a crescending wave of sound on Cross Campus. It began with a few mutters, then a gentle hum in the air, and eventually exploded into loud jazz. At first I gave no notice, thinking it was the latest student music performance. But the hubbub kept growing louder and louder until even Vogue could not hold my attention any longer. Casting my magazine aside, I poked my head out of the window, trying to discern the source of the commotion.

At first I wasn’t sure where to look. Sure there were flowers, candles, teacups, people lounging on the grass beside pretty checkered picnic blankets. And — wait, bunnies? Are those bunnies?

PHOTOGRAPHY BY RIC HERNANDEZ

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

That’s what I asked my suitemates as each of them neared the window with equal curiosity. We weren’t the only interested onlookers — those near the event paused and even stopped to inquire, receiving tea in return. But the music and the Victorian tea sets and the elaborate flower decorations and the general hipster attire just did not add up, until a helpful friend enlightened us all.

Oh that’s just a whole bunch of hippie-dippy-trippy people hanging out on Cross Campus. It’s like a weird cult thing for truth and beauty or happiness or something.

While the explanation was rather vague, it did partially explain the bizarre assembly on Cross Campus — the clusters of flowerpots and the occasional glimpse of a long white robe, at the very least. Clearly this was a hippie-wannabe gathering for those hipsters who were too hipster even for Urban Outfitters, who were not spiritually satisfied by colored tights and fair-trade, ecofriendly headbands. I thought to myself: since we are so fed up with our own vacuous lifestyles, why not sit around on the grass daintily sipping tea and spouting poetry about how much we hate pretension?

That first impression was enough for me. But as The Yale Daily News, The Yale Herald, and other university publications began spotlighting the Movement for Beauty and Justice — the real name of the gathering on Cross Campus — I became increasingly intrigued by this student organization, seemingly shrouded in nonsensical mystery. What are its real goals, I wondered, besides putting flowers in their hair and offering tea to passers-by? What do “beauty” and “justice” actually mean in the context of this group? And lastly, a question that has never been addressed in the other publications: what in the world is going on with the bunnies?

These seemingly innocuous activities, designed by co-leaders Justine Kolata ’12 and Ric Hernandez ’11 to increase beauty appreciation on campus, actually have much more grandiose goals, I discovered, and are moving forward with the help of Yale faculty members.

THE GROUNDS FOR BELIEF One of them is Thomas Pogge, Leitner Professor of Philosophy and International Affairs. When we sat down in his office in Connecticut Hall, he came across as the stereotypical Yale professor: an interesting but quiet middle-aged man with thin-framed glasses, unruly hair, and a short-trimmed beard. I began asking him how he had gotten involved with an undergraduate organization that claims to fight social injustice by throwing flower petals at random pedestrians and watching sunsets at East Rock.

“Well in my class that Justine [Kolata] took — Ethics and International Affairs — we talked about justice, but not about beauty or aesthetics,” said Pogge, who is also Kolata’s sophomore advisor. According to him, when they discussed the roots of social injustice, Kolata pointed out that people all over the world share an avaricious, self-centered social mentality. It’s two sides of the coin: the poor are unhappy because they lack essential resources, while the rich are unhappy because the resources they have are unfulfilling.

“If everyone had something fulfilling them, they wouldn’t be so gung-ho about grabbing things from people who need them so much more,” Pogge added.

Jonathan Bregman ’10 plays the viola at a Movement event.

So where does beauty come in? Kolata and Hernandez’s website explains that their conception of beauty “reaches beyond the conventional sense of the term as the cultivation of a specific aesthetic and sensibility.” It goes on to define beauty as “subjective in concept and plural in form.” Vague much?

Pogge had another explanation: “Beauty is a symbol you can’t take too narrowly. It’s something like friendship, nothing physical to look at — it’s a beautiful thing to go with a friend on a long walk and just have a good conversation about life.”

Social justice and this extensive view of beauty are not directly related in a conceptual, causal way, he continued. But they both speak broadly of the “good, valuable things in life.”

ROLE MODELS But according to Kolata and Hernandez, this link between beauty and justice is not a completely novel concept. Under the References section on their website, they casually throw out names like Plato, Goethe, and Kant. By quoting major thinkers ranging from Aristotle (“The end of all virtues is beauty”) to Keats (“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”), they have assembled a curious philosophy with supposedly classical and Romantic roots.

However, there is no further explanation about how these different philosophies contribute to their own.

At my interview with the founders, I brought up the main problem most students and publications have with the Movement for Beauty and Justice: the seemingly flimsy link between beauty as an artistic ideal and justice as a tangible social effort. But while Kolata and Hernandez remained adamant about the organiza-

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

tion’s philosophy, they did address the scholastic skepticism they are facing in promoting their ideals.

“Our ideas have foundations in academic thought,” said Kolata, again bringing up Plato and Aristotle’s emphasis on beauty as a social good. “There is a feasible connection between beauty and justice that can be held in politics and our social structure. What we want to do is analyze the literature that has been done on the subject and implement it in society.”

But literary analysis is not the only thing on the group’s agenda: while they do look at classical and modern philosophy for inspiration, they are also planning on testing the philosophies in an academic setting.

Hernandez conceded that while it is an obvious thing for them that “a more beautiful world leads to a more just world,” that is not a viewpoint shared by many others. But that could change, he said, through the psychological studies he is conducting with the help of professors. When they have psychological data that can back up their notions and statistically inform people, they can better implement the philosophy in a realistic manner, Hernandez explained.

While they espouse these grand philosophical concepts, Kolata and Hernandez do not look bookish in person. When we met at the Berkeley Dining Hall for the interview, Kolata, with her carefully arranged blonde hair and her simple, classic outfit that paid tribute to ridiculously long legs, legitimately looked as though she had stepped off the runway. Hernandez, on the other hand, would make the hipster world proud with his lion’s-mane hair and scrupulous style, complemented by a studded ear piercing.

In my jeans and a Yale sweater, I felt very little beauty and justice on my side of the table.

Hernandez continued with his goals for the organization: “It’s important that people see this as a lifestyle change. We would not want to be considered as a club at Yale where people just show up to meetings.” Even if people never affiliate with the movement, he added, “the idea is there and the idea is so powerful.”

Adopting beauty and justice as a way of viewing life is a concept that Kolata has believed in for a long time. “If we can impact people with this viewpoint, I know we can solve problems that have been around for thousands of years.”

Looking at Kolata and Hernandez smiling across the table, I can only admit that they at least got the beauty half of the equation figured out.

FROM PAPER TO REAL LIFE Nevertheless, the justice half of the movement is what most people have questions about. While the chalked up signs telling students to look up and enjoy their surroundings may inspire appreciation of Yale greenery and architecture, they seem to do little to help, say, starving children in sub-Saharan Africa.

Not according to Kolata and Hernandez. The Movement for Beauty and Justice, Hernandez explained, is about “compassion for fellow men, love and respect for others you share the Earth with.”

Kolata gave another explanation. “A lot of people are very moral, but we are in a system that perpetuates social injustices so these people unintentionally end up contributing to these systems,” she said. By making our political and social structures uphold basic human rights, we can effect real change, she

Parable Waking, I look up to dead birch Branches waving in the wind, And, shivering, watch their conversation: The crooked silhouettes against the twilight Shake long shadows over the wet, dark meadow beside us Where we lie under the trees.

Ephatha, the branches said, that is, Be Opened.

And my heart sang there in the shadow Watching the night leave and the morning come While you slept on the rocky soil beside me.

In the silence, the stars disappearing, The wound of knowledge: Death must come to all Appalachia.

No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth onto an old coat No one pours new wine into old wineskins I rose and stood barefoot in the meadow, Let the worms move beneath me, the grass strand its water on my ankles.

-Alice Hodgkins

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added.

But it’s one thing to philosophize about beauty and justice and another to completely change the very fabric of society. Kolata was very frank about her goals for the organization: Yale is just the first step in a movement that will hopefully “become a political structure on a large scale,” she said. On the Movement for Beauty and Justice’s website, the Yale chapter is described as the first case study, and the founders offer to extend their help to other people who may want to start their own local chapters. As the name of the organization states, it is intended to be a movement, not another extracurricular activity for resume builders.

Kolata and Hernandez certainly do apply their own ideas in their daily lives. During our interview, they occasionally commented on the beauty of their surroundings.

Pointing at the ceiling of the dining hall, Hernandez praised the woodwork, while Kolata noted the intricacy of the stone carvings and tapestry. The ideas of beauty and justice, they said, are about viewing the world in a different, positive way, and if that viewpoint could be applied in a political manner to impact everyone, the world would be a much better place.

While the greater social and political goals are in the process of being realized, there are some actual social justice projects in the works for the Movement for Beauty and Justice. At the moment, the group is working in collaboration with an indigenous community in Bolivia to teach people sustainable farming techniques. Kolata, who has spent a significant part of her life in the South American country, said that the community’s own ancient agricultural practices, which are no longer prevalent, are actually very efficient and environmentally friendly. By combining these traditional techniques with new sustainable technologies, they want to empower the indigenous people and preserve the environment, she said.

The organization is planning a spring break trip to Bolivia to do hands-on demonstrations for the natives and engage them on a personal level.

Another major ongoing effort is the education project, which is both socially tangible and representative of the Movement for Beauty and Justice’s goals. The organization is developing a curriculum for a public school system that teaches the values of beauty and justice through group activities that focus on arts and culture. Kolata and Hernandez are also working on an afterschool program that keeps students at school to participate in alternative, constructive activities instead of more “destructive activities.”

A point that both founders stressed was the seriousness and long-term sustainability of their endeavors. For example, future

projects will focus on poverty, health, culture, and the environment.

“This is not just an overnight thing. What we’ve been able to do in a short amount of time is so small compared to what we expect to do over a long period of time,” Hernandez said.

The organization is currently applying for Yale grants and 501(c)3 status, which would officially make it tax-exempt and non-profit. The funding could allow the organization to realize its international goals and projects, and Kolata and Hernandez are looking to collaborate with existent non-governmental organizations to work on as many different efforts as they can.

Though most social and community volunteer organizations are registered with Dwight Hall under the Social Justice Network, Kolata and Hernandez see their organization as slightly different from other service organizations at Yale due to its comprehensive nature: the social justice effort is only a part of their goals. Still, Social Justice Network’s New Membership coordinator Jill Hagey ’11 said there is a lot of room for groups like the Movement for Beauty and Justice to work with other Dwight

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Hall organizations.

“We work with sororities and other groups which have a wing of their group interested in community service,” Hagey said.

“We are very accepting of organizations whose primary focus isn’t social justice but still want to work with us on community service efforts.”

TALKING HEADS Even though the Movement for Beauty and Justice does include social justice projects, it has received very negative press for being allegedly too naive and vague about its goals. The recent IvyGate blog article compared the Movement for Beauty and Justice to the Derek Zoolander Institute For Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Want To Do Other Stuff Good Too, the farcically idealistic school in the Ben Stiller comedy Zoolander. Kolata and Hernandez have certainly taken notice of the Yale Daily News and Yale Herald articles, which criticized the organization’s promotional efforts, which have so far consisted of sidewalk chalking, stargazing, tea parties, sunset viewings, and free concerts.

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“Both of us were surprised by the negative reactions to things that weren’t integral to the organization,” said Hernandez.

The promotional events were meant to attract attention and are not the goal of the group, he said. “It’s not the be all and end all.”

A significant amount of attention has been devoted to the bunnies, appropriately named “Beauty” and “Justice,” which have made appearances at the Freshman Activities Bazaar and other events. Abandoned by a family in North Carolina, the bunnies are currently kept in Hernandez’s apartment, housed in a large “castle” that he fashioned himself.

But, as Kolata insists, the bunnies aren’t really the point of the organization. “It was a way to get freshmen to sign up,” she explained. The Activities Bazaar can be intimidating, and they wanted to welcome the freshmen with pets, she said.

“What’s more welcoming than a bunny?” Hernandez interjected. “A pair of bunnies.”

Another notion that Kolata and Hernandez wanted to dispel was that they are a pseudo-hippie organization. While Kolata acknowledged there were positive things in the hippie movement, such as appreciating the world and opening communication with people, she said that the movement was very limited and that nothing substantial came out of it. Hernandez added that the hippie movement was anti-political whereas the Movement for Beauty and Justice is about working with the system and not against it.

Both of them were adamant about defending their idealism. As Kolata explained, there is a balance between incorporating idealism and doing things that are tangible and have an impact on people’s lives. In the movement’s philosophy, idealism is described as a pragmatic way of living vivaciously and sharing the beauty of the world. The negative publicity they had received did not attack their ideas but only the supposed naïveté of idealism, Kolata said.

“What’s wrong with people having hope and faith in humanity? It’s just a little bit ridiculous,” Hernandez said, referring to the critical attention they had received.

The main thing that they wanted to convey was that their organization is a fundamentally good effort. Even though some people may think their ideas overly idealistic and impractical, Kolata and Hernandez believe that they are still working on promoting positive values and social justice. Kolata concluded that the skepticism they faced was essentially unfounded: “you can say it’s idealistic, but you can’t argue that we are not doing something positive.”

THIS IS GOING TO BE AFROBEAT

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BY JENNIFER PARKER

Fela Kuti — political activist, musical innovator, symbol of hope for Nigeria, and founder of Afrobeat — was born into controversy. And though he died in 1997, his music lives on. he Abami (meaning “strange one” in Yoruba) had awoken from his slumber. Kaleta’s long, anxious wait for Fela Kuti, the creator of Afrobeat, was finally over. As he passed through the beaded curtain leading to Fela’s bedroom, a thick, almost impenetrable fog of marijuana smoke engulfed Kaleta. He had arrived at Fela’s compound late in the morning, but had had to wait several hours for his audition, which finally took place in the early hours of the next day. Several naked women lounged as Fela, also naked, interrogated Kaleta about his background.

Kaleta had grown up in the Church, listening and playing gospel music. Fela hated organized religion. Kaleta also confessed that he had played with and recorded albums for King Sunny Ade, Fela’s main rival. “You have failed the audition,” Fela said.

And to get back at Kaleta, Fela still made him audition — with a rusty, weathered guitar. Kaleta excused himself to an adjacent room, tried to fix and tune the instrument, and returned ready to audition. He played “Open and Close” and “Water No Get Enemy” and nailed both. Ultimately, Kaleta’s musical prowess impressed Fela, who invited Kaleta to join his band.

Kaleta, now a member of the band Akoya Afrobeat, has the unique experience of having toured with Fela for many years. In September, Kaleta and I talked in his studio on Ludlow Street in New York. Not the posh, manicured facility of pop starlets and triple-platinum rappers, Kaleta’s studio is literally underground, accessed by rectangular steel doors embedded in the sidewalk. Kaleta crouched and unlocked the doors as I held his Red Sox messenger bag. We walked down a precipitously steep set of stairs into the recording studio.

The room was about the size of a large bedroom. Children’s bed sheets, covGRAPHICS BY EVE KING

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ered with images of Mickey Mouse, were draped over drum sets and speakers, protecting them from dust. A guitar, a calendar, vinyl records, and posters of Fela, Johnny Cash, and Jimi Hendrix sparsely covered the brick walls. We talked into microphones as Kaleta recounted his memorable audition process for Fela.

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f Fela Kuti is God, Nigeria is God’s heaven, and Afrobeat is God’s most glorified creation. Afrobeat — part funk, part jazz, part West African highlife — is as strongly tied to its creator Fela Kuti as reggae is to Bob Marley or funk is to James Brown.

Fela life story and political activism are as unique as his music.

Born into an upper-middle-class family in Abeokuta, Nigeria and educated at an elite college in London, Fela became a revolutionary figure in his home country. He used his power, popularity, influence, and music to stand up against Nigeria’s infamously corrupt government, exploitative international corporations, and African societies’ “western” customs.

Fela’s music reflects his views on decolonization, the American civil rights and black power movements, and pan-Africanism. And though you can’t travel back to Nigeria in the 1970s, when Fela Kuti’s political, sexual, and musical forces were in full effect, New York City today presents a good alternative. Though Fela died in 1997 from an AIDSrelated illness, his legacy still thrives. The vibrant Afrobeat culture in New York City has many different elements and players — museum exhibits, dance parties, live performances, record labels, and even, as of October 19th, a Broadway musical. Today, Afrobeat is in a state of transition, rising up toward mainstream culture.

skin-bleaching. He even married 27 wives, believing monogamy was un-African.

Fela’s political music, which rallied the youth, enraged the Nigerian government, whose corruption and excesses he often ridiculed in his songs. At the behest of the Nigerian military, Fela endured jailing, beatings, and torture, year after year after year.

In one famous episode in 1977, 1,000 Nigerian soldiers raided his compound. They attacked Fela and his wives, burned his possessions, and even threw his mother from a window, inflicting injuries from which she later died. Fela placed his mother’s coffin in front of federal army barracks, a symbolic act of grief protesting the destruction the Nigerian government had inflicted upon him for years.

Fela was a figure larger than life — he lived big, he stood for big principles, and he left a big legacy. Now, his shadow looms over Afrobeat’s fans and musicians.

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ew York, especially Brooklyn, is arguably the most vibrant hub of Afrobeat today. But Afrobeat is more than just a burgeoning music scene — it’s an academic, political, and theatrical culture.

Several factors have contributed to the rise of Afrobeat in New York since Fela’s death. In 2000, Temple University Press published Fela: The Life and Times of an African Musical Icon, a biography by Yale ethnomusicology professor Michael E. Veal. Hailed

by Publishers Weekly as an “exhaustive and objective profile,” the book exposed Fela to academic circles. Around the same time, MCA Records re-released some of Fela’s albums, including compilations like The Best Best of Fela Kuti.

In 2003, Black President: The Art and Legacy of Fela Anikulapo Kuti, a multimedia exhibition, opened at the New Museum, which, until the opening of a new Broadway musical this month, likely brought the most exposure to Afrobeat music. The exhibition featured works of young artists and their different interpretations of Fela, his political and musical legacy. “When an exhibition opens, it reaches a whole new level of audience, namely those that don’t go to clubs,” said Trevor Schoonmaker, the exhibition curator. “The [exhibition’s] publications reached people on different levels because they [could] travel beyond boundaries.”

Among many other works, the exhibit featured a Barkley Hendricks painting, Fela: Amen, Amen, Amen, Amen… The piece depicts a Christ-like Fela, with a halo around his head, gripping a microphone with one hand and simultaneously grabbing his crotch and holding a joint with the other. But the focus of the portrait is on Fela’s heart, shaped like Africa, protruding from his chest. In another piece, Heaven Can Wait, the artist Odili Donald Odita depicts a wheelbarrow filled with Naira, Nigerian currency, sliding over an oil spill.

Two years before the exhibit opened, Schoonmaker, along with Debbie Seeley and DJ Rich Medina, started Jump N Funk, a traveling Afrobeat dance party. Initially conceived to raise awareness for Schoonmaker’s museum exhibition, the party started out

As he passed through the beaded curtain leading to Fela’s bedroom, a thick, almost impenetrable fog of marijuana smoke engulfed Kaleta.

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fter throwing off the colonial yoke in the mid-twentieth century, Nigeria faced daunting problems, many of which the country has not fully disentangled: nation-building, the effects of the Biafran war, oil corruption, tribalism, militarism, and infrastructure nightmares.

Olufela Olusegun Oludotun Ransome-Kuti was born into this turmoil in 1938. His father was an Anglican pastor and his mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, was an anti-colonialist, a women’s rights activist, the founder of the Nigerian Women’s Union, and a world traveler.

Fela was heavily influenced by jazz, and also by Afro-Cuban rhythms, soul music, salsa, and rhythm-and-blues. In college, he and a friend started Koola Lobitos, a West African highlife band.

During a trip to America in 1969, Fela met Sandra Izsadore.

Formerly of the Black Panther Party, she introduced Fela to the ideologies of pan-Africanism, black nationalism, and figures of the black power and civil rights movements. America exposed Fela to the new counterculture of the 60s — Afros, rock ’n’ roll, drugs, political protest, activism, and liberal sexuality.

This transformative trip informed Fela’s band — renamed Afrika 70 (and later, Egypt 80) — and the messages of his songs.

He became more Afrocentric, championing traditional African customs and deriding colonial influences like hair-straightening and

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as an after-work event but grew exponentially. It now stops in Philadelphia, Washington D.C., Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

Schoonmaker credits the growth of Jump N Funk to Medina, a rare DJ who incorporates Afrobeat into his repertoire, spinning Fela Kuti between tracks by Lauryn Hill and A Tribe Called Quest.

“Rich is the soul of the party,” said Schoonmaker. “He’s an incredible DJ, doing something no one has ever done in New York. And because of Rich’s ability to embrace the crowd and because of Fela’s music — Jump N Funk was so harmonious.

Musicians, writers, dancers, fashion people, curators, and artists came together to listen to Fela.”

Medina often spins Fela records at his weekly club nights, but very few nightclubs play Afrobeat, and even fewer welcome Afrobeat ensembles into their space. A few places, such as Zebulon, SOB’s, and The Knitting Factory in New York, defy Eurocentric norms. Zebulon, especially, is widely praised among Afrobeat fans as a haven for the music.

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his rise in Afrobeat’s popularity in the past ten years has culminated in the Broadway opening of Fela!, a play about the controversial figure’s life and music. While some people think that the play will bring Afrobeat to new audiences, others who knew Fela are worried that it will commercialize and sanitize Fela’s life. And Kaleta is among the skeptics. “I didn’t think the play was depicting Fela at the onset of the production two or three years ago because of the commercial part of it, and because they

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want to reach out to the white audience,” Kaleta said. “They’re reaching the public by using Fela, but not necessarily the way he does these things.”

I sat in on a Fela! rehearsal as the cast was adapting to a new performance space. Fela! has transformed Broadway’s Eugene O’Neill Theatre into the Afrika Shrine, Fela Kuti’s nightclub, “filled with mystery, spiritualism, funk, lights, color and magic,” said Steve Hendel ’73, the executive producer of the play.

Broadway’s Afrika Shrine contains many of the same elements as Nigeria’s Afrika Shrine — flags of African countries and a large image of Africa hang above the stage, and adorning the walls are portraits of African and African-American leaders including Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, Fela’s mother. The writings of such leaders had been sold in the Nigerian Shrine, which became a place for intellectual discourse amid Afrobeat music and go-go dancers.

During the cast and crew’s dinner break, Hendel and I sat in the balcony seats overlooking the stage. He and his colleagues initially faced negative feedback from other Broadway producers, whom they invited to join the staff in the play’s early stages.

Too obscure, too unconventional, too unmarketable, they heard over and over — understandable reactions given most people’s ignorance of Fela and Afrobeat. Recounting Fela’s story (not a particularly family-friendly one compared Mary Poppins, The Lion King, and Wicked) is a formidable achievement, Hendel said.

Hendel conceived of the idea for the Fela Kuti musical around 2000 when he started to listen to The Best Best of Fela Kuti. The

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album’s liner notes and the history behind the music especially resonated with Hendel. “Fela wrote these long, really beautiful horn arrangements, very funky, very kinetic music. But Fela also expressed his feelings about specific things that were happening in Nigeria or in his life through these absolutely beautiful poetic phrases and lyric. It occurred to me that it would be a great subject for a musical, to make one based on his life and music.”

The play’s in-house band, which was rehearsing on-stage, is comprised of members of Antibalas, considered by many to be the most popular Afrobeat band in New York. “They know where the vitamins are in Fela’s music,” said Hendel. Many other Afrobeat musicians and aficionados credit Antibalas with helping to popularize Afrobeat and introduce the genre to a new generation.

Stuart Bogie, a member of Antibalas and the Broadway crew, composed “Indictment,” a fan favorite. In the song, a mock trial takes place. “Karl Rove, indictment! Condoleezza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld indictment! John Ashcroft, indictment! George W. Bush, indictment!” he screams to the court while banging on a table.

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s “Indictment” exemplifies, Afrobeat in New York continues the tradition of activism and direct protest, a fundamental element of Fela’s Afrobeat. In 2004, Eric Herman and Jesse Brenner started Modiba Productions, a record label and production company whose vision is to bring “the best and hottest in new Afrocentric music to drive positive social and political change.” The two Wesleyan graduates came up with the idea for this company during their senior year in college, after transformative semesters abroad to Mali and Botswana, respectively.

The company directly descends from Fela’s imperative to use African-inspired music to raise awareness about political realities in Africa. Modiba’s first album, Afrobeat Sudan Aid Project, compiled tracks from various Afrobeat artists, including Antibalas, Akoya, Wunmi, and Tony Allen, Fela’s drummer. Proceeds from ASAP, totaling over $130,000, have gone to victims of the Darfur genocide.

Another organization, Red Hot, also does service work through music. Red Hot & Riot: The Music and Spirit of Fela Kuti, a tribute album released in 2002, donates its money to fighting AIDS. The tribute features covers of Fela’s music and appearances by musicians, including Talib Kweli, D’Angelo, Kelis, and Femi Kuti, Fela’s son. Four years later, the Brooklyn Academy of Music hosted fund-raising concert, Red Hot & Riot Live! “Fela died and the future is now,” said Paul Heck, the producer of Red Hot & Riot. “Now is the time to enjoy Fela’s music and pay attention to HIV/AIDS.”

his band. Antibalas is often praised as “carrying Fela’s torch,” but Garcia also wanted to express his own style of Afrobeat.

Many fans and performers of Afrobeat are happy to see the music evolve. Michael Veal heard Chico Mann perform and loved what he heard. For Veal and many others, Afrobeat’s evolution and expansion into different genres should be applauded and encouraged.

Just as the sounds are evolving, the demographics of Afrobeat listeners and performers are also changing. Nigerian musicians created Afrobeat for a local audience, but most Afrobeat musicians in New York are young, white men. African-Americans rarely attend Afrobeat concerts and almost never perform in Afrobeat bands. Eric Herman of Modiba Productions also noticed this trend, which he attributes to vestiges of slavery. Upon their arrival in America, whites denied blacks information about their heritage and coerced slaves into being ashamed of their native continent, traces of which, he argues, might still be present in blacks’ reluctance to embrace African music and customs.

Rich Medina laments the lack of knowledge among many Americans, especially African-Americans, about the history of modern Africa. “People pay a lot of lip service to ‘I’m Black and I’m Proud!’ But they have no discourse for who Mbutu is, who Idi Amin is, who Robert Mugabe is, who Steven Biko is, who Charles Taylor is, what happened in Rwanda or what happened in Kenya.”

While the lead vocalists in both Akoya and Antibalas are Nigerian men, their colleagues onstage are overwhelmingly white.

Could a traditional Afrobeat group have a white or a female lead vocalist? Some people don’t think so.

Jocelyn Soubiran, a manager at Zebulon, is an Afrobeat purist. He believes that only Fela exemplifies traditional, authentic Afrobeat. “There is less and less of Afrobeat here. As much as I love Afrobeat, it’s hard because I know what it’s supposed to sound like. I need some craziness,” he said. “Fela is crazy. Afrobeat needs someone who can scream and cry like Fela. I don’t know about Afrobeat in America. The biggest mistake in music is when you play music that doesn’t belong to you.”

Kaleta, too, is critical of the new developments in Afrobeat.

He believes that Fela would not have called many of the new kinds of Afrobeat part of his genre. “Fela is very controversial. He’s probably going to yab, which means to say something opposite, to disagree with everything that comes in a positive way. It’s not a matter of liking — even if he liked the band, he’s not going to say it. He’s going to find something to dislike.”

While the lead vocalists in both Akoya and Antibalas are Nigerian men, their colleagues onstage are overwhelmingly white.

W

hile some people are continuing Fela’s legacy through political activism, others are taking Afrobeat in new directions. Marcos Garcia, a member of Antibalas, has created an electronic-Afrobeat sound in the form of Chico Mann,

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an Afrobeat move forward if it’s always looking back?

Despite the ideological tension within the Afrobeat community, the genre has undoubtedly risen in popularity and, as it is making its way to new audiences, will likely continue to do so. “Afrobeat is an extremely catchy and interesting musical style that is able to blend well with other styles,” Eric Herman said.

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

“It’s powerful music, both sonically, politically and spiritually.

It gets people inspired to get up and dance or inspired to think about the politics behind the music.” Larry Gold, the owner of SOB’s, believes that “now, it’s the young American cats that are totally influenced by Fela’s sound. More than anything else, it’s a rhythm that North Americans’ sensibility can appreciate.”

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n mid-September, after having listened to Fela’s songs on my computer for the past two years, I finally attended my first live Afrobeat performance at the insistence of Marc Amigone, the editor of The Afrobeat Blog. He explained that live Afrobeat is much better than recordings due to the size and gravity of the ensemble. “Every element that they layer is a force to be reckoned with.” The venue, an über-underground club in Brooklyn, was unmarked — no posters and no signs, save for a solitary man sitting on a chair which propped open a door. And the interior was quintessentially underground: dirty floors and hipsters galore. A disco ball spun above the stage, fracturing coral, yellow, and turquoise lights, scattering color everywhere.

After two painful sets of interpretive music and free-form jazz, Akoya Afrobeat finally came on. “Akoya’s gonna blow the roof off,” said Jonathan Moore, the concert manager and producer. As I listened to Akoya, I realized that the band had not reconciled its position between honoring Fela and blazing a new path. Not fully a tribute band because they write their own music, Akoya is also not fully a neo-Afrobeat band, as they have so many of the same elements as Fela’s music and band.

But I also realized that Marc and Jonathan were right about the power of Afrobeat. The large horn section, talking drums, and vibrant vocals roared out to the crowd. The steady percussive elements and guitars vaulted the concert’s energy to new heights, exerting a powerful influence over the audience, who desperately wanted more.

Thera The snow fell as the day advanced, obscuring the black tracks of the road before the trucks could funnel salt.

The pines sank to the ground beside the highway, and the flakes hit like live stars into the glass— frozen on the windshield in the premature dark.

We pulled over and listened as the snow silenced the commuter lot and the engine in the dark.

The radio droned as we closed our eyes—some tragic story, then a program about drowned Atlantis reduced to a crescent of crater.

Only the art remains—mosaics quiet beneath the weight of water.

-Laura Marris

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The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

BY THOMAS KAPLAN

In the world of hibachi, where the threat of injury is as constant as the flow of sake, Kumo’s Tony Chi is equal parts chef and performer.

And he knows the key to customers’ happiness. ony Chi places his cup of green tea on the aluminum grill and sprawls on a stool in the back of the restaurant. Adjusting his chef’s hat, he ties on his hachimaki, a traditional Japanese headband worn as a symbol of perseverance and hard work. He cranes his neck to scope out the two groups that just sat down at other hibachi grills. An elderly husband and wife sit at the first. Surrounding the second is a group of 30-something couples, the women flaunting blond highlights and low-cut dresses, the men gelled hair and starched sport shirts. Each of them orders a shot of whiskey or vodka.

Tony grins. “They’re going to get wild,” he whispers. “This table, it should be exciting.”

It is a rainy Saturday night in November 2008, and Tony is teaching me the art of scouting a hibachi party. Hibachi chefs like Tony don’t put on the same act for everybody. Rather, they size up the customers who sit before them and adjust their routines accordingly: families with doe-eyed children get balloon animals, older couples are treated to “sir” and “ma’am” flattery, and college kids drown in quarts of sake. Tony, who is 30 years old and has been cooking hibachi since before his voice dropped, prefers the third category. Long after those customers leave the restaurant, Tony remembers them. More importantly, they remember Tony.

As the head chef at Kumo, a Japanese steakhouse that opened in 2007 on Elm Street in New Haven, Tony won’t cook for either the elderly couple or the shotslurping yuppies. His seniority among the restaurant’s three hibachi chefs means he gets to bide his time in the back of the restaurant, sipping his green tea until a third table is filled with hungry patrons.

I’ve had a longstanding affection for hibachi restaurants, and when I saw an ad for this place, I immediately dragged a group of friends here. We didn’t go for the PHOTOGRAPHY BY GINGER JIANG

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

food — in a hibachi restaurant, the meal is almost a distraction. The experience is all about entertainment. Sharp knives. Oil-drenched, sodium-laden food. Dangerous and uncontrolled inebriation. Fire.

Crude humor. The risk of severe bodily injury.

Tony Chi wouldn’t have it any other way.

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few weeks before, I had watched Tony emerge from the kitchen, balancing a bowl of miso soup and a cup of green tea. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and Kumo was empty.

The lights above the hibachi grills were dark; aside from the smooth jazz piped in on the wall-mounted speakers, the place was still.

Tony, who is about 5’7” and has the build of someone who spends his job standing in place, extended a doughy hand. “So!” he said. “What do you want to know about hibachi?”

Pretty much everything, I told him, and he was pleased. Tony’s life is defined by hibachi. Where he works, what he eats, where he sleeps — all are the consequence of his grilling escapades. For the past 10 years, he has traveled the country, hopping from state to state, restaurant to restaurant, hibachi grill to hibachi grill, honing his craft as he goes. The more places he works, he explained, the more tricks he can pick up. “I’m still learning,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect hibachi chef.”

Tony spoke of his hibachi career as if he were a surgical resident describing his growing comfort in the operating room. To him, hibachi is a form of art. To me, on the other hand, it has always seemed a form of humiliation. After all, the job is founded on a demeaning stereotype. Hunching over a grill in a funny costume, making ethnic jokes, carving onions into volcanoes and piles of fried rice into beating hearts — how could someone do that, day in, day out, for his livelihood?

But Tony said he doesn’t mind the exaggerated pan-Asian accent he is asked to use, nor the sometimes-humiliating jokes he has to tell. Rather, it’s all part of the fun. And the fact he has to pretend to be Japanese (when he is actually Chinese) just comes with the territory. “Basically,” he said, “it’s a great career.”

Tony’s family immigrated to the United States from China when he was eight. His mother worked at a dress factory in Brooklyn; each night, when she got home from work, Tony helped her prepare dinner, washing vegetables and frying rice. He was good at this; other things, not so much. As Tony recalled it, he started elementary school without being able to speak a word of English. By middle school, he was in a special-education program.

He still could not read or write, nor did he have the cool sneakers or clothes over which his old classmates obsessed. The only reason they didn’t pick on him, he said, was because all the “badass” kids — the ones who would fail classes not because they couldn’t read, but because they were troublemakers — were thrown in his specialed program. They passed for friends.

But when he began high school, Tony still could barely read or write, and he was running out of patience. “The way I looked at school,” he recalled, “I just didn’t like it.” So one month into the ninth grade, he dropped out. For the next few years, he bounced

around from odd job to odd job, working as, among other things, a package sorter, a waiter, a Chinese food delivery-man, and a busboy. Tony saw himself as inferior, as a dimwit, as a man destined to live paycheck by paycheck, and not to enjoy doing it. “Sucks,” Tony said. “That’s not exactly what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. You’re not going to get a nice house, a nice car, with those jobs.” His mother thought so, too, and about a decade ago, she drew the line. “She was fed up,” Tony said. “She said, ‘You got to get a good job.’”

Eventually, Tony saw a newspaper ad for a Japanese steakhouse in the Bronx that was hiring. He got a job working in the kitchen and started talking to the hibachi chefs. He realized how much money they made. He realized how fun their jobs sounded. “I’m kind of wild,” Tony explained. So is hibachi.

More importantly, from those evenings cooking rice in his family’s kitchen, Tony saw a shot at making it, poor test scores be damned. “The ad put it really nice, that you will have a great future, once you learn,” he said.

“I felt like, ‘I got to do this, I got to learn this — that’s the only way I’m going to survive.’”

So Tony finagled his kitchen gig into a trial run as a hibachi chef, and the rest, as they say, was history. Tony has bounced around the country over the past decade, manning hibachi grills in eight states — New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Florida, Wisconsin, and Ohio. (He showed me the business cards to prove it.) Since May, he has worked here; he sleeps in a small New Haven apartment, along with other employees of the restaurant, from Tuesday to Saturday, and then retreats home to Brooklyn on the weekend.

It’s a tough life, but Tony said hibachi has served him well.

With tips, he can make $800 or $1,000 in a good week, more than enough to support his mother and still have money to stash away.

One day, with his savings, Tony wants to open his own hibachi restaurant.

“Some hibachi chefs get out of control, and you catch the customer’s hair on fire,” Tony said flatly. “It happens.”

I

t’s 6:17 PM on Saturday, and a third group has lumbered into the restaurant. A motley crew of 18 assembles at the third of the restaurant’s four hibachi tables, crowding around both grills and filling every seat of the C-shaped table. The group is an odd assortment — a middle-aged couple, three 20-something couples, and 11 sweatshirt-wearing teenagers. One of the 20-somethings, a goateed hulk of a man in a black V-neck T-shirt, spots Tony and me in the back of the restaurant. “You coming over here?” he hollers.

Tony nods. The man bursts into a toothy smile. “All right!”

Good news, Tony tells me. This is Ricky. He’s a regular.

As I wait near the edge of the dining room, Tony retreats to the kitchen to get his supply cart, which is stocked with everything a hibachi chef could ever need — butter, sesame seeds, soy sauce, vodka (which he pronounces, for effect, more like “wahd-ka”), and the rice and raw meat and fish that Ricky and his friends are in the process of ordering. A few minutes later, the curtain to the kitchen parts. Like a soldier headed into battle, Tony emerges, straightens his cap and strides toward the table. “There he is!” Ricky exclaims.

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

He and everyone else at the table are already drinking.

Tony flicks the switch on the fume hood above the grill and gets his cart in position. He’ll cook for half of the table; another chef will come out in a moment to cook for the other half. Yet I know this is not an ordinary dinner. A full table — an 18-person party — is enough to give even the most seasoned hibachi chef a few butterflies, Tony told me a few days earlier as we chatted during his break between lunch and dinner. “All hibachi chefs, they will get a little bit nervous when they go up to the table. They’re expecting a show,” he said of the customers. “Everyone’s always expecting a show.”

First, though, it is time for business. Tony double-checks each person’s order and makes sure no one has problematic allergies.

(The waitress is supposed to ask when she takes the order, but sometimes people don’t think to speak up. This is among the most frustrating things for a hibachi chef, since he must re-jigger the order in which he will cook the different elements of the meal.

“Some customers are stupid,” Tony complained to me.) Then he cleans the grill, dousing it in oil and wiping hard, with his rag, in rapid linear strokes.

Tony puts the rag back in his cart and eyes Ricky. “You ready to get intoxicated?” he asks, lingering on that final word, flinging it at the customers in his exaggerated accent. Ricky beams. His girlfriend — blond hair, highlights, obscenely low-cut tank top, ostensibly fake breasts — nods approvingly. So, strangely, too, does the older couple, who I would find out are Ricky’s parents. (Hibachi is often a family affair.)

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“Good,” Tony responds. He pulls a clear, condiment-type bottle from his cart. “Open your mouths!” he commands. It is sake time, which, for Tony, is an activity that can be characterized by the unadulterated glee of Christmas morning combined with the carefree recklessness of New Year’s Eve. From behind the grill, he shoots a stream of the liquid — a Japanese liquor made from fermented rice — across the table and, one by one, into the mouths of each of the nine diners. After the first two are doused in it, the rest realize they should use their napkin as a smock, of sorts, when under attack by Tony. Ricky is the strongest; he takes Tony’s fire for a full 10 seconds before succumbing and swallowing the sake.

I thought that would be the end of sake time. I was wrong.

Tony makes time, briefly, for a few standard tricks — flipping pieces of zucchini into customers’ mouths with his fork and spatula, igniting a big fireball as he prepares to cook — but his conclusion was that Ricky and his friends wanted to get wild, and, therefore, he should waste no time in helping them. “More sake, more happy,” he declares to anyone who will listen. Indeed, Tony squirts rounds of sake no fewer than six times over the next 45 minutes, pumping Ricky and his friends full of several quarts of the liquor. (That was nothing, he tells me later.)

At 7 PM, after finishing off the chicken and scallops and steak and shrimp laid out before him, Tony turns off his grill and grabs his cart. As quickly as he took the stage, now it’s time for him to go back to the kitchen and prepare to greet a new group. Ricky gazes at him earnestly. “Very nice, very nice,” he gushes. “Thank you, bro.”

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As he pulls his cart out from the grill, Tony spots me on the side of the restaurant. He motions a thumbs-up and flashes a wide smile. The diminutive chef, returning from his conquest, looks larger than life.

T

he Japanese steakhouse is a distinctly American concept.

What we’re really talking about here is not hibachi — the Japanese word for an old-fashioned charcoal heating device in the shape of a bowl — but rather teppanyaki, which comes from the Japanese words teppan (steel griddle) and yaki (broiled). But corporate branding has won out, and hibachi is what Tony and everyone else here calls this profession.

Hibachi never was supposed to become a mainstay for American families celebrating birthdays. In Japan, the restaurant chain Misono introduced the concept of grilling Western-style food on a teppan in 1945, hoping to provide an exotic and foreign dining option to native Japanese. But because the Western ingredients it employed did not jibe with the Japanese dietary system, Misono restaurants found themselves occupied more by foreign tourists than by Japanese people.

Naturally, then, the restaurant’s concept eventually migrated to American shores. In 1964, Hiroaki “Rocky” Aoki, who died this past July, opened the first Benihana of Tokyo on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Within six months, the restaurant had lines out the door every night of the week, according to newspaper accounts at the time. “The steak, vegetables, and whatever are cooked at the tables,” The New York Times explained to its surely-confused readers, “and its appeal seems universal.”

Today, Benihana is synonymous with hibachi. The chain has served over 100 million meals since 1964 and today operates 79 Japanese steakhouses. And there are hundreds more independent hibachi restaurants like Kumo. Three new hibachi restaurants have opened in this county alone in as many years. And as new locations have sprung up, older ones have begun to change their act, at least according to Tony. More sake, more tricks and stunts, more overthe-top antics — these are the demands of hibachi patrons today.

“That’s what American people want,” he told me when we first sat down. The trick for any hibachi chef, Tony said, is balancing the cooking with the entertainment. Some restaurants prioritize one over the other; Tony said he tries to pay equal attention to both. “To make it in this business, you have to be funny,” he said. “But why do people come here? Because, of course, they are hungry. They’re here to eat. The show and food go together.

When hibachi chefs think the show is more important, that’s when they get messed up in life.”

Messed up, as in juggling knives — something Tony will not do — and accidentally flinging one into a customer’s eye. Or putting too much vodka on the grill and igniting an uncontrollable fire. “Some hibachi chefs get out of control, and you catch the customer’s hair on fire,” Tony said flatly. “It happens.”

But it must not happen too often, because the hibachi business is booming. One cost, it is clear, is authenticity. Not once, Tony said, has a customer called him out on what, from his appearance, is an obvious paradox: he is a Chinese chef at a Japanese steakhouse.

“Japanese, Korean, Chinese — they can’t tell the difference,” Tony said. “They don’t really care if you’re Japanese or not. They just want more sake.”

That’s not to say hibachi chefs don’t get any grief. While Tony must entertain in the vein of a circus performer, the sake can sometimes spur customers to treat him as one. Tony has heard his share of demeaning comments over the years, but he said they are simply a consequence of the job. “I just ignore it,” he said. “You just have to accept that. If you can’t take what people say to you, you can’t do hibachi.

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ony cooks for four tables’ worth of customers on this Saturday night, and his technique varies at each table.

(He is very pleased that I pick up on this.) But he also has some recurring tendencies that I pick up on. For one, he is a deft zucchini-flipper. At his first table, Tony goes 6-for-7 in launching a tiny bit of vegetable (“wegetable”) across the table and into the mouths of his customers, and the one miss comes when a teenage boy purses his lips and lets the zucchini bounce right off his face.

This upsets Tony; when someone fails to receive a good zucchini pitch, he hurls a whole handful of zucchini bits at him.

Like everything else in hibachi, there is an art to zucchiniflipping, an art Tony had told me he learned in Pennsylvania or Wisconsin or one of his many stops on the hibachi circuit. Really small bits of zucchini are more difficult to flip, he said. Ideally, you want a medium-sized piece, and you want to coat it in oil, so that it will have some heft and can more easily be shunted over the table.

Who knew?

Tony, for one. To him, hibachi is both a talent and a science, a matter at once of stagecraft and of process. His day comprises two parts: the morning, when he hunches over a table in the kitchen and prepares all his food, and the evening, when he hunches over the hibachi tables and cooks. The first is decidedly less exciting — hours on end slicing steak and chicken, stripping meat out of lobster tails, chopping vegetables and peeling shrimp. In a 16-inch yellow plastic toolbox, Tony stores a knife for each of these tasks. For beef, his knife is extra sharp but not too long, so it can be wielded to carve out veins; for vegetables, it is extra-heavy, so as to require less force and ease the perpetual strain on his arm.

Tony has amassed his knife collection over the past decade, just as he has grown his repertoire of tricks. He has special tools for that part of the day, too. Hibachi chefs have an intimate relationship with the fork and spatula they use while performing; Tony has used his for about seven years, and only settled on them after testing utensils of a wide range of weights. (He prefers a middleweight variety.)

And just as his tools stay constant, so does Tony’s general gameplan at each table: turn on the fan; clean the grill; light a big fire

Tony is a deft zucchini-flipper. At his first table, he goes 6-for-7 in launching a tiny bit of vegetable into the mouths of his customers.

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you know?” Indeed, he earlier had complained to me when another hibachi chef took a table of eight teenage girls, all blond and all showing various amounts of cleavage, a table for which Tony said he very much wanted to cook. This normally would be creepy, but with Tony — who addresses all young women as “pretty lady” — it is somehow endearing.

Meanwhile, Tony remains relentless in peddling his sake.

“More sake, more happy,” he repeats. “Let’s get a little more intoxicated!”

“No sake, I’m driving,” one of the men argues.

“No!” Tony shoots back. “Sake!”

The man relents. When it is sake time, no one can deny Tony.

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on it; cook the rice and noodles; cook the vegetables; cook the meat and fish; clean the table; and collect any tips. Along the way, depending on the size of the crowd and the amount of time he has before he must move on to the next table, he sprinkles in an assortment of tricks.

The exact routine, however, depends on the party. While Tony was a sake-spewing ball of energy with Ricky and his youngish group, at his next table, where he cooks for a 50-something married couple sitting by their lonesome, Tony turns into a professional chef. He throws around “sir” and “ma’am.” He cooks very neatly, making sure no rice or vegetables bounce off the grill. And the sake stays in his cart.

Tony works two more tables, both filled with assortments of youngish couples and a few scattered older folks. His routine varies slightly. At one — as always feared — a patron says she forgot to tell the waitress about a shellfish allergy, so Tony has to retreat to the kitchen to rearrange the order. “Never fear, Tony is here,” he tells the party, smiling widely, ready to be the hero. (This is part of the artifice of hibachi. In reality, Tony told me later, he was livid. “You just have to put a smile on your face,” he said. “I pretend.”)

At his last table of the night sit a few 30-something guys and a group of college-aged girls. I know that Tony has a weak spot for young women. “I get a little bit nervous,” he confides. “I’m a guy,

t’s 10:12 PM, and Tony is slouched at Kumo’s bar, his eyes fixed on the plasma television showing “Saturday Night Live.” “This is exhausting,” I tell him. I’ve been on my feet in the restaurant all night, standing sentry, watching him cook for all his tables. I feel like death.

He nods his head.

“I’m actually a little bit tired now,” he admits. He restates what he told me a few weeks earlier: cooking hibachi is not an old man’s game. “It’s like hell,” he says. “They’re like, ‘Oh, you must have so much fun!’ No, it’s not fun. It’s very hot. It’s hell in summertime.”

Tonight, at least, it’s cool, and as Tony sips on a bottle of Sapporo, I pepper him with questions about some of the tricks I observed. Most interestingly, I noticed that he had deployed a different variant of the onion volcano at three of his four tables. There was the traditional volcano, which billowed fire and then smoke; the nighttime volcano, for which Tony turned out the light above the grill and flicked sesame seeds into its billowing fire to create the illusion of sparks; and the erupting volcano, which overflowed with a mysterious “lava” when pushed onto the hot spot in the middle of the grill.

The lava is really soy sauce, Tony reveals. He doesn’t mind explaining all of this, because, he says, I have proven myself to him. In fact, I should consider working in hibachi. “Have you ever thought about it? Thought about doing hibachi?” he asks intently.

He even shows me his tips to make a case. Twenty dollars from one table, ten dollars a piece from two others, fourteen from the fourth — not a bad day, he says, considering that that doesn’t even include the 15- to 20-percent most people leave when they charge their meal to a credit card.

Tony takes another swig of beer. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “But it’s not the tips,” he says. “It’s about when they leave here, and they remember me. That’s a good feeling.”

With that, Tony puts down the beer, reaches overhead and takes off his chef’s hat, placing it on the bar. Gingerly, he unties his hachimaki. Picking up the hat, he stands from the barstool and turns to the kitchen, his posture slackened from the strain of a tiring shift.

As he walks away, ready to collect his things and head home, Tony has shrunken to mortal size. The show is over, and he is no longer the star.

But in the world of hibachi, there’s always tomorrow night.

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October 2009

The Yale Daily News Magazine

FICTION CLAMMING by Marina Keegan Craving clams, nine-months-pregnant Ari and her artist-magician husband Harold make a midnight trip to an urban beach. There, the moonlight conjures memories among the crustaceans, beach litter, and wandering strangers.

The moon was as full as Ari’s womb.

Sky and skyscraper traced the rows of stenciled water with purple silver light.

It was a dirty beach, an urban beach.

The couple sunk along the cratered path, treading carefully through the trash-mined sand, the sand that nearly boiled into glass that August afternoon. It was night now; post garbage pick up but pre-subway halt. The white noise of the asphalt city seemed sewed to its sidewalks and a low-tide stillness fell on the flats.

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

All that moved were the jittery crabs, the midnight schizophrenics, each supping with its shadow. Once, when it was snowing, Harold had shaded Ari’s shadow on the wall beside his keyboard, letting its charcoal edges rub off on his shirts. Like the hermits and horseshoes, he supped with his shadows, and like the blues and fiddlers, he too was on a hunt.

Ari Manko craved clams. Steamer clams and Quahog clams, and littleneck, cherrystone and Pismo clams. Prenatal hormones don’t discriminate. Harold leashed a hand to Ari’s elbow as they balanced over the sweating rock plane separating city silhouette from its channel shore. Yellow foam lingered over lumps of crusted seaweed, laced with broken wires and orange fishing twine.

No matter how salt caked, the crumpled Cokes could never join their bottled ancestors in sea glass treasuries and no matter how cradled, the chunks of Styrofoam would never drift to driftwood.

Beneath the soft flesh of their city foot soles, crustaceans were sleeping in their granular nests. This was what Ari wanted, what Ari needed. The real guys, the real thing. “Beach clams,” she’d said that evening. “You know, the spitting, salty, muddy kind.”

Ari had dug her city dry. Thrice she’d dragged Harold to the farmers’ market, leading him by his dimples through the stinking maze of still-flailing fish heaps. She shifted through street vendor stands and frozen package brands, letting the muscles work her out more than her own. She ate them fried and buttered and sautéed and steamed, in sauces, on pizzas and fresh from the shell.

Mostly, Harold played along. Ari amused him, mused him. He was an artist, after all, and found something vaguely romantic in her crustacean fixation.

They’d met back when their beds were lofted and their young lips green. Back when wax pencil poems laced their walls and Harold’s drawings littered the floor. Everything was a metaphor, every smile a simile. Ari and Harold embraced in elevators and existed to play-lists like Songs for a Cereal Dinner and Sleeting on the Subway. They had the purple crayon, she would tease.

Cooing for Harold to draw them up a nicer rug or a fuller moon or two cups of raspberry tea.

Sometimes, lying naked like spoons, she would ask if he’d drawn her up too. “Of course, I did.” He would bite at her shoulder. “I drew myself a little muse.”

The website they’d giggled at said nighttime clamming was not recommended — a caveat which of course made the concept more appealing. They were drunk off of 42 weeks, high off their prenatal-class hyperventilation. Giddy enough to remember their green lip dates and to stretch the red-line outward-bound to its perimeter.

“We won’t be able to pull these charades once we have our mini us.” Harold skimmed his foot through a tidal pool, spraying Ari’s rolled up sweatpants with water.

“I want clams,” Ari said in a mock monotone. “I think we both know this baby’s happy staying just where it is.” Fourteen days past her due date, Ari had finally resolved to her eternal

corpulence. Harold ran forward and stretched his thinly sculpted arms upward, turning the shimmering pools a muddy brown with every leap.

“I don’t blame the little guy,” he called back, “I love spending time inside of you.” Ari laughed loud enough so he could hear, but not loud enough to block out her reservations. Harold knew how to play along, knew the right amount to smile and the ideal degree of twinkling his eyes. But the orb inside her was Ari’s idea. Ari’s decision that two years into wedlock meant throwing aside those tiny orange pills and re-growing her pubic hair. Their Star Trek marathon only made replacing their hookah with a crib slightly more enjoyable, and Ari could see his look of pained nostalgia as they painted over their stoned wall art.

During their first summer in the city, Harold had invented a strategy for never aging. “Ari, my air,” he had called to her. “I have discovered the solution to life.” She sprang on him, sitting on top of his stomach as he sprawled out on their living room floor. “Einstein’s twin paradox. You know, where one twin takes a space shuttle so fast that he travels faster than time?” Ari raised her eyebrows, kissing him to test his sobriety. “Well, by the time he gets back to Earth, everyone else has aged about ten years more than him. It’s science, it’s proven!” He sat up and took her face in his hands, “Ari, we’re saved!” They spent that summer in constant motion, sleeping on Amtrak and renting bikes.

If only they could stay moving, keep chasing time, eventually the skimmed off seconds would add up. Their friends and families grayed and wrinkled, but they didn’t age a day that summer — just sinking in the sun for their personal perpetual motion.

Harold found the first clam after only two tries. He scooped the rocky sand up like the clay on his wheel, moving it aside in cylindrical mounds until he grasped the fleeing shell. These clams were harder than the brittle littlenecks of Stop & Shop; a factor both had failed to consider prior to their impulsive race to the underground. Ari horded the shells in a little puddle between her outstretched legs, too tired to stand, let alone dig. She fingered the shells and washed off their ridges as her yellow spirited husband reveled in the childhood impulse to treasure hunt.

Ari leaned back on her hands, reciting her breathing patterns in rhythm with the retreating waves, hoping the clam men wouldn’t come before the sun. She liked it here. Liked the natural kind of art for a change. Harold had taken to drawing wombs during the course of her pregnancy. A pattern she all too frequently feared was a gesture, a suggestion, a proof that he truly was ready to put aside his pencils and his bow string. This was what it was to love an artist. Struggling to make oneself as beautiful as the inside of his head. Striving to out compose the intricate orchestra of his synapses, the fabulous landscape of his cerebrum’s left side. The ugliest Ari had ever felt was at her then fiancées’ studio show. The women in his portraits weren’t drawn with purple crayon. They were drawn like hourglasses, tilting

Ari amused him, mused him. He was an artist, after all, and found something vaguely romantic in her crustacean fixation.

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

their necks in inimitable angles, arching their backs far beyond her mobility. Ari knew he didn’t use live models, but couldn’t decide whether this was worse. The ideal exists in his head. It floats through his conscious while we’re eating, while we’re sleeping, while we’re sprawled out beside each other, naked and exposed. Again she would ask if he’d drawn her up too. “Of course, I did.” He would bit at her earlobe. “I drew myself a little muse.”

Their stretch of beach was dappled with half-footholes by the time Harold decided to run down to the parking lot where his cell phone would work to call a taxi.

“You go ahead and call it,” Ari insisted, still sitting half damp with her pod of unopened snacks. “Then you can just run back here and help me walk back up, that way it’ll arrive right when we need it.” Harold was hesitant. His urban instincts told him not to leave her there, but she had a point that the beach, however littered, wasn’t exactly downtown.

“Fine,” he resolved, putting his muddy hands behind his back before leaning down to kiss her. “I’ll be as fast as I can…I might try to check the dumpster for an old bucket for these things.”

Harold jogged away, his silhouette turning back again and again, turning her into a pillar of salt before he even crossed the dunes.

Ari was tired.

Tired of the extra weight and tired of the waiting. Tired of sitting and guarding the pile while Harold got to run around in the land of allegorical poems and metaphorical art. She picked up the clams and let them slip down into her pool of water, rippling each others’ ripples with a metronome pulse. She closed her eyes and let the salted breeze comb through her hair, easing her slightly into the cadence of the tide.

At first, she mistook his shadow for her own. Ari widened her eyes, sat up straight and placed both hands on her protruding stomach. She knew the man approaching wasn’t Harold before she saw his physical self, knew by the curve of his reflection, by the pace of his steps. Had her hormones been at their natural levels, she probably would have screamed. Perhaps it was the estrogen, the oestrogen or the b-HCG. Perhaps it was the canopy of reflections or the quiver of the dancing crabs. But perhaps it was just the way he looked at her, at her pile of clams, at her unborn child, that made Ari shift slowly forward and onto her feet.

He was a clam man. His hands were strong and calloused and his skin was a leathery brown. Dark plastic waders rose high above his waist, hanging loosely by faded yellow suspenders.

Other than a gallon bucket and a rusted pitchfork, the clam man had only his wampum eyes. He came every dead-low, night or day. Came to watch his nests and kick away the crabs, the seagulls and the opportunistic. A professional scarecrow, he needed merely to exist. Even the thousands of dime black slugs seemed to ooze away in mass exodus.

Ari was embarrassed by the pile at her feet. How immature of them to think the flats were free range. How typically naïve.

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Her instinct was to scoop them up in her T-shirt and drop them one by one back into their caves. But Ari’s feet were caked over with mud, and all she did was stand awkwardly as the clam man studied her. Ari knew she was an unusual spectacle, standing bare foot on the city beach, full to burst in one of Harold’s largest shirts. She was used to being studied, used to standing still while another morphed her into colored oils or stained graphite. Used to the inferiority she felt to her canvass doppelgangers, taunting her from their dim apartment walls.

“I’m a muse,” Ari said aloud, the words sliding over her larynx before she knew why. The clam man looked at her, his arms still frozen with the bucket and fork. His salt frosted eyebrows bent in slightly. Ari understood. He didn’t speak English. He spoke to the bathymetry of oceans and the cartography of sands, thought in a language of rolled r’s or silent q’s or extra kinds of vowels.

The clam man moved towards her, crunching brittle seaweed beneath his boots. Without breaking her gaze, he pulled a rusted knife from inside his rubber waders. Ari placed her hands on her stomach, backing away and shaking her head. She never should have let him call the cab, never should have teased him into slipping on the redline and defacing the smoothed sheen flats. Harold was a nature shifter, not her. Harold was the one subjecting his surroundings to a mere two dimensions or a row of black dots.

But the clam man held up his hands, endearing her. He leaned down and picked up a shell from her pile; the corners of his unshaven cheeks twitching upwards as he slid the rusty blade between its ridged lips. Its hinge popped open, water spraying down around his weathered wrists. He held it out to her. She took it. Ari’s pulse softened and her palms dried up.

One day, curled up like spoons beside their child, Ari would tell Harold to let the bow of his violin wash the words from their walls and let his colored oils sing them to sleep. His wax paper drawings would crawl off their walls and cower at her three dimensions, erase themselves in envy of her fish scented hair, the heat of her arching body and the taste of the saline lumps falling through to her core. Ari pressed her lips to the lid of the clam and tilted in back down her throat — letting the silver red light of the city slide down with its egg-like slime.

The moon paused for a moment, holding in its gravitational pull like a suspended inhalation. Ari looked into the clam man’s pale wampum eyes, the eyes that guarded shells in granular wombs while the world rotated beneath him. She held his gaze.

Held it even as the moon gradually let go of its transient hesitation, oscillating the lingering strips of water out from around her ankles and into the trembling sea. Even as she heard Harold’s footsteps wrinkling the waves, his purple crayon taxi waiting to take her away. Even as she felt the insides of her sweatpants saturate and drip down onto the bed of clams like the falling notes of a ballad.

He spoke to the bathymetry of oceans and the cartography of sands, thought in a language of rolled r’s or silent q’s or extra kinds of vowels.

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October 2009 The Yale Daily News Magazine

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT THE DEVIL IS LOUISE CALHOUN by Elisa Gonzalez Elisa Gonzalez learns that familial duty often means more than bringing home a paycheck when she gets stuck with the Christmas shift at her 6-days-a-week elderly care job in this memoir of a teenage nursing home aide. oday I woke up at 6 am to serve breakfast, wash the dishes, clean the dining room, and repeat the process — cook, serve, clean up — for lunch and dinner.

After dinner dishes, I stayed late to dispense medication, pass out snacks, help one resident repair her TV, and sit with another whose dying seemed to be moving faster and faster. All in all, a seventeenhour-shift of non-stop movement. My co-workers Emily, Clarissa, and I were

care of the elderly. My shifts, which ran 7 AM to 7 PM three days a week and 7 AM to 3 PM three days more, actually encompassed everything from toasting English muffins to crushing pills into applesauce to cleaning up vomit. I learned how to deal with falls, with flu quarantines, with Sundowner’s Syndrome. Convinced that I needed to be the perfect employee, the perfect daughter, I agreed to longer and longer shifts, to more and more hours, until I slept in the break room more than

To be honest, I didn’t want to go home. I loved signing over checks to my mother, quietly showing how much I could give. the only people in charge of a building of fifty-two elderly residents that Christmas, the ones who drew the short straws. Or, in my case, the one who volunteered for a Christmas spent taking care of the elderly instead of my family. I didn’t mind, I’d told my boss. I was only a kid, why did I need to be with loved ones? After all, I spent more time at work than I did in my own home. My family had come to expect my absence. And all the hours were for them.

T

he summer before, when my mother lost the most recent of a string of jobs — and thus, the only source of support for all eight of us children — I went to sleep crying and woke up determined. I was going to get a job. It turned out to be easier than I had expected, given her inability to find employment: although my age (seventeen) made me almost impossible to hire, nursing homes turned out not to care too much about who staffed the facility as long as the meds were dispensed on time and no one suffered any catastrophic injuries. At The Abbington, I technically worked only in the kitchen in order to avoid legal repercussions for hiring an underage girl to take

in my bedroom. “God, girl,” Clarissa said, on finding me asleep by the call-board.

“Don’t you ever go home?”

To be honest, I didn’t want to go home.

I loved signing over checks to my mother, quietly showing how much I could give.

And throwing myself into work meant I didn’t have to deal with the perils of her job search, or the way my father kept trying to persuade her that returning to him would solve all her problems, or even the way my brothers and sisters leaped up delightedly when I shuffled in from work, exhausted. “Play Labyrinth with us,” they would beg. “Watch Star Wars.” But I had to go to bed, had to clean the house, had to go back to work.

There, even the most difficult residents loved me. I was young and charming, they told me, like their daughters or their wives when they were younger, or (for the ones with advanced dementia) their mothers or sisters. Even Louise Calhoun, the sweetfaced and diminutive 94-year-old woman everyone called the Devil, loved me. “Oh honey, it’s my pleasure,” she’d say when I would ask her if she would please take her medication, just for me. The other aides laughed that I’d for sure made a deal with the Devil, since if one of them asked her

to take her meds, she was more likely to throw her telephone at the aide’s head or try to claw out an eye.

M

arilyn Ayers, another “difficult” resident, never tried to claw out anyone’s eyes, but most of the aides feared her anyway for her sharp tongue and unwillingness to forgive slight trespasses. Even the manager, Sherry White, feared her (probably because Marilyn always referred to Sherry sardonically as “the Great White Whale” and refused to speak to her). Marilyn, who arrived the fall after I began work, was a Brown graduate who maintained a stark glamour even in her sixties. She was bowed by the pressure of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, an illness that was slowly suffocating her to death, a consequence of her years of smoking. Yet she read the New York Times andWashington Post every day, along with her dose of Dickens or a mystery novel. The first day I met Marilyn, Emily pushed me into her room, saying that maybe I could bring her down from her panic attack after the others had failed. I sat in her room with my hand in the center of her back, repeating aloud the only poem I could remember in full: William Blake’s “Tyger.” After the thirty-seventh repetition of Tyger, tyger, burning bright, she drew a deep breath and whispered, “If you don’t have another poem, you’d damn well better shut up.”

And then she laughed, a raspy wheeze, yet still a laugh. Panic attack averted.

Marilyn quickly became my favorite resident, the one I rushed off to say goodbye to when my official shifts ended. I told her all about my home, and my plans for the future — how I was going to go to Harvard or Yale (she always pushed for Brown). She never asked why I wasn’t home, why I didn’t want to leave her, either not considering or perhaps simply understanding. I made her Brussels sprouts cooked to fork-tenderness. I brought her chrysanthemums and gladioli to color her room, stains of red and deep purple against institutional white walls. It was a

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

standard way to combat illness, tending the dying with the rituals of living. And these gestures brought me more comfort than they brought her, offering me a way to break out of the patterns of the place.

She still preferred the books — she had moved on to Virginia Woolf — though as she weakened, losing her breath more easily, I had to read to her all the things she used to read to herself.

I still woke up 6 days a week as the sun rose, already tired before I even started the daily routines of The Abbington. By Christmastime, I was the fastest aide in the building, the one everyone else told to slow down. “You make us all look bad,” Emily told me, when I cleaned up from breakfast and put out the settings for lunch in only an hour. “You walk too fast.”

I did walk too fast, anxious and brittle from the stress of working constantly.

I came home only to sleep and change before going to work and then to class. After class, I either went back to work to see Marilyn or I went to sleep before waking up to work again.

I

had volunteered for a twelve-hour shift — placating my mother’s complaints with tales of the time-and-ahalf pay we would get — and ended up working seventeen. Marilyn had worsened considerably, so after I finished repairing Louise’s TV, I went to Marilyn’s room and sat with her. She barely spoke, breathing in shuddered gasps that shifted her entire ribcage up and down with the force of an antique bellows. Her thin body shook with tension. I sat with my hand in the center of her back until her sister came in to tell me to go home. When I finally left, it wasn’t Christmas anymore.

The next day, my first day off in twenty-one days, passed with languid slowness. I slept for hours, then slept more.

I played Monopoly with my siblings and stamped around in the snow until my face stung. The day after that, I went back to

work for my normal week to discover that Marilyn had died. No one had called me.

I used my set of keys to unlock the door to her room, my fingers shaking so badly I almost couldn’t fit the key in the lock. I found the room dark and empty, covered in shadows and sheets over all the furni-

ture. Her room was already cleared: her family had taken the flowers, the books, the pillows and paintings, as they should have. I stood in the dark for a long time.

I worked the rest of my shift as silent as I could be.

T

wo days later, Louise fluttered down the hall toward me, waving her hands for my attention.

She needed me to defend her against the hostility of another aide. “She’s just being so mean,” she stamped, the picture of a haughty child. “She wants me to get changed in front of her,” she whispered, significantly.

“Louise,” I said. “You need to listen to her.” I opened my mouth to go on, to soothe and cajole her into submission.

Then I closed it. She waited. Her black eyes narrowed.

37

“Louise, let’s go back to your room.

You need to get changed.” I reached for her hand.

She jerked back. “Don’t you touch me,” she hissed. “I hate you.”

Later Clarissa told me, “That’s why she’s the Devil herself. She’s like a snake, but longer-lived.” I said I didn’t believe it. She just made that up to make the name sound good.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “But I still say she’ll outlive us all. Evil always does.” We laughed; I pictured Louise’s sweet wrinkled face framed by red horns.

At the end of my shift, I left a note in Sherry White’s office that said I wasn’t coming back due to “personal reasons.” As I left the building, I said hello and goodbye to Louise, who was walking by with one of the aides from the next shift. It came out in a rush, my hello arriving already lapped by my goodbye.

I never heard her response, I was out of the door so fast.

When I arrived home, I kept walking quickly, half-jogging up the driveway and inside the front door. My youngest sister ran up to me, begging me to play a game. I went around the house hugging everyone until my mother demanded to know what had happened, if someone else had died.

“I quit.” Saying it felt as if someone had taken a weight off my chest, as if I could move my whole body to breathe again. My mother also took a deep breath. “Good.

I’m glad you aren’t doing that anymore.”

I wanted to say that I had always done it for them, that I hadn’t realized how much it had hurt me in the meantime. I wanted to make a grand proclamation about how I was back — for them, of course, but for me as well — and would stay that way.

Before I could continue, my sister grabbed my hand and dragged me off to play ballerina. “Wait, wait,” I protested. “I need to change out of my uniform.”

“Let’s burn it,” my mother offered.

“Later,” I answered, laughing. “I guess I have to dance first.”

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The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

BACKPAGE THEMES OF A THIRD-GRADE DIARY by Jacque Feldman The following excerpts are taken directly from the diary of the author as an eight- and nine-year-old. The entries, chronicaling the drama of grade school, appear in their original from, written in light-blue, Milky brand gel pen.

Love Life Zachary likes me! He’s cute.

I know he likes me because Rachel told me he does , and so did Paul, who is Zach’s best friend. Dana almos t barfed in music class while thinking about him liking me. I got out a magazine, Girl’s Life, from the library and it tells you how to deal with boys.

I got a huge part in a play! I’ m Moon Li, daughter of a Chinese widow. Kara is the widow. In the play, Kyle O’Neill is the tiger. ‘Well, that’ s not bad,’ you’re thinking.

Now hear this: the tiger puts his head on Moon Li’s lap!

I think either Josh or Joey V. likes me, or both.

Man vs. Wild

f ntain man. He lives of ou m a as w e er th At the top, kes only what he ta d an , ey on m no s Nature! He ha d I had my picture an y, nn fu d an , ce ni needs. He’s very taken with him.

I l and back with dad. ai tr ke bi e th to de s Today I ro terrible scratch. It’ g, bi a t go d an ke bi er fell off my to sting. Harry Pott ng ti ar st ’s it w no bleeding. Right is my favorite book. ne to S s r’ re ce or S e and th

The Yale Daily News Magazine October 2009

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YALE DAILY NEWS

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