Page 1




FROM THE EDITORS Dear lovers (of Harold), Happy Valentine’s Day! I know it’s a few days early, but we just didn’t want you to forget how important it is to be codependent. In the front, Nicole Mo, BK ’19, traces the stories of Yale weddings from the university’s coeducation to the present. From first eye contact to “I do,” and even to divorce, these couples comprise a look into the intersection of the institution of higher education and the institution of marriage. In Features, Elliot Wailoo, SY ’21, narrates the vital importance of New Haven’s new warming centers through the lives of their residents and employees. The Culture section boast a spread of anonymous V-Day confessions if you’re feeling indulgent; or turn to Opinions to learn from Tereza Podhajská, SY ’21, why you shouldn’t give up on this holiday just yet. Whether you subscribe to labels or not, pick a loved one and give them a snuggle this week. Or, just hand them a copy of the Herald and they’ll drop to one knee. As you read this letter, Harold is pining over you. Forever yours, Margaret (Migs) Grabar Sage Managing Editor



THE HERALD MASTHEAD EDITORIAL STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Eve Sneider MANAGING EDITORS Margaret Grabar Sage, Jack Kyono, Nicole Mo EXECUTIVE EDITORS Emma Chanen, Tom Cusano, Emily Ge, Marc Shkurovich, Anna Sudderth, Oriana Tang SENIOR EDITOR Luke Chang, Hannah Offer FEATURES EDITORS Fiona Drenttel, Brittany Menjivar CULTURE EDITORS Allison Chen, Nurit Chinn OPINION EDITORS Lydia Buonomano, Tereza Podhajska REVIEWS EDITORS Gabe Rojas, Tricia Viveros VOICES EDITOR Carly Gove INSERTS EDITOR Zoe Ervolino AUDIO EDITOR Will Reid BULLBLOG EDITOR Marc Shkurovich

DESIGN STAFF GRAPHICS EDITOR Julia Hedges DESIGN EDITORS Audrey Huang, Rasmus Schlutter, Lauren Quintela, Nika Zarazvand The Yale Herald is a not-for-profit, non-partisan, incorporated student publication registered with the Yale College Dean’s Office. If you wish to subscribe to the Herald, please contact the Editor-in-Chief at Receive the Herald for one semester for 40 dollars, or for the 20162017 academic year for 65 dollars. The Yale Herald is published by Yale College students, and Yale University is not responsible for its contents. All opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not reflect the views of The Yale Herald, Inc. or Yale University. Copyright 2017 The Yale Herald.






Julia Leatham, PM ’21, revisits the legacy of Shel Silverstein’s classic children’s book, The Giving Tree.

For those of us who refuse to hate a holiday celebrating love, Tereza Podhajská, SY ’21, has some words of support.

Kat Corfman, SM ’21, looks at love and guilt from a religious perspective.

Pradhi Aggarwal presents a wholesome alternative to rampant hook-up culture.




Max Himpe, BF ’21, examines the complicated relationship between men, masculinity, and makeup. Elliot Wailoo, SY ’21, takes a trip to a warming center for New Haven’s homeless population and learns about the significance it holds for both the staff and the guests.



What’s your deepest, darkest secret? Members of Yale College share confessions this Valentine’s day. Find out if your Footie fancied you in the Culture section…





MONDAY FEB. 12 @6:00PM



Nicole Mo, BK ’19, gets personal with married Yale couples young and old about holy matrimony in our hallowed halls.




Emma Keyes, PC ’19, revisits Clueless and illustrates why you should add it to both your Valentine’s Day watch list and the 20th century film canon. Graham Ambrose, JE ’18, elucidates the beauty of Jonny Greenwood’s “Alma.” Join Sara Luzuriaga, BR ’21, as she commends the unconventionality of the classic romcom, 10 Things I Hate About You; Nic Harris, BR ’18, considers the highs and lows of Migos’ Culture II.

PLAYDATES Who needs a romantic date when you can go on a PLAYdate? Pretend you’re not crippling with loneliness by hanging out with a toddler. Perks include: they can’t understand anything you’re saying and you get to eat baby food.






PLAY DATES No, I will no be seeing any of the performances of that play you’re in from March 14th-18th. I don’t care how quirky your profile picture is. No, not even the matinee.



How to Meet Someone at Yale

Finding love at Yale can be hard. Despite all the Yalies you know who were already able to find their soulmates the classic way1, many of us are still lonely. For those of you left behind this cuffing season, I’ve taken it upon myself to share the tips I’ve learned in my own quest for amor. GRACE WYNTER, DC ’20

Phase I: Just Add Water2

Someone in your res college catch your eye? One way to break the ice is to make sure your laundry day is the same as his. Timing is key here; if you tuck away your SmartWoolTM socks at the same moment that he shuts the door to his own machine, you are guaranteed at least two more interactions at precise 34 and 60 minute intervals. Use these to show off your laundry-specific repartee, while also getting to know the object of your affection. You can learn a lot about a guy in the laundry room: 1) He tends not to wallow in his own filth 2) He doesn’t use the laundry service, which means he’s of hardy proletarian stock aka husband material 3) His name is Randall St. James3

Phase II: For the Birds

Now that you’ve clocked some facetime with your future beau, it’s time to show him that you have similar interests. For instance, Randall is interested in bird watching and you’re interested in Randall. Enroll in the same ornithology lab as him. Fun fact: the call of the Sumatran Ground Cuckoo is a well-documented aphrodisiac. Use their sultry squawking as background for your expert seduction. If all goes well in this phase, Randy will be letting you do his p-sets in no time.

Phase III: Three’s Company

Date Randy’s roommate. This is the most important step: 1) You’ll get hours of facetime with Randy, as you awkwardly stand behind his roommate asking if he can “have the room tonight” for the fifth night in a row. 2) The simmering resentment that Randy feels for you invading his space will be strong enough that you might flit across his mind twice a day. 3) Eventually, after you date his roommate for the rest of Yale, start a beautiful family together, transition to life as empty nesters, and retire to some sunny locale, Randy’s roommate’s gonna die. 4) Outlive Randy’s roommate and pray Randy does too. 5) Reunite with Randy at Randy’s roommate’s funeral. Make it subtle and classy, you’re a dignified widow now. If you follow my plan carefully, you too will get to spend your golden years with Randall St. James. Illustrated by Tucker Hart

e.g. mutual friends, mutual funds, the Yale Frat Tinder instagram, and the line outside the 2nd floor bathroom of LC


And Tide Pods, and dirty clothes, and fabric softener if you’re bougie His mom sewed it into the back of his underwear, which you just happened to notice as you were rifling through his dryer before he got back

2 3


Lesbian Call Me By Your Name



I. Elinor and Olivia

sit in Elinor’s father’s study. Father: Alhambra, alcalde, alcohol—so many of the words we use on a daily basis derive from the Arabic prefix “Al.” (Father gestures to an apricot in Elinor’s hand.) Even our favorite “Albacoca!” (Olivia mutters something under her breath.) Father: What’s that? Olivia: Oh! Me? Nothing. Father: It seems like you have something to say. Olivia: Pfft. Father: Please explain! Olivia: Okay so I know this is probably wrong, I’m going to sound so stupid when I say it, and I’m literally already regretting that I chose to express this thought, but [concise explanation about the correct genealogy of the term]. I know that probably makes no sense. Father: Correct! Olivia: Please respect me.

pinches her shoulder. Elinor pulls away. Olivia: What? Did I pinch a nerve? Elinor: Huh? I’m okay. Olivia: Hold this. (Hands Elinor the bottle.) Trust me, I’m about to be a doctor. Olivia massages Elinor’s shoulders too hard. Elinor passes out. Olivia: I should really think of a new move.

III. Elinor, alone, ex-

ploring Olivia’s room. She finds a pair of Olivia’s boots—Blundstones. Elinor: Oh! She lifts the boots from the floor to her face, and inhales sensually.

IV. Elinor, alone in an

attic, sprawled out on an old mattress. She turns the radio on. A cucumber at her side. She looks at it for a moment. Elinor: Hm. Wonder how that got there. She pulls a vibrator out and uses it instead.

II. Elinor watches Ol- V. Elinor and Olivia lie ivia play rugby from the edge of the field. Olivia scores a goal and runs over to get a drink of water. She grabs the bottle from Elinor and

Top 10 Ways to Attract Male Attention on VDay

together, post coitus. Olivia: Call me by your name, and I’ll call you by mi– Elinor: That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.

to Woads and spend the whole 1. Go time clenching your jaw.


Play musical chairs. The chairs are people and there is only one, him.


Help him with his pset, but only speak in Sim.


Invite him on a romantic ferry ride to Staten Island. Halfway through, turn it around. You can make a scene. He’ll be enchanted by your unbending will.


Find out where his mother lives. Send her a J Crew gift card.


Refer to Bass Cafe as the Baffé— insist all men do the same.


Release a rabbit in the Morse dining hall. Text him for help finding her.

8. Attempt to enter the State of Israel 9. with his passport.

Write a conservative-leaning op ed in the YDN about him.

10. Hit him with a Yale shuttle. 5

Vc Feb.9.2018

love note to a youthful offender KAT CORFMAN, SM ’21 YH STAFF

when i knelt to pray for your soul, the dew stung my skin and scorched the wilting grass to my knees. each righteous syllable stuck my lips together with the sweetness of cherry filling, and each breath in between caught in my chest like i was swimming in a pool of vinegar. and though i wept for you, the holy waters could not cleanse my tongue. *** three calls in immediate succession buzzed close to my ear and awoke me from a restless sleep to remind me that you are not here.

possession, i am told. possession. possession. possession of soul, possession of self—? no. just Possession. i know you think you are the exception: the unless, the however. the safe gamble. but no gamble is safe when you bet with borrowed time. these cards you dealt yourself— a bad hand, at that, to have among all these x-ray eyes. you straddle the hour hand between now and never. you inhale what They want and exhale smoke rings around Their noses. *** o, how i weep for you, child. you are here without metaphor, among and within this pewter-gray, slipping in a grime not of earth but of man. the echoes of your cries keep you company until mine can take their place and bend the bars that rattle and whine like mocking bones. o, that i could bring you solace, bury you safe here at my breast. o, that i could carry your burden upon my narrow frame and bury you here beside me in this grave where all shame comes to possess itself, where all shame gathers to kiss its brothers and sisters good night.

Illustrated by Jordan Schmolka


A Re-Imagining of the Giving Tree JULIA LEATHAM, MY ’20


syrup smoke congealing in the air like pooling sweet nothings inspired from my body body fingered, lit hot body tapped body shared body erect on grubby hands brought to indulgent mouths sapping lungfuls of promised poison when I sprouted hard buds in my soft flesh I found mouths on me like the smear of sloppy lip on tobacco leaf when he rolls a blunt too soft dripping like my hair in the bath when he holds my breast for the first time offering our bodies like come, Boy swing from my branches and be happy how I shivered like his lungs when he slides the bowl out breathes of me these thin walls struggling to hold his smoke how like amber, petrified, bursting from my lips how we made the house our audience a tree branch strung from the ceiling like a chandelier long arms dead ends dripping up the wooden staircase to the master bedroom overlooking the garden where branches are still living where the sun has just set but the sky is still light like the crowns of our heads still dry mussed and glowing in the live embers And the Boy came And the tree was happy.

how I shivered like his lungs when he slides the bowl out breathes of me these thin walls struggling to hold his smoke how like amber, petrified, bursting from my lips how we made the house our audience a tree branch strung from the ceiling like a chandelier long arms dead ends dripping up the wooden staircase to the master bedroom overlooking the garden where branches are still living where the sun has just set but the sky is still light like the crowns of our heads still dry mussed and glowing in the live embers And the Boy came And the tree was happy.

Illustrated by Alexander Wisowaty


Op Feb.9.2018

Yale v. Long-Distance Relationships PRADHI AGGARWAL, BK ’21 Yale is filled with attractive people. This is a fact. My first semester here, Berkeley’s Dean Miller had the firstyears take a poll to determine how well we were settling in. One of the questions asked was, “On average, how attractive are Yalies compared to what you expected?” The overwhelming majority answered “More than I expected.” And surpassing most universities, Yale’s casual hookup culture is so rampant that it is rare to spend a night partying at Yale without awkwardly bumping past at least five couples acting on their sexual desires. But for those of us in long-distance relationships, living in an environment so replete with intimacy can make the distance between us and our significant others seem even bigger. Nevertheless, a long-distance relationship is worth the effort and occasional inconveniences, and can be fulfilling even at Yale. In long-distance relationships, not only are couples unable to spend time together face to face, but other means of communication are often hindered by time differences. And as if this weren’t enough, Yale’s culture adds some unique pressures as well. A disproportionate amount of the social events here, especially in your first year, encourage you to find a date. First Year Screw, residential college screws, fraternity rush date nights, formals for cultural houses… the list is endless. The rampant hook-up culture only makes things worse. Even if you find yourself in bed instead of on the grimy floor of Woads on a Wednesday night, it is inevitable that you will hear someone in your Thursday 9 a.m. lecture detailing their previous night’s escapades. These factors may not act as distractions for every person in a long-distance relationship, but having my friend excitedly tell me about the three girls he hooked up with last weekend was certainly a painful reminder of every mile that stretches between me and my significant other. Whenever I tell someone that I am in a long-distance relationship, I am met with looks that range from apologetic to pitying. Even the ostensibly neutral “How’s that treating you?” often betrays concern. Some people question how, or even why, we haven’t broken up yet. After all, college is meant to be a period of exploration and maximal opportunity. Why commit yourself to someone that is so far away and thereby restrict your experience at Yale? I understand the logic behind these questions. However, reactions like these only serve to remind me of how hard long-distance relationships can be when what I really need is a reminder of what the relationship means to me. I find myself wondering, at what point do the pros outweigh the cons? Having said all this, I speak from experience when I say that long-distance relationships are 100 percent doable, even in an environment like Yale’s. Despite all the anti-longdistance-relationship features encoded into Yale’s DNA, you will find support in the wonderful friendships you form here. For starters, most people will wholeheartedly approve of you going to a screw dateless or with a group of friends. If you would still much rather walk in while holding someone’s

“Whenever I tell someone that I am in a long-distance relationship, I am met with looks that range from apologetic to pitying.” hand, go with another kindred soul who is in a long-distance relationship. Trust me, there are more than you might expect. You could also go on a friendly date and enjoy your night, while still remaining faithful. And while some people might sow seeds of doubt in your mind about the feasibility of maintaining your relationship, there are more who will gladly remind you that you have made it this far and that it is worth it.

You probably won’t even remember the hook-ups your friend told you about. No single person’s experience is the same as another’s, so claims such as ‘hook-ups are a core part of the college experience’ are baseless. You make your own experience, and you can find happiness on both ends of the spectrum, through casual hook-ups as well as longdistance relationships.

In fact, I would even argue that long-distance relationships are in some ways easier to maintain than on-campus relationships. Distance can afford some much needed perspective and help you focus on what really matters. Due to the shortage of time available to long-distance couples, the time they have together is usually spent meaningfully. We Yalies lead busy lives, and on-campus relationships can sometimes add unnecessary pressure to our already mounting workloads. Our relationships should relieve stress and put smiles on our faces despite the incomplete p-sets we have due tomorrow. Instead, serious on-campus relationships can often be demanding and make us feel even more crunched for time. Long-distance relationships existed back when pigeon messengers were the fastest mode of communication. Today, on the other hand, there is an unbelievable number of mediums through which you can get in touch with your loved one and no distance is too far to show someone you love them. Send them a care package filled with their favourite stress-eating snacks. Have some flowers delivered. Let them use your Netflix account. And despite all the drawbacks about Yale’s culture, Yale bestows us with a very generous holiday schedule. Maybe you could even make a surprise visit. Your undergraduate life is multifaceted. Despite how important your First Year Screw may seem to you right now, there will be other opportunities that will shape your college experience in more meaningful ways. Illustrated by Itai Almor


In Defense of Valentine’s Day TEREZA PODHAJSKÁ, SY ’21 YH STAFF

I’ve always been distrustful of holidays used by corporations to sell their products more efficiently—I militantly oppose the extreme spending on Halloween, and Santa Claus makes me shiver. And yet, in a surprising turn of events, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day. Despite all the horrible plastic hearts in shop windows all around New Haven, I can’t bring myself to be disgusted by this celebration of love. There is something pure about it, something that even ruthless corporate marketing cannot ruin. The majority of my friends dislike the holiday, citing one main reason: the commercial exploitation of a day meant to be an intimate romantic affair, celebrated in private. That stance can be hard to disagree with. The total spending in the United States during Valentine’s Day is a ludicrous figure: CNN reports that in 2016, it climbed to $19.7 billion. In the week leading up to Feb. 14, consumers purchase about 58 million pounds of chocolate and 180 million Hallmark cards. Some end up spending entire paychecks on material gifts—and frequently, their spending doesn’t even seem to stem from genuine generosity. People in relationships often feel pressured into buying gifts for their partners just to fulfill expectations or avoid unnecessary fights. As The Atlantic put it in 2014, “Valentine’s Day isn’t about love, it’s about obligation.” After all, there are 364 other days when you can show affection and appreciation for your partner, right? Why let corporate America dictate the pace of our personal relationships? Well, in this particular case, I say: why not? A set day in the calendar simplifies making plans for a night out, creates a space for reciprocal affection, makes an ordinary day special. It also sets up a time frame for romantic gestures, a night when you won’t make other plans. Sure, you can do romantic things on any given day; nobody’s stopping you. But Valentine’s Day provides an anchor in our busy everyday lives. I don’t think it’s the global organization of the holiday that people dislike—most people aren’t uncomfortable with the demonstrations of love or gift-giving themselves, but rather with the obligation of reciprocation it places on them. Time’s statistics show that both men and women who are in relationships want their lovers to shell out an average of $240, which shows an important truth: people like receiving gifts given out of love. And they like it despite the expected reciprocity, despite the stress of picking out the perfect gift. They expect to celebrate the connection they have with another human being. The fact that 50 percent of marriage proposals in the U.S. happen on Valentine’s Day is no accident. The purpose of Valentine’s Day is to tell your loved ones that you love them—why should we scorn that? Despite the extreme material consumption that seems to come hand in hand with Valentine’s Day, it’s a wholesome holiday at heart, a little like Mother’s Day. Sure, it’s hard to figure out what the people we care about truly want or need, but the effort is usually worth it. We don’t need to spend a fortune—ultimately, we just need to show we care. We can also do that every day, in small gestures, but doesn’t


staging a bigger show from time to time make a relationship seem all the more special? Another critique of Valentine’s Day usually concerns single people. In a 2007 study published by the Association for Consumer Research, one interviewee said, “I would like to extend a warm thanks to Hallmark, the official sponsor of Valentine’s Day, for reminding me how truly worthless my life is without a significant other.” To that person, I would like to extend a warm, virtual hug. Although Valentine’s Day has a widespread image as a romantic holiday, it would be an oversimplification to say that’s all it represents. According to Bloomberg, more than half of the American population self-identifies as single, and yet, they seem to be buying gifts for their loved ones, too. On average, a single man will spend $71 and a single woman will spend $40. When people search for the query “Valentine’s Day Gifts For…” online, 20 percent of people type “friend” as the final word, while only 17 percent type in “boyfriend.” In 2016, a reported 19 percent of people also bought Valentine’s gifts for their pets. Clearly, you don’t have to be in a relationship to participate in the holiday. More importantly, love can’t be measured by the amount of money spent. The true value of Valentine’s Day rests upon intimate moments with our loved ones. The holiday gives us space to remember how grateful we are to have people we can trust, how glad we are to walk the world with somebody by our side, to have someone support us in times of trouble. People have loved sending each other Valentine’s cards since the 1840s—as a symbol of affection they hoped would never die. Why stop doing that now? So before you indignantly turn your back on kitsch Valentine’s Day decorations, remember that beneath all the neon pink, you can find a heart of gold.

“In 2016, a reported 19 percent of people bought Valentine’s gifts for their pets. Clearly, you don’t have to be in a relationship to participate in the holiday.”


Ft Feb.9.2018

Manning Up to Makeup

MAX HIMPE, BF ’21 I first put on makeup while sitting on a patch of dirty pavement in the heart of London. My friend crouched over my face in front of a giga-sized sports store, applying dark eyeliner and maroon lipstick. It was Pride 2016 and I was wearing an outfit I considered androgynous. This was both the busiest and safest place in London to do whatever the fuck you wanted with your body. It wasn’t, technically speaking, a very accomplished look. We were laughing too much to be exact. But I felt the thrill of being more comfortable in unfamiliar territory. Before I got home that night, I wiped my face clean and smiled through the anxious looks on my parents’ faces. Makeup has remained a casual side piece for me since that day, often at my disposal but never a steady commitment. At home, friends applied it for me infrequently, under the cover of night. I’ve rarely practiced myself because I’m unskilled, and uninterested in buying products. Other men’s relationships with makeup are more complex, with usage influenced by the expectations of masculinity. To me, makeup is ornamental; I like expressive eyeshadow, brazen lipstick colors, and goth eyeliner. But, especially at universities, the limitations of masculinity are unavoidable. But mine is just one way of wearing makeup. Sam Ervolino, a cross-dressing high school senior I spoke to, sustains a more devoted relationship to it. It represents how he feels in the moment. On a bad day, he might wear no makeup. On a good day, “I feel ready to tackle a cat-eye,” he says. The first


Illustrated by Jason Hu time he wore makeup was less public than mine, but felt just as safe: in his bathroom, after midnight, during sophomore year. He would take a photo, then delete it quickly. His first public appearance was a year later; coincidentally (or not), that same day he was dress-coded by his school. At home, Londoners received my appearance with their indifference and that was how I liked it. Since arriving at Yale, I have been skeptical about receiving the same reaction. I have worn less makeup with less flourish. Here, makeup on a man is conversation fodder, a new topic to liven repetitive interactions. I dread undue attention that might other a habit that I consider normal. However, Zulfiqar Mannan, GH ’20, doesn’t believe Yalies care about men wearing makeup. He says that Yale’s “Don’t-Touch-My-Hair clout” has restrained people from

acting on their curiosity. When still in high school, Mannan began wearing makeup. The hobby lay dormant until he experimented with androgyny at Yale. He realized that he had already been presenting his identity with his clothes— why not with makeup? “I always imagined [I was] Lady Gaga getting ready for shows… slightly rushed. I didn’t know how it worked. [I was] just having fun with it,” he gushed. Sometimes he uses eyeshadow to hide the bags under his eyes; more often he uses it to embolden his eyelids. Either way, “it’s just like art, low-key.” Ranks of men wear makeup. We do it in the day and at night; publicly and privately; silently and loudly. It’s worn daily or yearly or instinctively, on- and off-stage. We use makeup to conceal flaws, enhance features, as decoration or even as artistry. There is no one way; the parameters are endless. Some of us know other men who wear makeup. We all wish we knew more.


So why do we bother? The realm of women’s makeup is stifling enough: the average British woman spends approximately 38 minutes on it daily, almost 4 percent of her life. Instead of addressing the societal demands women face, why do men seek to undergo similar pressures? Perhaps it’s that we revel in attention. Makeup exists for others to consume. In this public sphere or Yale sphere, I might simply enjoy the flattery. Or perhaps the act of subversion compels me, knowing that “man” and “makeup” are culturally dissonant. But self-gratification is not to be underestimated. Men wear makeup at home without an audience, too. It is an identity marker. “There’s no one feeling. My makeup is what I feel,” Ervolino suggests. Alternatively, Mannan feels beautiful in makeup; it dispels insecurities about his looks. At Pride, my makeup faded well before the empowering sensation it had created. Or maybe we don’t need to explain why we do what we want to. Must we always explain what others don’t understand? Over November break, I wore makeup again at home. In the pub, my friend coated me with chalky eyeliner and velvet lipstick. Being a casual user, I had no makeup remover at home. So, the next morning when a family member woke me, he blinked in shock at my stained face. I thought no more of it. I attended breakfast still looking clownish but washed off the maquillage eventually. Later, another family member felt the need to talk to me. “Why do you do it?” she asked, referring to the makeup. I gave mild reasons: the joy of selfexpression, frustration with masculinity, Bowie, etc. But that wasn’t enough. She asked again and again, “Why do you do it?” Earlier that year, a Facebook photo of me with makeup on incurred the same questions. No answer appeased her point of view; she was exasperated with incomprehension. Makeup has also confounded other family members. One important—and characteristically joyful—person in my life was flummoxed into silence when I mentioned that I would continue wearing it. He couldn’t look me in the eye, sulking for hours. He was worried that I “wanted to be a woman.” The cultural baggage of makeup is remarkable. Mere powder on a man’s face drives people to extremities. When femmepresenting outside of New York, Ervolino was attacked by a man on the street. “I don’t think you understand the way you are perceived until you meet someone who is willing to deny it,” he said. My casual dynamic with makeup is at odds with these volatile reactions—it means little to me and a lot to my detractors. And if, despite this resistance, we still wear makeup, clearly it must be worth it. Many reactions are less ardent, especially at Yale. One Yale senior told me a story about her birthday party. She had invited someone who, on arrival, had lavishly made-up his face. Everyone fawned over him, she said. “Yas, slay,” they chorused. Although innocuous, the flattery raised some questions. If he wore similar makeup to women at the party, what granted him special attention? Similarly, in 2013, Harry Styles wore imperceptible lipstick and the Internet selfcombusted. People, whether at Yale or elsewhere, are less likely drawn to the makeup than to the fact that a man wore it. Masculinity is the main obstacle to spreading the good word of eyeshadow. Existing male-targeted products appeal to

masculine vanity. Colin Jay’s oxymoronic “Natural ‘No Makeup’ Makeup Tutorial for Men” has garnered almost a million views on YouTube. Sites like Men’s Make-Up sell concealer, acne-fighting moisturizer, manscara and guyliner. The marketing assures men that they don’t have to wear women’s products—perish the thought! Another Yalie said she had offered to do a male student’s eyeshadow in a bathroom off-campus. Initially, he was game but quickly backtracked, saying, “No, it’s weird.” This kind of response is amplified in BuzzFeed’s “Men Wear Makeup for a Week,” which has accumulated 8.2 million views on YouTube. The presenters’ resistance to their task verges on mockery. One compares a beard-enhancing product to a butt plug. (It doesn’t look like a butt plug at all.) They dangle it in each other’s faces and cower from the apparatus, like pre-teens discovering a dildo. The video highlights the latent homophobia in reactions to makeup. Put logically, gay is girly. Makeup is girly. Thus, this makeup looks like a butt-plug. Although ridiculed and abused on BuzzFeed, this intersection of makeup and queer folk is not to be ignored. For Jake Colavolpe, MC ’18, “makeup is simply the conduit for me to put my queerness into art and then to put that art into the world.” Since the spring of 2016, Colavolpe has performed as a drag artist under the stage name Pastiche (@itspastiche on Instagram). Makeup is a professional tool for him, which is precisely why he doesn’t wear it during the day—“better to get paid for the hassle,” he says. He admits that he has never seen a drag artist who doesn’t use it. At Yale, his concerns echoed mine: a student once spoke with him for 20 minutes about his blue eyeshadow, magnifying something that didn’t warrant the consideration. Experiences like this have also discouraged Journey Streams, PC ’21. He fears makeup invites people to further compartmentalize him according to Yale’s social groupings. Furthermore, he appreciates that makeup can be unattractive to queer men. “Finding queer intimacy is already hard [at Yale], so it would be even harder” with makeup on, he says. Nonetheless, there is room to be optimistic. Change is afoot online. The widely publicized CoverGirl star, James Charles, is the face of male makeup’s diversifying popularity. Other figures sustain the trend, like Patrick Starrr (3.4 million YouTube subscribers) and Manny Gutierrez (4.3 million Instagram followers). These men spur on a growing industry, adjusting the public’s gaze to the normal image of a man in makeup. But this trend has always been cyclical. In 1976, the Ladies’ Home Journal advocated for Mary Quant’s “Colouring Box for Men,” filled with tinted moisturizer, mascara, eye crayons and lip glosser. It asserted that “the ‘macho’ male image is being replaced by the concept of a real person.” Over 40 years later, that real person is still struggling to materialize. Until we appreciate the seismic grip of masculinity, wearing makeup will remain a transgressive act for men, not—as they hope— an acceptable one.

For Dudes 11


Class Rings


Carl remembers the exact moment he first saw Debbie. It was the fall of 1969. “I was sitting in the Morse quad, on a very sunny September day. It was warm, and everyone was just hanging around, sitting on the grass. And I saw her walk. She was walking from where the Morse gate is down into where the dining hall is.” He says he thinks about it a lot. “She was really attractive. Blonde. But more than anything else, there was a very casual way she was walking. She smiled and was friendly to every person she saw. And I thought to myself, ‘Ok. I should meet this person.’” It all happened very quickly. Soon after that sunny September day, Carl and Debbie met properly. They fell in love. A year later, they were married. It’s a classic, common love story, hardly distinguishable from the B-plot of a made-for-TV Lifetime romcom. But one thing does make their story unique: they were, according to the Yale Alumni Magazine, the first Yale College couple to get married. Carl Eifler, MC ’70, was part of the last all-male class at Yale. Debbie Johnson, MC ’71, came to Yale as a junior after transferring from the all-women’s Mills College. If you own When Harry Met Sally on iTunes like I do, you probably remember the interludes of married couples sitting on a living room couch, happily recounting how they met. In a Nora Ephron-scripted

tale of romance at Yale, Debbie and Carl would be that couple, sitting on the couch and very much in love. My first September at Yale, I definitely didn’t find loveat-first-sight in the Morse courtyard. When I got into college, my best friend’s mom told me, “You’re going to marry a captain of industry,” but it’s hard to imagine any undergrad finding a spouse, or even thinking about marriage, in their time here. That said, the movies and moms of the world have drilled in this idea that college is where we become who we will be and find the person with whom we will spend the rest of our lives. In an effort to make sense of all this, I thought I’d track down married Yalies, past, present, and future.

“It was like whiplash,” Debbie (now Debbie Fennebresque) tells me over the phone. She’s describing how just 10 months after Yale announced its decision to co-educate, 588 female first-years and transfers were ushered in in the fall of 1969. In hindsight, she marvels at the immediacy of the transition. “Now that I’m a grown-up, I realize that was like nine months. It takes longer than that to redo a kitchen in New York.” And Debbie is familiar with fast transitions: I don’t know much about the timeline of home renovations, but I imagine you could maybe re-do a mid-size bathroom in the three months between when Debbie and Carl first met and when they got engaged.

So, I found Carl’s email address and asked if he and Debbie would answer a few questions. By the next morning, I received a response. “I’ve spoken to Debbie and we expect we would be willing to be interviewed for your article.” My eyes lit up. Then I read the next line: “We are no longer married.”

“You go to the dining hall together, you have dinner together, you have lunch together,” Carl says about their relationship, more or less summing up dating at Yale now. “There were a lot of people dating,” he remarks, “but of the folks that we knew, we weren’t aware of anybody who was crazy enough to get married after only knowing the other person for six months.” He laughs and tells me that he doesn’t recommend it.

I won’t lie, I was a little dismayed. Does this mean there’s a curse on Yale love? It might explain a lot. But both Carl and Debbie were happy to talk, and I set up a time to chat, curious to hear about married life at Yale in days of yore.

Neither is confident about where or when the proposal happened. Carl vaguely recalls buying a ring at a jewelry store near the Green in the winter or spring. As Debbie remembers, they were engaged by Christmas. The late

“Trying to write a senior thesis and plan a wedding is not something I would recommend.” Stephanie Addenbrooke Bean, JE ’17


Vincent Scully, then-Master of Morse College, threw them an engagement party in his home—Debbie still remembers the engraved invitations. The wedding took place in August of 1970, in Debbie’s hometown of Spokane, Washington. Carl’s roommate was his best man. “What can I say? I was barely, barely 20. Idiot, you know, it was just an idiotic thing to do getting married that young. But I loved him,” Debbie reflects, with more affection in her voice than resentment. “Nothing about my relationship with Carl do I regret, except the fact that we didn’t make it work.” For better or worse, she says, “our relationship was bound up with our experiences at Yale.” To hear her tell it, their relationship in that first year was inextricable from the events that were unfolding in New Haven. In the spring of 1970, the antiwar movement and protests over the Black Panther trials overshadowed classes for many students. Debbie recounts running hand-in-hand with Carl up Chapel Street after tear gas was set off on the New Haven Green. Carl, who ultimately became a conscientious objector, spent many nights moderating student meetings trying to work out the logistics of the May Day strike and the Panther trials, Debbie in attendance. “We did everything together,” she says. Debbie returned for her senior year at Yale as Debbie Eifler. She and Carl lived in an apartment behind Saybrook and she continued her studies while Carl completed his conscientious objector service through Dwight Hall. Debbie admits freely that the balance between being a wife and a student was hard to manage. On a campus still dominated by men, though, she remembers, “The nice thing about being married is you can be friends with men. It’s no issue… Once I was Carl’s fiancée I could sit down with any group of men and be friends with them, and I really loved that.” There’s a lot to be said about gender dynamics at Yale now, but I didn’t have to get engaged to become friends with boys, so I guess that’s something. As I end my interview with Debbie, I ask if she has anything else to add. She pauses a bit before saying, “I know you’re looking for romantic things, but...the thing I would want emphasized is the experience in Morse and at Yale—it was a troubled time at Yale, but in a way it was great to be there. Yale kind of showed its best stuff then. It showed itself to be an institution of integrity… that it could nurture good things in people.” And though a lasting marriage may not have come of it, Yale certainly nurtured the good in Carl and Debbie. *



Mary Carde, SM ’72, didn’t recognize Carl or Debbie’s names when I cold-called her on a Tuesday evening. Initial wariness in her voice, probably out of fear that I was trying to sell her something, subsided when she found out that I just wanted to pry into her love life. “Oh, you’re kidding!” she gushed. I wasn’t kidding. Mary met her husband within the first few weeks of co-education, and I was on a mission. Luckily, Mary, a clinical psychologist, didn’t read too much into my fixation on her marriage. After talking to Carl and Debbie, I wanted to learn more about love at Yale in the early days of coeducation, maybe even find a story with a happier ending. Carde, then Mary Kaufman, was among the first women to come to campus in 1969, transferring


from University of Pennsylvania her sophomore year. She was a year below Debbie, and on the other side of campus in Silliman. She met her future husband, Scott Carde, SM ’71, in his suite within her first few weeks on campus. Their first official date wasn’t until Halloween, she tells me fondly, when “One of his roommates called me and said, ‘There’s someone here who wants to ask you out.’ [Scott] was very embarrassed that his roommate had done that.” The two went out, as (apparently) college students do, to a football game. “We had a horrible time. It was terrible. Yale lost badly to Dartmouth. He was in a really crappy mood. I couldn’t believe that anybody could take football that seriously.” After an underwhelming first date, Mary and Scott decided it was better to just be friends. Even if you don’t own When Harry Met Sally on iTunes, I’m sure you have gathered that they didn’t just stay friends. “We talked and said, ‘Okay, we’re just never going to date again.’ And then we just never stopped seeing each other, so a lot of good that talk did,” Mary tells me. “Friendly” Friday dinners in Silliman somehow always ended with Scott inviting Mary over to his suite, where he and his suitemates were somehow always throwing a party, and you know how the rest goes. “I wanted to just be in college. I didn’t want to be married. Being married seemed like something for later,” Mary says pretty emphatically when I ask her if she considered getting married as an undergraduate. After her graduation, Mary and Scott lived together for a year before they tied the knot. They had known for a long time, though, that they were going to stay together. She chokes up while telling me how he proposed. “It was just the two of us. I had gotten home first. I was in the apartment we were living in, and he came home and he got down on his knees and said, ‘We might as well do this.’” Even waiting a year after her graduation, Mary— who skipped a year before college—was only 21 when she got married. She seemed as surprised by that number as I was (my big plan when I turn 21 is to get a horizontal driver’s license), and she’s the first to admit that luck played a part in her now decades-long marriage. “Scott and I always say we were fortunate that we grew up together in a compatible way. It doesn’t always happen that way,” she says with a hint of warning in her voice, and I start to wonder how many people I will have to reassure that I’m really, really not close to getting married. Mary emails me right after we end our interview. She told me that her husband Scott had called, as he always does, when he’s about to drive home. *



On average, men and women in America are getting married later—ages 29 and 27, respectively, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. In 1969, when Carl met Debbie and Mary met Scott, the average ages were 23 and 21. Obviously, there is more good in this shift than there is bad—women now are consistently delaying marriage to pursue higher education and long-term careers. But I’m trying to craft an inspiring romantic narrative, and an inspiring romantic narrative doesn’t live in the past. Those that do, like The Notebook or Titanic, are trying to make you cry. I’m not trying to make you cry. Besides, getting married and pursuing a profession are not mutually exclusive. Even at a place like Yale, where some would rather enter into

government work than a government-certified union, some still choose the road (or aisle) less travelled. Stephan Riemekasten, SM ’17, majored in PsychNeuroscience at Yale and plans on going to medical school in Germany (that is, after he tries to make the German national rowing team for the 2020 Olympics). He has been engaged to his high school girlfriend, Sophia, since the summer before his junior year; the wedding is planned for the end of June. “Also, I should mention we have a child together. We have a daughter and she’s three months old,” he mentions after musing on his last season with the Yale crew team. Her name is Maya. “Whoa,” I say, acutely aware of the fact that in the few years Stephan has managed to do all of this, I have done very little except kill two desert plants. I’m stunned, but he goes on. “She was born 5 or 6 months after I graduated Yale so, I guess you could do the math.” “Whoa,” I say, acutely aware of how I probably shouldn’t think too hard about the math. Long distance wasn’t easy, Stephan admits. “I mean I counted the days until she would return to campus,” he recalls. But Sophia completed part of her studies in New Haven. “When she was at Yale we would basically live together. Whenever I was done with all my work for the day, which was usually around 11 or midnight, we would just take a 30 minute walk. We did that almost every day. It was so therapeutic.” We ended the call—it was around 9:30pm for him, and he had practice the next morning—but he messaged me a few minutes later. “sorry, just realized i think I said we “had” Maya at yale. That is misleading, she was conceived at yale, we had her in October 17.” Thanks, Stephan! Sure, Stephan is kind of impressive. But he isn’t married yet, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s just doing ok. Others still on campus have already sealed the deal. When Esther Issever Zakuto, TD ’19, finishes a day of classes, she returns to the home she shares with her husband Niso, whom she married in August of 2017, the summer before her junior year. The two met over four years ago in Turkey, where Niso is originally from, but didn’t start dating until a few years later. Niso commutes from his job in New York to their home on Olive Street by the State Street Station. “I come home everyday to, really, a home. As opposed to the dorms. I would say it’s less stressful in that way because in a dorm, you’re still surrounded by people who are constantly stressed about school. They’re constantly studying,” she says when I call her from my dorm room. At that moment, my suitemates are playing the same scene from La La Land on repeat in the common room and eating Sour Punch Straws by the pack, but I know what she means. Coming from an Orthodox Jewish background, Esther has many friends from home who are in the same phase of life that she entered last summer. “It’s something so normal for me, for someone in their early 20s to be married. That’s why I know that, even though at Yale it’s not so common, I don’t feel so uncomfortable with it...I mean like, I have friends who are 21 and they think their time is passing,” she tells me with a chuckle. I decide not to tell Esther about my plans to get a horizontal driver’s license. Esther knows of one other married undergrad at Yale, Joey Adler, TD ’18, and his wife Eliana Sugarman. She doesn’t feel like she needs a community at Yale, but she does think “It’s nice to know that you’re not the only one and you’re not some strange creature from outer space who gets married at college.” Joey laughs when I tell

him what Esther said. “I totally feel like I’m from outer space,” he says. Joey and Eliana’s story reads similarly to Esther and Niso’s. They met when they were 19 and working at a Jewish summer camp (“We’re like that classic couple,” Joey jokes) and got married the summer after Joey’s sophomore year at Yale. In their Orthodox Jewish communities, Eliana says, “People get married as young as 20. We were 21 and we had been dating for two years. It was kind of just a given at that point.” *



Esther and Joey both married people they met when they weren’t at Yale. Stephan, too, will be marrying his high school sweetheart. Based on this reliable sample size of three, it seems like the key to finding love at Yale is to find it somewhere else. Or maybe there’s hope. Because the same year that Stephan came back to school engaged, two of his classmates were starting a relationship that, this past summer, became a marriage. Stephanie Addenbrooke Bean, JE ’17, and Andrew Bean, DC ’17, technically met on the Yale Accepted Students Facebook page—“a terrible, honest truth, but that’s how it is,” admits Stephanie. She gathered from comment threads that Andrew shared her taste in music. Andrew still remembers that Stephanie, originally from Liverpool, posted about having a father who is a pastor. At the beginning of their junior year, after two years running in similar circles, they started dating. It was also the year when Stephanie became Editor-in-Chief of the Yale Daily News, a commitment generally considered more time-consuming than marriage. The perfect time to start dating your future husband. “People thought we were crazy, which is legitimate,” Stephanie tells me, but she also insists that the experience only helped her and Andrew learn about themselves and each other.

By senior year, Stephanie and Andrew knew they had to make decisions about their future. “For both of us, our principle on dating is that it will lead you to marriage at some point. And so if we didn’t see ourselves getting married, why are we still dating?” Stephanie recounts. In December, Andrew proposed outside of the new colleges. “I mean, when we started as freshmen, or first years, nothing was there. And so when Andrew proposed, he told the story of how our relationship meshed with the construction of these colleges,” Stephanie explains. “Andrew’s really deeply philosophical about how building construction means you believe in things that you have no proof will be good, but you believe they will be.” I, for one, will never look at the four-story L.L Bean store being constructed on Broadway the same way. Stephanie and Andrew got married right after graduation, with many of their friends and both of their Deans in attendance. “Trying to write a senior thesis and plan a wedding is not something I would recommend,” Stephanie laughs. The stress of pulling it all together was alleviated by the fact that, as was the case with Esther and Joey, both Stephanie and Andrew came from communities where younger marriages were more commonplace. “Of my friends from high school, a lot of them were married or were getting married. Even though it was uncommon in my community at Yale, it wasn’t uncommon among the wider spread,” Stephanie says. Their ceremony took place at the Trinity Church right by Timothy Dwight College; they took their photos in the Pauli Murray courtyard (“definitely the first people who had their wedding photographs there”) and continue to live in New Haven. Stephanie is now in her first year at the Divinity School and Andrew works at a financial firm in Westport. Pauli Murray, an important

theologian as well as lawyer, is one of Stephanie’s inspirations as she studies the theologies of liberation. *



This Valentine’s Day will be Stephanie and Andrew’s first as a married couple. The same holds for Esther and Niso. It will be Stephan’s daughter’s first Valentine’s Day on the planet. And just this year, Mary Carde finally threw out the teddy bear that Scott gave her on their first Valentine’s Day together (“It what kind of yucky after all those years…”). And Carl and Debbie, while they haven’t spent Valentine’s Day as a couple in decades, made sure to tell me that they wouldn’t take any of it back, that they are still on good terms, that their daughter Elin also ended up going to Yale. Elin sent me some of Carl and Debbie’s old photos. In one, the two are decked out in their wedding finery, engrossed in petting two abnormally large dogs. In the other, they are sitting together on a couch, with the infant Elin between them. They might not have grown old together on that couch, as Nora Ephron would have had it, but both of them believe that it’s still worth it to try to find love at Yale. “Sometimes it ends up being really romantic and sometimes not so much,” Carl says. “But it ends up being a good part of the experience.”


Ft Feb.9.2018

Warming Up ELLIOT WAILOO, SY ’21

The sky has been pitch-black for several hours when I arrive at 1415 State St. on a freezing Monday night. No lights are on out front, so I walk down a steep driveway along the side of the building to search for the back door. As I walk, I can see fluorescent light emanating from narrow windows, reflecting on the asphalt. Right before I push the unmarked back door open, I check my phone: it’s a little past 10:30 p.m., and the temperature is 26 degrees. I’m visiting one of New Haven’s warming centers: cityfunded sites where homeless residents can rest indoors and access case management services without entering a traditional shelter. Tonight, there are 17 people checked into the State Street center, located in the basement annex of New Flame Restoration Christian Church in northeast New Haven and run by a local organization, Community Action Agency of New Haven (CAANH). It’s been less than an hour since doors opened at 10:00 p.m., but most of the guests have already curled up on the floor amid blankets, sheets, and jackets, strategically positioning themselves near outlets. One man is laying on chairs pushed together and has covered his head with a blanket to block out the dim light; a woman in a wheelchair pours herself some coffee. The ceilings are low, and the air smells faintly of cigarette smoke. When I walk in, I’m greeted by two people: London Hobson, the site manager, and Kenneth Driffin, a veteran employee who helps to monitor the center. Both are employees of CAANH—they’re stationed at a table by the door, wearing lanyards with ID cards. Several items are scattered across the tabletop: a sign-in sheet for guests, a list of rules, a composition notebook for recording updates throughout the night, a tall container of Pringles, and a large dispenser of hand sanitizer. “We tell everyone to use hand sanitizer as much as possible,” Hobson tells me. “Twenty-two people died from the flu this year in the area.” This particular warming center opened only two weeks ago, after logistical issues forced CAANH to stop using a building on Columbus Avenue. “We just moved from one side of town to the other,” Hobson said. The other building would attract 40 to 50 guests a night, but since the move, the number has more frequently been in the teens because of the inconvenient location. The walk from downtown is more than 45 minutes for an able-bodied person, but there are also benefits for residents who make the trek. “There are showers here, and we can control the heat,” Hobson said. “At the old center, the heat was locked up and we couldn’t change it. We used to call it a freezing center instead of a warming center.” Though warming centers and homeless shelters are related services, the difference is pronounced, especially for those relying on the centers and shelters for support. Often, shelters have stricter rules and guidelines for residents. If


people are dealing with issues that cause them to dislike being controlled or surrounded by people, they may be better suited to staying in a warming center. “We’re dealing with people who are chronically homeless, with mental health issues and substance abuse issues,” Driffin explained. “These are people who don’t traditionally follow orders.” Warming centers do have rules, among them bans on weapons, sexual activity, and re-entry, but they are far less stringent. They are also free, while many shelters charge small fees. According to Alison Cunningham, the CEO of Columbus House, many of the shelter’s residents are asked to pay $3 a day. Yet shelters can often offer more material comfort. “The difference between center and shelter is that a shelter has a bed,” said Rick Fontana, Director for Emergency Management for the city. “At warming centers, they don’t have beds because there’s a square footage requirement, and it would be difficult for us to get that amount of room.” Because of this, those who choose to stay in shelters are often divided by gender in living areas, and sometimes even between different shelters. For example, Martha’s Place is an all-female and youth shelter, while the Emergency Shelter Management Services shelter houses only men. Columbus House offers space for all genders, but it separates floors into men and women. This mandatory separation leads to a high proportion of couples taking advantage of warming centers in the city. “The warming centers are the only place that allow couples to come,” Driffin said. “Men and women, women and women, men and men, don’t matter, everybody can come here. Other places? They divide by gender, on different floors. Here, everybody’s together.” One of three couples in the warming center on Monday night is Kore Hollis and Donna Torres, who have been married since September. For several months, they lived separately in Columbus House, until they were forced to leave. “We were both discharged with no warning,” Hollis said. They recounted that Torres was pushed by a man at Columbus House, and after the couple advocated for his removal, they were asked to depart. Currently, both Torres and Hollis are unemployed; their only source of income is $219 monthly from Torres’ Social Security Disability Insurance. Torres has suffered from PTSD since she was hit by a car. The couple is trying to secure work and housing, but has already encountered multiple barriers. Torres has an arrest on her record, but does not believe she has a felony charge—contrary to what her caseworker informed her—a fact that influences heavily in her quest for housing and vouchers. “They said they wouldn’t take a chance on me because I have a record, and I might be incarcerated in the future,” she said.


17 The pair sees the warming shelter run by CAANH as a temporary sleeping place. “We’re here until we get situated,” Hollis explained. “We wished it opened earlier.” Guests are awoken at 5 and asked to leave by 6 a.m. Even with these abbreviated overnight hours, the staff still pulls long shifts. Hobson and Driffin had arrived at nine that night, and would end their 10-hour shifts around 7 a.m. The first warming shelters in New Haven opened in 2013, after Mayor Toni Harp was first elected. According to Cunningham, the city realized the need for a warming center after homeless New Haveners showed up to Yale-New Haven Hospital’s emergency room seeking warmth. “One year, the hospital opened a room that served as a warming center. Columbus House had staff there overnight,” Cunningham said. “The next year, we staffed a warming center at Church on the Rock.” While Columbus House no longer operates the smaller-scale warming centers, other local organizations like CAANH have taken up the reins. “Each year the City of New Haven solicits Requests for Proposals for different categories of services for the homeless,” explained Velma George, New Haven’s Coordinator for Homelessness. “After the city’s most recent RFP, CAANH and the 180 Center were the only agencies to submit proposals for warming center services.” These organizations are the only two to offer warming center services—the center on State Street, and the 180 Center on Grand Avenue, which began providing services Feb. 1.

self-sufficiency as an achievable process—and one that can be facilitated, but not rushed. He tells me of one recent success story. “One lady I met tonight I took to see the room [she’ll be renting] today. Once she gets access to her card on Wednesday, she’s moving in.” He leans back in his chair and smiles. At 11:30 p.m., Hobson announces that it’s time for a smoke break, for those who are interested. “I need to smoke brick,” one of the guests says, rummaging through a bundle of belongings. One man asks her, “Can I have a cigarette for one dollar?” Hobson looks on, and repeats his announcement. He takes four people outside; the rest, including Hollis and Torres, stay snug under covers. One woman is slurping from a cup of Maruchan noodles. I chat with Hobson and Driffin for a few more minutes. I leave the center just after midnight. The guests are largely silent: only snoring interferes with the staff’s quiet conversation. Kearse leaves with me, giving Hobson and Driffin a fist bump on the way out. I check my phone again; the temperature has dipped below 23 degrees. It will only get colder overnight, and the guests will be back on the streets well before sunrise. I open the door and the freezing air rushes in. Headlights flash on Kearse’s silver van as he turns it on. The door swings shut behind me, guarding warmth—and the people—inside.

CAANH provides a range of services to individuals and families with limited resources facing complex issues. According to Emille Jones, Director of Programs and Case Management, several of these services are provided at the centers. “During the winter, we offer case management,” he said. “We help connect them with resources, like helping them to register for SNAP [the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, a state food stamps bill].” The goal of these services is to assist homeless residents on the path to self-sufficiency. On Monday, the case management worker on the job is Douglas Kearse. He spends one night a week at the CAANH center, and also works at the all-male Emergency Shelter Management Services shelter. From 10 p.m. to midnight, he sits in a well-lit side room with yellowing walls, styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, meeting with guests about services. “We’re tasked with reaching out to people who are homeless or need a home. We try to engage them and find out as much as we can about them, and then see if they want— that’s very important—if they want services,” Kearse says. “We spend 90 days trying to connect people to services, prioritizing their urgent needs: substance abuse counseling, mental health services, and housing.” Kearse’s hours extend beyond the late-night case management meetings, though. He grows close with his clients and is buoyed by their successes. Kearse theorizes


Clt Feb.9.2018

VALENTINE’S DAY__ When I was 14, my “boyfriend” of one week took me to a fancy restaurant. Somehow I managed to spill HIS Shirley Temple all over the table, myself, and the floor. The restaurant, not wanting to make a scene, pretended to ignore my spill. But every time one of the waiters walked by, they would swoop down, pick up one ice cube, and continue walking as if nothing had happened. They ALL did this. They were ALL in on it. Do you know how long it takes to clean up a spilled Shirley Temple one ice cube at the time? The remainder of the date, that’s how long.

When I studied abroad in Spain I went on a date with a man who pretended to only know Spanish for the entirety of the encounter until, while we were making out next to a metro stop, a tourist asked for directions and he answered in perfect English.

When I was in sixth grade, I had my first boyfriend. We never kissed, and probably talked more before our relationship than during it. I don’t know exactly how long it lasted, but I know how it ended… I reminded him that Valentine’s Day was coming up. It was intended to clear the air, so there would be no pressure— which was a pretty emotionally mature move for sixth grade me. He promptly broke up with me. I told all my friends that I had been spurned, that he didn’t really have a reason. In fact, it was my very first experience with commitment-phobic men.

I put on cologne for a meeting with my DUS. He showed up half an hour late and made me cancel. He never even apologized.

The last person I was in a relationship with was a very nice guy who liked me much more than I liked him. He told me he loved me for the first time after we made out in my car. I laughed and said, “okay.”


My first gay crush was in 8th grade. We used to make out in front of boys during Truth or Dare and pretend it was for male attention. On a school field trip, I texted her in the middle of the night asking if she wanted to sneak out and meet up. It was VERY forward. She made up some excuse about not wanting to wake her roommate. I didn’t tell anyone I liked girls until my senior year of high school.

I don’t remember half of what you said that night. I was focusing all my energy on keeping in the tears, because if I couldn’t have my pride I could at least have a shred of my dignity. Even the tiniest fragment was better than nothing at all. I know we exchanged a few texts afterwards. Digitized anger flying through the air from your fingers to my eyes, head, heart. But these are just ones and zeros. Grey and blue. Indignation and heartbreak. Binary. So what I wrote back to you then I’ll never think of as our last words, despite their seeming finality. No, those are the words I spoke aloud, mind willing and muscles contracting and blood rushing to make it so, even as my heart rebelled. They are what I agonize over, even on days when it feels like I am healing. “Okay. Bye.” It’s gotten easier since. But there are still some nights when I lay awake with morning creeping across the sky. Arms folded across my chest, I close my eyes and whisper everything I wish I had said instead of those two little words, and hope that somehow the vibrations make their way to you.

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust” — the Arctic Monkeys The worst hookup I ever had was in 11th grade. He was my first boyfriend. Thus, we were extremely into dry humping. One day, we were making out in his childhood bedroom (complete with patterned football wallpaper and three shelves full of youth sports trophies) and while I was on top of him, disaster struck. Not only did I get my period early, but neither of us realized for about thirty minutes. So, after I got off, not only were my own pants completely fucked, but the entire front of his khakis were covered in actual, literal, bright red blood. Horror does not begin to describe this experience. I spent 45 minutes trying to rub it out under cold water in his parents’ tiny bathroom, on the verge of tears, to no avail. He was very nice about it. Whatever. Still traumatic.

__CONFESSIONS I wake up at 8, alone in my narrow bed, soaked in my own period blood. Red is the color of Valentine’s Day after all. The sky is gray, it’s sleeting. I eat breakfast with a suite mate, but we’re both on our laptops. I’m scrolling through Facebook and I read a Vice article about people who get off on contracting and sharing STDs. Interesting. In Stats the professor has everyone raise their hand if they’ve ever fucked a stranger. My hand proudly goes up. Cool. I have a two hour lunch with a friend who shows me photos of her ex while weeping. I reread Twilight and then have a dream about vampires, but ugly. Huh, weird. I draw one lil heart in my notebook. I walk to my single friend’s dorm while listening to Adele. We snort flour and pretend that it’s real drugs. We are jazzed up. We go to Jake’s Diggity Dogs, but they don’t believe that we’re dating. Sad! The hot dogs aren’t kosher anyway so we must leave. I become a vegan. Yay! I come down with whooping cough, surprise surprise, and am nursed back to health on the wings of a big eagle. I scroll through tinder and a boy messages me, saying that I look like a cute Matt Damon. I am not offended.

I can only orgasm when my toes are pointed. I have a crush on my FOOT leader— it started after the trip, thank God.

I’d probably sleep with you again if you’d pay me back for the Junzi I bought you.

From the moment I sat next to you on the bus ride back from Target, I knew you were the one. At first I thought your initial persistence in following me around was annoying, but over these few months I’ve come to realize that you’re the yin to my yang, the Sancho to my Don Quixote, the Patroclus to my Achilles.

My junior year of high school, I developed a crush, mostly out of necessity, on a boy I was halfway friends with. He was tall and thought he was better than everyone and I was bored. You know the drill. One day as we were leaving last period French, he asked me if we could talk in private. All of a sudden my palms were very sticky. I rubbed them on my boot cut jeans as we walked to a secluded alcove near the auditorium. We took a seat. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. I tried to remember if I’d put on deodorant that morning. Then, he confessed that he thought he was in love with one of my close friends. Would I help him win her over for a prom date? I told him that, defying social convention, she had just started dating a very muscular freshman. Was I sure? Yes, I was sure. We walked back to our lockers. Later that night, he texted: “Thanks for being a bro.”

this valentine’s day i will be SINGLE as fck. whoever told me that yale is the “”gay ivy”” is such a LIAR. i lowkey should have committed somewhere else (cough columbia). nothing exciting or romantic has happened to my life here, but i see everybody else thriving! with their men! psa—yale men are disappointing as heeeccckkk! so, i will continue to spend v-day alone (unless i meet somebody @ valenwoads LOL).

I once went on a date with a guy whose tinder bio said “Good Vibes Only” and lived to tell the tale.


Rv Feb.9.2018 (Photo/

REVISITING CLUELESS: CHER’S PLACE IN THE AMERICAN FILM CANON EMMA KEYES, PC ’19 YH STAFF Jane Austen knew a thing or two about romance. Or at least she knew a thing or two about what people want romance to look like. How else could Pride and Prejudice have endured in the western cultural imagination for more than 200 years? If Austen hadn’t tapped into some fundamental desire to see complex human relationships play out in a middle class romance for the ages, then my mother would never have gotten to see Colin Firth dive into the lake; you know the scene and if you don’t, it’s the second result when you Google search “colin firth pride and prejudice.” Get to it. We would be missing out on so much culture! The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, one of many Pride and Prejudice remakes, started my favorite web-video genre: the literary vlog adaptation. In addition, Austen’s works, second only to Shakespeare, have been adapted into all sorts of teen comedies—the best of which is Clueless. We owe so much to Jane Austen! Long may she reign. In the interest of full disclosure, the only Jane Austen novel I’ve actually read cover to cover is Emma because I read it in my mother-daughter book club circa 2010 and also because my name is Emma. Austen’s Emma is a classic tale of matchmaking: things go right and then a little bit offthe-rails and then, as all 19th century romances must, it ends with a wedding. Emma has been rewritten, adapted for stage, film, and television, and has generally cemented itself in the western literary canon, but the best adaptation of the beloved classic will always be Amy Heckerling’s Clueless, the perfect film to return to for Valentine’s Day. The opening montage of decadent Beverly Hills teenage life follows the iconic, blocky neon title imagery all over The Muffs’ “Kids in America,” establishing the light comic tone of the film effortlessly. As we see Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) zoom around in her Jeep and use her computer to pick out her outfit for the day, she narrates in voiceover, “But seriously, I actually have a way normal life for a teenage girl.” Sure, Cher. Remarkably the Valley Girl-talking daughter of a successful Los Angeles lawyer makes for an unexpected, but phenomenal, modern spin


on the Regency-era issues that Jane Austen first concerned herself with. Where Emma Woodhouse is a bored young society woman, Cher Horowitz is a high-schooler with the confidence— that only the wealthy have—to argue any grade from a C+ up to an A- (a trait clearly encouraged by her father (Dan Hedaya), who tells her, “Honey, I couldn’t be happier than if they were based on real grades”). Like Emma, Cher finds accidental success setting up two lonely souls, but that happy outcome over-inflates her own sense of self-importance and she starts to meddle in affairs that would have been better left alone. Just like in Austen’s novel, events then quickly and comedically spiral out of her control. One of the key guiding questions when watching Clueless in the 21st century is this: is it too weird that (SPOILER ALERT) Cher ends up with Josh (Paul Rudd), her former step-brother? This question was still at the forefront of my brain when I rewatched the movie last March, having not seen it in a number of years. A good friend had never seen it and so I forced her to watch it with me. After thorough scrutiny and lengthy discussion, I have come to the conclusion that everything is fine here. Amy Heckerling had quite the job in updating relationships from 1815 to 1995, so making George Knightley, the dear family friend of the Woodhouses, into Josh Lucas, the (very briefly) former step-brother of Cher makes sense. Without knowing much about the nuances of uppermiddle class 19th century British relationships, the update seems reasonable. And the film goes out of its way to de-emphasize the sibling relationship between Cher and Josh, considering that when Josh is first mentioned in the film by Cher’s father, Cher responds with, “But you were hardly even married to his mother and that was five years ago.” They’re much more family friends than family! We can all go home happily. Despite my investigation into Cher and Josh as a couple, the romance in Clueless is almost incidental to the narrative. It’s more a comedic bildungsroman with a dash of romance than

an out-and-out romantic-comedy. The strength of Clueless, besides its incredible evocation of 1990s Beverly Hills, is its emphasis on the friendships and family relationships that make life worth living. Cher and Josh are friends long before they’re anything else. Cher makes clear that she’ll be ready for love when it comes her way, but notes, when questioned on her virginity, “You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet!” She takes her friendships with Dionne (Stacey Dash) and Tai (Brittany Murphy) much more seriously than any romantic prospects. Additionally, most of her romantic drive, much like in the original Emma, is vested in pairing up the people around her (with mixed results). Cher only finds romantic fulfillment after she exhibits some serious coming-of-age realizations about her behavior and values and takes earnest steps towards being a better person. Although Cher almost always means well (“May I remind you that it doesn’t say RSVP on the Statue of Liberty?”), it takes growing up a little bit for her to think about the consequences of her actions in a more concrete way. As Cher grows up, she reassess what matters to her and, in that period of self-reflection, realizes that she is totally butt-crazy in love with Josh! But the self-transformation comes first. Proclaiming my love for Clueless gets me eye-rolls from “serious” film fans (read: guys who love Fight Club too much), but the difficulty of creating a smart, funny, and lasting comedy about young people should not be understated. The comedic sensibility of Clueless is impeccable and the film satirizes Valley Girl culture intelligently and without malice when it easily could have taken the low-hanging fruit of mocking teenage girls without respecting them as people. Ugh, as if ! Clueless belongs in the canon of great 20th century filmmaking, full stop. Scoffing at this film equals scoffing at comedy as a genre, specifically female-centered comedy of which there is still far too little in 2018. Clueless shows that a world full of funny, heartfelt, female-directed comedy is possible.

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU SARA LUZURIAGA, BR ’21 Although it’s a classic, I didn’t actually watch 10 Things I Hate About You until my junior year of high school. I’d thought the 1999 film by Gil Junger was the sort you watch on a Friday night between relationships and wonder, “Why won’t a guy do something like that for me?” But when I watched the film I discovered it was much more than your stereotypical chick flick. Set in a Seattle high school, 10 Things I Hate About You is a modern retelling of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Kat (Julia Stiles), modeled on Shakespeare’s Katherina, is the headstrong lead character. She frequents underground concerts, melding into the majority-female audience, unabashedly tossing her long hair and limbs. She’s the unexpected female hero. Kat’s sister, Bianca (Larisa Oleynik) is the more traditional romcom protagonist—she can’t understand her older sister’s disregard for school dances, nor her infatuation with books. Cameron (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is captivated by her, and pays Patrick (Heath Ledger), the modern equivalent of Petruchio, to take Kat to prom, since the girls’ father will only let Bianca go if both sisters attend together.

Patrick, rumored to have done prison time, strikes fear in most students, but he’s also dangerously charming. Soon, Kat’s guarded exterior begins to melt. Cue the iconic scene of Ledger’s character running across the stands, singing along as the marching band plays “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” Patrick, typically calculated, displays an uncharacteristic earnestness, and Kat laughs with disbelief that somebody would do this for her. Patrick and Kat, both unrelentingly strong-willed and singular, are refreshing romantic leads. Their relationship develops naturally, with genuine performances from the actors. I loved how Kat doesn’t relinquish her values for her fledgling relationship. When Patrick presses her to go to prom, she doesn’t forgive him quickly for attempting to force her hand. Their relationship isn’t seamless because she doesn’t let him win easily. But Kat also allows herself to become vulnerable. After she discovers that Patrick was paid to pursue her, she recites her variation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 141, a class assignment, and cries in front of everyone, including him. The film’s biggest failure is the poem Kat’s character writes about her heartbreak:

“I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much that it makes me sick. It even makes me rhyme.” It’s juvenile writing from someone so well-read. The film wastes a moment that could have been poignant, instead rendering Kat, for the first time, unoriginal. Aside from this moment, the film preserves its protagonist’s complexity. Unlike other chick flicks in which women compromise themselves for their love interest—think Sandy in Grease decked out in black leather for a guy who tried to force himself on her—10 Things focuses on how Kat navigates remaining independent while simultaneously allowing herself to trust Patrick. She doesn’t become weak in love, but rather tests the strength of her convictions. Real life isn’t biding time until you fall in love. Today, particularly at a place like Yale, the difficulty lies more in balancing your own goals and values with a romantic relationship. This Valentine’s Day, whether you’re happily in a relationship, dabbling in several, single and looking, or single and proud, if you’re in the mood for a romcom that won’t make you hate Hollywood, I’d suggest this paradoxically modern film.

MIGOS, CULTURE II NIC HARRIS, BR ’18 YH STAFF Two weeks ago, and just in time for the Herald’s Valentine’s Day issue, Atlanta-based rap trio Migos released a love letter of sorts. If you’re confused, I’m referring to the group’s Culture II album, which arrived one year after their breakout album, Culture, and its megahit “Bad and Boujee.” While Culture II certainly has nothing to do with romantic love (which rappers Quavo, Takeoff, and Offset make abundantly clear throughout the album), it has everything to do with Migos’ love of the fame-infused street life that has fueled their music, and above all, “The Culture.” Culture II is long and at times repetitive, but its big hits demonstrate why the rappers of Migos are rightfully calling themselves kings of the rap game. The album starts with a song called “Higher We Go – Intro,” which clearly defines for the listener what Culture II is all about— turning “slanging” cocaine, lavish spending, and copious amounts of sex into a quasi-religious artform. Culture II is a glorification of all that has made rap music controversial since its inception, and Migos embraces these themes (the chorus of “Gang Gang” is literally, “Whole lotta gang shit, gang, gang, gang”) while uniting them under the racially-pregnant term “The Culture.” The

group celebrates its conceptualization of The Culture with nearfanatic zeal. “Higher We Go - Intro” sounds like a church hymn, with bells tolling in the background and Quavo’s pitch rising as he raps/sings, “Higher we go, beg and plead for The Culture,” essentially raising the fast life to divine status while rhythmically coercing listeners to join the movement. Migos shifts from exalting The Culture to reveling in it on the second track, “Superstars.” Here, as in many places on the album, Quavo compares the group to a team of athletes, rapping, “Whole gang in the field, we don’t do the bleachers.” Sports metaphors crop up everywhere on the album, and it’s through these references that the group most effectively conveys its dominance of the rap playing field. In addition to being one of Culture II’s hottest tracks, “Superstars” also represents the side of Culture II that drips with cool confidence, along with songs like “Walk It Talk It” featuring Drake, “Narcos,” and “Stir Fry.” Here, immaculate beats and braggadocious lyrics coalesce to portray Migos as an established frontrunner in the rap game. Not surprisingly, these are the songs that, as Will Ferrell once said, are going to “get the people going.” At the same time, there is also the sense on Culture II that Migos has unfinished business. On “Crown the Kings,” the chorus of Bob

Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” plays quietly in the background, as if to suggest that Migos’ supposed Divine Right has been overlooked, and that Culture II is their claiming of it. Similarly, the group verbally accosts nameless enemies at every turn (Quavo takes a shot at “mumble rap” generally on “Narcos,” contrasting its implicit fakeness with Migos’ “real rap”), intimating a fierce desire to protect what they’ve earned while ascending to new levels of The Culture. I always debate with a friend of mine who the hottest rappers in the game are right now, and usually I think this friend is out of his mind. Today, however, I can’t help but agree with him that Culture II has raised Migos to an elite level in terms of sheer hitmaking ability. While it’s far from perfect, Culture II demonstrates that the success of the group’s previous album was not a fluke, and that Migos is still hungry for more fame, more money, and more hype music. According to Migos’ DJ, the group took at most 45 minutes to create each song on Culture II. On the one hand, that’s an absurdly short amount of time. But on the other, the handful of absolute bangers on Culture II more than justifies this expedited process, which at times prioritized quantity over quality. Migos isn’t the first to employ this approach to recording, but it did it better than most. For that, I am grateful.

JONNY GREENWOOD, “ALMA” GRAHAM AMBROSE, JE ’18 YH STAFF “Alma” is the best love song of 2017 and it doesn’t have a single lyric. It appears early in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread, a tangled film about a waitress from the English countryside who becomes the muse of a celebrated London tailor. The song, written for the soundtrack by Radiohead multi-instrumentalist Jonny Greenwood, is about unadulterated joy — love at first sight. It’s a joy that doesn’t last long. The tailor, we learn, loves his favorite model Alma to the extent that she blushes under his gaze and bows to his despotic, all-consuming genius. The romance soon falls apart: she surrenders to his will, he snubs her for his trade, she poisons him in retaliation. He wonders: did you come here to ruin my life? She wonders: why must you humiliate me? We wonder: what kind of love story is this anyway? The lovers

seem more interested in nursing their hate than cherishing their passion. For a film in color, everything begins to feel drenched in grey. And yet, and yet — there’s “Alma,” the song. Somber piano, weeping violins, the slow lilt of strings like a flower at the golden mist of dawn. It is slow and shy and ceaseless, reminiscent of that helpless smile before the hello. It is the kind of warm and wordless love that announces itself before it has arrived, like a waft of hidden tea. “Alma” is Eden before the fall: a rapture that doesn’t last, a major progression halted by a minor chord. So the cruelty and unfairness of a cruel and unfair relationship become too acute to avoid, and the dueling strings, once twinkling with joy, now grate and whine at the initial feeling of warmth that’s steeled

into cold hostility. Despair is no relief — it only burnishes the luster of the original sin. So we hold onto what we can, the dream of “Alma.” Why not? Reality will disappoint — it must: it is, by definition, what the dream is not. The point’s not to pretend they’ll ever be the same but to delight in the starry nights that follow cold English rains. After all, we know better than to make believe true love. The characters know this too, Greenwood perhaps most of all. And yet — and yet! — for the four-minute-seven-second duration of “Alma,” we learn to un-know again. Because memory, passion, the silk on our shoulders, they all tear and wear and stain the same. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter. This has no words, just the music, a faith in the bliss, something like “Alma.”


Write for The Herald!





World’s worst porn star name.

Thoughts on libidinal spaces?



Oh, Luke!

Practice, why don’t ya?



They don’t even have tusks...

Fast finish, too :/



There must be other flavors of lube.

Tuck me in, Daddy.





Don’t Miss a Single Event! Sign up now for the Poynter newsletter:

Volume XIX Issue 3  
Volume XIX Issue 3