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(03/10/21 8:24am)
I have such a spectacular talent for making a fool of myself that, when it happens, I’m hardly surprised anymore.
Take, for example, the dashing Scottish server at Molly Malone’s Irish pub who definitely — and I mean definitely — was not into me. Egged on by my friends to flirt with him (bad idea), I botched my order, which contained slivered almonds, and ended up rambling on to the poor lad about nuts for upwards of fifteen seconds (“Cashews, walnuts, macadamia…”). Unsure if my nut-related comment was a sexual advance, the server gaped at me and said, “Um, so, like… do you still want that salad?” To which I replied that, yes, Frasier, I most definitely still want that salad, after which point he walked away wordlessly and refused to make eye contact for the rest of the meal.
You’d think that with the pandemic, I’d have fewer — rather than more — opportunities to put my foot in my mouth, but I never cease to amaze myself. Last October, I went out to coffee with a guy I liked and, in a series of unfortunate events, ran into his friend — with whom I had gone to lunch the week before (pro tip: don’t go to Otter Creek Bakery unless you’re ready to go public). That night, losing sleep over my faux pas, I reminded myself that at least I’m consistent — albeit consistently awkward (I did not end up with either guy).
While Middlebury’s social life has been defined by a dominant hit-it-and-quit-it mentality, I have found myself on a remarkable number of dates with too many awkward stories to boot(see above). Sure, I’ve had my share of dance floor makeouts (cheers to men’s hockey, am I right?), but that phase lost its thrill the moment I got mono. Armed with a burgeoning fear of germs and a waning zeal for wanna hang? texts, I tapped out of casual romance when I realized that many of the guys I was spending time with cared little about getting to know me (and, trust me, I’m worth getting to know).
Since then, I have approached romance with more intention.
Curious about what sober interactions at Midd looked like, I began to tell guys what I was looking for. I had dated around while abroad in Fall 2019 and returned with a newfound self-assurance, one that motivated me to pursue authentic connection rather than accept a relationship I found unsatisfying. Until that point, I had been so concerned that I would never find romance at Midd unless I was willing to be casual.
A lot of guys ran away from me. Like, I-wouldn’t-touch-her-with-a-ten-foot-pole vibes.
But others, either looking for something similar or just...curious, started to trickle into my life (this is not because of my stunning looks or unparalleled personality, but rather because interested guys didn’t have to guess what I wanted — I just told them).
Interestingly, I’ve found that Midd’s romantic landscape amid the pandemic has been receptive, if not inviting, of this alternative to hook-up culture. Sure, those who want to be casual are going to be casual (there is always a market for romance sans commitment), but the pandemic has made relationships — the full-blown kind — far more palatable. For the first time, students have been forced away from the drunken parties they usually rely on to connect with each other. Now, you no longer need to play the game (i.e. hook-up culture) if you want someone to cuddle.
On top of this, we now have health obligations to our roommates, suitemates and close contacts. Especially when we were still finding our footing with Covid-19 protocol and positive cases, it was far more acceptable to ask your crush to go on a Knoll walk than send a u up? text. (Now, perhaps that latter is risky because you don’t know your love interest’s comfort with Covid-19 protocol.)
Despite being the self-proclaimed single gal of my friend group — I could never quite find someone who matched my energy before — I settled down this past semester with a lovely guy who accepts, if not welcomes, my overwhelming affection for sloths and black coffee (note to him: don’t get too comfortable… there’s always room for improvement).
Our first interaction entailed grabbing a meal together at Ross, which materialized from a sober text. Had it not been for the pandemic, we probably would’ve met in a less intimate setting (perhaps a pregame or party), had a drunken conversation, and been more inclined to reach out on Friday and Saturday nights, when rejection stings less. When we decided to date, we never had to cross the threshold from booty calls to boyfriend/girlfriend — we were, simply, a natural couple.
And so, my greatest realization has been that, especially with Covid-19, there is no set romantic landscape in college; by no means have relationships of convenience disappeared. But with fewer parties, their waning accessibility has created space for alternative forms of connection and a realization that maybe we don’t have to be so drunk to find romance.
MASK OFF, MIDD: For the first time, we have options.
(03/04/21 10:58am)
The rules of the Game are quite simple:
you’ll drink.
more than you would have had your roommate not specialized in peer pressure
but you’ll do it because you want to, really
you’ll have friends.
lots of them.
group chats, clothing swaps and Venmo requests to prove it
you and your new friends will talk about guys.
you won’t share much
well, you haven’t done much
so it seems fair that you won’t share much
people will notice.
you’ll borrow your best friend’s shirt.
it’ll show skin, lots of it
you’ll look…
not like yourself.
but this is college
you won’t have to look like yourself
it’ll be 11:00 PM.
the witching hour
you’ll take the last shot of Absolut
Iris* will be pissed.
it’s her alcohol.
she’s allowed to be pissed.
you’ll Venmo her for it
$3.50
your phone screen will light up.
wyd
there won’t be any punctuation
what’s so hard about a fucking question mark?
you will have worked your ass off to be here and you’ll end up lumped in with the kids who don’t use question marks
Margot* won’t let you respond just yet.
you won’t understand why
you’ve always prided yourself on quick responses
the rules of the Game are quite simple, she’ll tell you.
you wouldn’t know
you’ve never played the Game before.
the cardinal rule, she says:
don’t make him think you’re interested
you’re actually not interested. you tell her that
bullshit, she says
you believe her
it really would be bullshit if you weren’t interested
right?
Atwater
is no longer a random jumble of suite letters and numbers
it’s the place you’ll meet Dan*
he’s nice.
they always start off that way.
you’ll learn that soon.
Margot won’t even have to teach you.
you’ll learn it on your own.
he’ll never have seen anyone like you.
you’re special, you know that? that’s what he’ll say
actually, you do know that
it’s nice that someone besides you knows that too
he will kiss you.
with all the force and tension you’ve always imagined
pressed against you so your palms are plastered to the wall
the Pabst on the linoleum will stick to your Superstars
his hands on your hips, fingers in your hair this is college.
you’re in bed with a stranger.
he’ll say you’re beautiful
just like the girls in Italy, he’ll say
you always knew that
the beautiful part, not the Italy part
you’re not Italian and you’ve never been to Europe
so you wouldn’t know
it’ll be over before it starts.
he’ll get bored of you
quickly
quicker than you thought
he’ll text another girl that night
one who will probably do a little more
you get your shoes back on.
there’s not much scuffle, no clothing really came off
as you walk out the door, he’ll call your name.
you’ll turn around, expecting an apology of some sort
maybe you should be the one apologizing?
then he says it:
you’re just the flavor of the night. you know that, right?
*Editor’s note: Denotes a pseudonym.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(01/28/21 10:57am)
The first time I saw Asher, I was at that little cafe on Logie’s Lane — you know, the one right off Market Street by Pizza Express — and was sorely in the mood to not meet anyone.
In the past 48 hours, I had cried all the way through JFK Airport’s security (nevertheless, TSA showed no mercy), spent my flight to Scotland cooped up on a Boeing 737-700 next to a middle-aged man who asked me what type of wine I liked to put in movie theater Slushies (no comment) and gone to lunch with my roommate and her parents — the latter of whom thought I was 17 years old instead of the ripe almost-20 I boasted (my mom says I have a youthful face).
And so, it’s rather rude that the universe conspired against me, allowing me to fall in love when I was vulnerable, especially when such a feeling had so often been unrequited —a hopeless combination of emotions that routinely went unrewarded, unacknowledged, dismissed.
Nevertheless, Asher struck me — not in that way of unadulterated admiration, not at first. It was quite the opposite actually.
He had the coldest face I had ever seen, his skin nearly translucent. Green eyes that should have been animated were dull and vacant. Had I not been fascinated by him, that gaze would’ve deadened the nerve endings in my body.
When his server brought him his coffee, Asher barely glanced up from his laptop, a silver Macbook Pro outfitted with a singular sticker, a depressing black-and-white outline of Australia. He poured an embarrassing quantity of milk into his cup (coffee is the only sweet thing in life, he’d later say to me). Had I felt fun-’n’-flirty, I would have been inclined to make the joke “how ‘bout some coffee with that milk?” But I too was in my own head.
I silently returned to the cafe each day for upwards of a week.
Sometimes, we were the only ones there. I blatantly scanned my eyes over his body, starting from his black Vans to his bony ankles, his tightish olive-green pants to his broad chest rigged out in an oversized black t-shirt with a dolphin logo. Truthfully, I was unconcerned he would ever notice me; that would require some sort of concession, and this boy was unyielding, drenched in indifference.
Guilty about taking up a table for hours, I’d order three or four coffees at a time — Americanos for the American — and write positive Yelp reviews for restaurants I had never heard of in cities I had never been to. I was aimlessly homesick in the way that everything relating to the US — even places like Tuscaloosa, AL, Salt Lake City, UT, and Muncie, IN — felt meaningful.
Nine days into my cafe stakeout, I bought him a coffee and introduced myself.
It was the biggest romantic mistake I’ve ever made.
So began my intense infatuation with a boy four years my senior (he made sure to remind me of that) who, to this day, is my biggest heartbreak.
The most haunting thing about Asher was his inconsistency.
He was hard to pinpoint, unable to sit still unless he was glued to his single-stickered computer. Canceling on me often, changing plans rashly and then apologizing profusely were all in his job description. On two occasions, he disappeared for two days — out of touch without a warning — and then, when he came back, he gave me a massive hug and said in his Australian accent, “I was just taking care of business, mate!” as if he ran some sort of secret, on-foot postal delivery service that had been passed on for generations.
The few times he gave me his undivided attention, however, he made me feel valued, appreciated and respected.
Recovering from an eating disorder and a severe bout of depression, I sought out encouragement from any sources that weren’t obligated to love me, unlike my family and close friends. To earn his affection was a victory, a privilege that indicated, perhaps, I was lovable despite my wounds.
The joy was ephemeral. Most times, he was novocaine, leaving me visibly intact but numb on the inside. Nothing more than a checkerboard of insecurity.
When his words would turn into blunt weapons, I’d say: “Asher. This isn’t you.”
But it was him.
At nearly every point in our relationship, Asher had proven he was unreliable and unstable. It should have been unsurprising, really, when he made plans and broke them or misdirected his anger at me. These habits were part of his personality — a big part of it, actually — and were predictable, likely, even inevitable. Past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior.
And yet, every time it happened, I had some perfect explanation for his actions. He means well, I’d say to my friends. Prior obligation. Forgot to let me know he couldn’t make it. It’s no big deal, really. In my mind, I was dating a totally different person, one I had constructed in the early days of our connection. He was my ideal guy, I was sure. I mean, yeah, he had some cracks and breaks and bruises, but they were in all the right places, right?
While Asher probably meant well, it was my prerogative to draw boundaries, and… I didn’t. I was so in love with the idea of him loving me that I couldn’t acknowledge that I had exaggerated his positive qualities and ascribed to him those he did not even possess. The onus, then, fell on me more than anyone.
Part of me is embarrassed to share this story. Usually, my anecdotes revolve around the ways I uphold my principles, not compromise them.
And yet, when I reread my journal entries from abroad, I can tell I was in so much pain from the months before I met Asher — some of my most challenging days — that I couldn’t tell fact from fiction when it came to romance. With this, I also came to terms with the need for grace.
The image I had of Asher was statuesque. There he stood, proud on my pedestal, regal on the outside but hollow on the inside.
MASK OFF, MIDD: A hollow statue will always crumble.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(12/03/20 11:00am)
“Scream in agony,” Ruby Bowman ’21.5 said in our FaceTime interview. “That’s what I’d tell the women I photographed.”
For her most recent project, “Behind Her Bedroom Door,” I imagine that Bowman, an Austin-based artist who is perpetually donned in pink, used this prompt to coax an unbridled openness — unrestrained by expectations of femininity — out of the women she photographed.
Road-tripping through six states amid the global pandemic, Bowman explored what she refers to as the “isolated female mind.” In her journey, she photographed the rawest moments of real women — not models, she specified — during the era of Covid-19. She aimed to capture the deprivation of physical contact and the disconnect between mind and body during such secluded times.
Eighteen of Bowman’s photographs are exhibited in Parkhill Gallery, a Chicago-based brick-and-mortar gallery opened by Hunter Parkhill ’21.5. While currently closed to the public due to Covid-19, Parkhill Gallery is exhibiting Bowman’s pieces online.
When I first clicked onto the virtual gallery, I was surprised by the nudity in Bowman’s photographs (I just wasn’t expecting it!). Many of her subjects, all feminine, had stripped down in front of her camera to expose their bodies and bare their souls.
With subjects that might typically be considered suggestive, Bowman has instead produced vibrant and ethereal photography that de-sexualizes the female body. Part of this rawness, she shared, can be attributed to her subjects “letting loose” and screaming.
“I was so nervous,” Bowman said about the vulnerability of her models. “But I wanted my art to be more than fruity and frilly. I wanted it to be real.” By encouraging models to scream — whether that to celebrate joy, release trauma or shed frustrations — Bowman pinpointed blunt emotion in her work.
Using soft yet vibrant tones, Bowman captures breasts, tattoos and hands — all of which are sexualized in popular media — in front of fluorescent backgrounds (courtesy of a greenscreen) and with ghost-like blurs. Mounted against the cream-colored walls of the gallery, her art exposes an unconventionality in nudity, silently denouncing air-brushed images in favor of stretch marks and tan lines.
While some of Bowman’s photographs certainly have erotic undertones, they function as a celebration of the female body rather than a form of objectification. Representing both the pain and resilience of the isolated female self, she lets us in on the intimacy of femininity and the seclusion that comes from limited contact with others.
The exhibition also explores themes of depression and anxiety. Holding a bedsheet, the subject in “lilacs for my mother” appears to be disconnected from the world outside her bedroom. The site of quarantine, the bedroom represents an overwhelming entrapment — both figurative and physical — and its psychological effects. While Bowman’s photographs are “pretty and pink,” as she describes them, she simultaneously uncovers the “sinking feelings” of Covid-19 isolation.
The last photo of Bowman’s exhibition is “the breaking point.” The woman photographed, hunched over with her forehead on her knees, looks like she might crack if you come too close. I was a little surprised, as I thought that perhaps Bowman’s collection might end with a rebirth, a resilience, an elasticity. That is, at least, what I wanted in my own life.
“‘the breaking point?’” I asked the artist. “That doesn’t leave me with much optimism amidst this pandemic.”
“Do you see that?” Bowman replied calmly, pointing to the glowing pink halo around the woman in “the breaking point.” “That’s hope.”
(11/19/20 10:59am)
Hunched over my laptop, three empty cups of Greek yogurt and two decimated honey packets to the right of me, I diligently do my homework in Ross Dining Hall. I’m enthralled with my international law readings (side note: for a month, my Tinder bio was “talk regulatory trade barriers to me,” which was inspired by Week 7 of my poli sci course’s syllabus. I got next to zero matches, although I was “superliked” by the guy who checks out my groceries in Hannaford).
Suddenly, I feel a shadow cast over me — a lanky specter, if you will — eager to get my attention.
“Um, excuse me?” he asks.
I turn and shoot him a confused look and raucously slurp my coffee, equally bothered and intrigued by his interruption. Subsequently stuffing my face with seasoned potato wedges (probably not the most socially insightful move, seeing that I was about to engage in a riveting conversation), I wait for him to continue. Suddenly, he stuns me with an unanticipated question.
“Could I have your number?”
As an objectively stressed-out person, I have a response prepared for nearly every possible scenario. That is, every scenario but the masked-stranger-asks-you-out-in-the-dining-hall-when-you’re-eating-potatoes scenario (but now, if that ever happens again, I’ll be totally and completely prepared).
Weighing my options — namely, the degree of promise each of my Tinder matches holds and the likelihood that my Zoom crush will message me and ask me to coffee (answer: unlikely, seeing that he told our entire class he has a “serious” girlfriend whom he is very in love with) — I let him squirm a little. After an uncomfortably long silence (he can probably see the wheels turning in my brain), I type in my easy-to-memorize phone number.
As my new love interest floats away, victory palpable in his step, I am suddenly hit by a wave of nausea — what if he’s a freshman? Even during these unprecedented times, I didn’t sign up to be a cougar. The second he walks out of the dining hall, however, I look him up on go/directory and immediately breathe a sigh of relief.
While nothing romantic materialized out of our subsequent interactions, this boy has dared to do what few other interested men in my life have done: put me on the spot. In an era of carefully constructed texts and premeditated Snapchats, it is now quite rare to receive an in-person, wholehearted expression of interest. In my opinion, there is nothing more attractive than a person who knows what they want.
Truthfully, I’m not usually on the receiving end of such interactions.
My freshman year, two of my guy friends said the first word they would use to describe me was “intimidating.” To give you context, I’m 5’3” and sit in chairs like a human pretzel. There is nothing inherently intimidating about my stature nor my strength, as I have been gifted with noodly arms that barely support my body weight when I do a singular push-up (I’m not exaggerating).
And so, the only thing inherently “intimidating” about me is my personality, my overwhelming confidence in knowing what (or who) I want (just ask my dining hall crush last semester, who was likely startled to receive a note from me in the mail over quarantine. Needless to say, we did not reconnect this fall).
Throughout the years I have learned that, while communicating doesn’t always get me what I want, staying silent almost always leaves me feeling dissatisfied. Inundated with more questions than answers, I end up feeling overwhelmed with insecurity, rather than experiencing any semblance of clarity.
For some guys, this straightforwardness is probably attractive (we love a woman who knows what she wants!). For others, it’s jarring and far too frank (although, in my defense, who can resist my big brown eyes?)
Regardless, I am learning to prioritize my own comfort in romance, rather than worrying how my honesty is perceived.
These conversations, when approached with respect and an eagerness to listen, are oftentimes fruitful. Avoiding necessary talks because it might make others feel awkward is how we end up confused and farther from fulfillment — in whatever form we seek it out (clarification: don’t try to make the other person uncomfortable but, if they are, allow them to deal with it).
While I am still learning how to walk the talk, these skills have served me well so far. While important in romance, they translate similarly to our professional careers. How are we supposed to advocate for ourselves professionally if we cannot do so in our personal relationships? How do we ask for a day off? Or a raise?
If honesty makes you nervous, remember that, at least for now, you can hide behind your mask.
MASK OFF, MIDD: If you can’t ask for what you want, you’ll never get it.
(10/29/20 9:56am)
When I was in high school, I gave a speech that killed my love life.
Standing in front of hundreds of people, I told the story of how I was harassed by a middle-aged man on my flight back from Arizona; then, of how a couple of drunk guys in Boston asked my friends and me — all 14 at the time — to have some fun with them at their high-rise apartment; then, when I was on the subway and the entry-level financial analyst, dressed in a searsucker suit and reeking of cheap cologne, pointed to me and whispered to his friend, “I’d f*ck her any damn day of the week.”
Knees locked and sweat seeping through my pores, I uncovered the stories that had injected caution into my veins, the reason I could memorize license plates in seconds and, after working night shifts as a server, walked back to my shabby car with my keys between my fingers.
During my allotted eight minutes, a time that seemed both endless and ephemeral, I brought women’s rights, sexism and rape culture to the limelight.
It was a conversation that had been avoided at my conservative school, an institution that lacked a sex education program and hadn’t even bothered to teach the word “consent.”
In my case, talk was not cheap — I spent whatever social currency I had on that tense and personal speech. Tossing aside my identity as the sit-in-the-front-of-the-class-girl, I adopted a far more polarizing one: I was a liberal flight risk at a predominantly Republican high school.
It was 2017 and Trump supporters, fueled by the shocking presidential victory, emerged as a raucous mouthpiece in my school community (for context, the city’s local newspaper is called The Republican-American).
While my speech received accolades from some of my more liberal peers, others — mostly right-leaning boys — would yell at me across the hall, “Trump 2016!” or, more ‘subtly,’ “Women belong in the house!” (I wish that, at the time, I would have retorted, “Yeah, they belong in the House and the Senate,” but that slogan wouldn’t be popularized until nearly a year later).
As a product of the newfound political climate, boys I had once respected began vocalizing pro-life and anti-gun-control narratives. Trump’s Access Hollywood tape, which filmed him saying “Grab ‘em by the pussy,” normalized sexual assault jokes and garnered laughs among a particular social group. Many of those I had once thought attractive emerged as a different breed altogether, one with an allegiance to Trump and an overwhelming passion for American flag ties.
By the spring of my senior year, you couldn’t pay me to date half the boys in my high school (if we’re being honest, you probably couldn’t pay them to date me either).
My last semester of high school, somewhat marred by the shift in student expression, soon became a shadow. At Middlebury, I was surrounded by students who shared my political views. The question was no longer if you’re politically left but, rather, how left.
Because the dating pool at Midd has largely reflected my personal politics, I have seldom wondered how my past love interests will be voting this Nov. 3. By and large, even those who are not all that politically active will likely be checking Harris’s and Biden’s names off on their absentee ballots (note how I wrote Kamala before Joe).
Regardless, we should not refrain from voting because we think Maria’s countless old flames will be doing their part (by now, people are probably wondering when I’m going to run out of boys to write about).
As I graduate this spring, however, Midd’s “liberal bubble” will be more of a pipe dream than a reality. I wonder how salient political ideologies will be in my romantic relationships. As a cisgender, white woman, is it a privilege that I get to choose?
Today, politics pertains to deep-seated values rather than loose belief systems.
Because social issues and economics are nearly inextricable from one another, the “fiscally conservative but socially liberal” agenda touted by some voters is a cute way of saying, “I love Vineyard Vines and volunteering at homeless shelters.”
But in order for us to take narratives like these seriously, we must also see action. Namely, votes that prioritize the well-being and protection of others.
In the 2016 election, this was not the case. Trump won 52% of fiscally-conservative-socially-liberal voters while Clinton garnered only 40%. Interestingly, had the 12% of Trump voters gone third-party, Clinton would have won the electoral college.
As the chasm between Democrats and Republicans deepens, there must be an authentic consideration of how our party affiliations impact our social values and, by extension, our interpersonal relationships. The candidate we vote for informs the humanity with which others are treated.
While differences of opinion can spark fruitful discussion, it is increasingly important that those with whom we engage do so respectfully. Systemic racism, immigration policy and healthcare access (to name a few issues) are both emotional and politicized; the way our partners enter into conversations may give us a look into how they handle relationships.
Those who are cordial in debates, are flexible in their beliefs and consider their votes’ impact on human rights may be more qualified to help us grow as political activists and people.
MASK OFF, MIDD: Who we keep close matters.
(10/22/20 9:58am)
Less than 24 hours after I got my wisdom teeth pulled out, I made out with John in the lobby of a Marriott Hotel.
Navigating a numb tongue between puffy cheeks and a swollen jaw, I somehow managed to French kiss the hell out of him without ripping apart the stitches that sealed my inflamed gums (note to past-self: you should’ve listened to the hotelier’s pleas — get a room! But, much to the relief of my parents, who are undoubtedly reading this — fear not, I was a good girl).
John pulled away from my lips, emerald eyes unraveling the feelings I had curbed for months. He laced his thumb through the belt loop of my light-wash jeans, drew me in closer, gently but with purpose, and planted his hands on the small of my back, covering nearly its entire surface area.
“Maria,” he began, stripping me of my guard, “I love you.”
Paralyzed, I tried to muster the courage to repeat those eight letters back to him and fasten an additional “too” on the end.
My fingers, shaking with adrenaline, wanted to reach out and cup his jawline and tell him that I loved him back, I really did. He needed to know that his handshake when meeting my father had been flawless — firm but humble — and that I had stowed in a mason jar all the notes we had passed between each other and, from the moment we first kissed on February 11, I knew he would be worth my time.
But instead, I settled on a far more flippant response, one that relied on bargain-brand humor rather than an authentic articulation of my feelings.
“John,” I whispered, “I love me too.”
Truly a profound expression of love, Maria, albeit self-love.
Despite our connection and, later, an intimate moment in which I finally said I love you too, the “we” that I thought to be indestructible broke down (if you’re dying to know the details of the demise, feel free to email me for more information).
We unpacked our relationship on the night we finally went our separate ways. Sitting on his bed’s plaid comforter, we rehashed our finest moments and, more solemnly, appraised the current state of our withering connection.
“You know I love you, Maria.” His voice wavered as he enunciated the three syllables of my name. “You’re the right person, but it’s the wrong time.”
Shouldn’t love endure despite a situation rather than because of favorable conditions?
“What am I supposed to do, Maria? Really.”
I don’t know, maybe fight for me? Just a thought.
And, because he didn’t, we ended things — a flickering flame only one of us was willing to protect from the wind.
While we have both since moved on — me dating a variety of guys and him in a relationship with a low-level influencer who looks like the Upper East Side version of myself (but, really, who’s keeping track?) — John has left me with a persisting insecurity: is there such a thing as “right person, wrong time?”
Save for a few specific situations, including mental health struggles and deeply-rooted traumas, I am inclined to say the right person will always fight for you.
The concept of “right person, wrong time” implies that there are people who are justified in “saving us for later.” They have unilaterally decided that we will, at some indeterminate point in the future, fit into their lives. But how long are we supposed to hang on for?
Is it when we live in the same city? When our partner feels secure in their accomplishments? When they have “found themselves” and are now ready to return to our comfort?
With the right person, self-growth and romance are not mutually exclusive.
In past years, I have refrained from letting genuine connection into my life for fear that I was not in an ideal emotional place. Vulnerability, I contended, could only occur when I was on my A-game, a wholeheartedly lovable and carefree girl. While personal progress is, of course, a largely independent process, the people who help us build confidence, challenge us to reach our goals and still appreciate us at our low points are those who have consciously decided to show up.
In other words, they have deemed that an investment in their partner is an investment in an enduring “us.”
By this age, we are relatively skilled prioritizers. Despite juggling academics, sports and jobs, we still have stable friendships. While romance requires a different type of sacrifice than platonism (note: not necessarily a greater intensity of investment), the reasoning remains constant: we make time for those who matter. Few of us have told our friends that they are the “right friend, but it’s the wrong time” (I can barely write that with a straight face). So why do we say that in relationships?
When our partner uses the “right person, wrong time” narrative, perhaps it functions more as an excuse than a reason.
Whether this is because they would prefer to focus on themselves, travel the world or explore other options, there is an explicit, although oftentimes silent, choice to no longer prioritize us. This does not necessarily mean that they don’t care about our happiness but rather they are unwilling (or lack the energy) to allocate time to us.
Although context matters, people who push back on constraints (i.e. distance, timing) that have typically inhibited relationships have, at least through action, prioritized us. And so, when confronted with those who say they need to do their own thing, believe them. But don’t accept a place on the back burner.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout the years, it’s that charging headfirst at a red flag doesn’t leave us feeling fulfilled at the end of the day.
MASK OFF, MIDD: let that sh*t go.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(10/08/20 9:56am)
He had that je ne sais quoi of a boy who refused to wear his retainer after he got his braces off.
For better or for worse, his athletic team roster pictures, all of which were defined by an alarmingly eager smile, would be immortalized on the internet, fair game for women and employers alike to do the cursory I-need-to-confirm-you’re-not-an-axe-murderer Google search.
I had always admired him from afar, his sinewy frame coasting through campus, commanding my gaze and willing the corners of my mouth to turn up into a wry smile. Deeply reminiscent of a sixth grader with gum in hair, he obsessively ran his fingers through his locks. To the untrained eye, it may have looked like nonchalance. To me, however, it was an ostensible performance, one I could identify only because I executed the same one.
I would observe him conspicuously, eyes trailing the back of his shoes and then scanning upwards towards his outline, his bones surrounded by joggers and sweatpants. My speech crescendoed when he was near, a subconscious attempt to draw him into my orbit. Save for a stolen glance in a narrow hallway of Warner last spring, we remained strangers, native to corners of campus that seldom overlapped.
And then, when we got sent home for Covid, I found his name lighting up my phone screen, a name I would soon grow familiar with.
Although we never formally met, I wish we could’ve talked at Midd. You looked beautiful when we ran into each other in Warner.
With that began my quarantine love affair.
While our peers were probably taking advantage of the resources offered by the SGA’s April 26, 2020 email (sexting tips and links to ~feminist~ porn sites), the two of us opted for a relatively more innocuous route.
We quickly fell into four-and-a-half-hour phone calls, a duet of laughs that closed the 40 miles between us. Ebbing and flowing, our voices barely made it above a whisper in the early morning hours, either making up for lost time on campus or, just as likely, filling the pandemic’s uncertainty with the familiarity of Middlebury.
The only thing getting me through quarantine, Maria, is knowing I can see you on the other side. I just want to kiss you.
I had a particular certainty about him, a sense of security rooted in the “will-bes” of our newfound bond rather than the “what-ifs” of our missed connection on campus.
And then, he went silent.
A simple read receipt on my last text. When I called, he never picked up.
I like to consider myself a socially-adjusted individual (we should, however, leave that judgement to the masses), but I have never understood the all-too-common phenomenon of ghosting — an extreme expression of interest followed by an unexplained vanishing. There are few situations in which a healthy relationship, whether romantic or platonic, would require an abrupt cutting of ties.
And yet, many of us have been ghosted.
The logic is counterintuitive — in an era when our phones seem to be extensions of our hands, shouldn’t we have more opportunities to communicate our romantic interest (or lack thereof) to someone? Interestingly, the media platforms intended to connect us (Instagram, Snapchat, the list goes on…) actually facilitate the severing of our relationships. While our parents’ generation largely rejected love interests by having “the conversation,” that strategy has since been suffocated by read receipts, slow response times (is he a bad texter or is he not into me?), and “boxed” Snapchats.
Now, more than ever, people can flit in and out of our lives with neither accountability nor an explanation. On top of this, Covid has increased the acceptance of internet connections (there is certainly less Tinder stigma out there), and raised the stakes of our conversations. With decreased concern about running into the person you’re talking to (or, perhaps, not even recognizing them with a mask on), some of the anxiety that usually plagues these connections is removed.
On one hand, this can be liberating. On the other hand, cues that would typically exist in person, such as poor eye contact or closed body language, are lost in cyberspace. For those who opt for the I’m-going-to-pretend-like-I-want-to-date-you-and-then-disappear strategy (is it something I said?), this creates the perfect context for tapping out of our lives without explanation.
In such ambiguous experiences, how can we glean closure?
In truth, I am someone who loves to tie everything up into a little bow. I don’t like “open items,” and I usually opt for directness in all of my relationships (this is not to say, however, that I have not avoided important, oftentimes awkward, discussions).
But something I’ve been learning over quarantine is that romance isn’t clear. There’s gray space and emotional baggage and insecurity. Sometimes, you don’t get to read the last page of the book because someone ripped it out first. And so, when faced with people who play disappearing acts, perhaps it has less to do with us, and more to do with how those people handle relationships. And if, somehow, we squeeze an explanation out of a ghost, it probably won’t be an honest one coming from the person who had little regard for our feelings.
MASK OFF, MIDD: Don’t let the ghosts scare you.
(09/24/20 9:59am)
When Patrick punched a hole in the wall, I was eating Goldfish and sitting on his basement couch.
His jaw, menacingly angular, was clenched with intention before he shoved his left fist through the drywall. Knuckles split, he turned to face me and cursed his father, a man who had been absent from his life for nearly a year, for sending him an unprompted text. I silently watched the blood ooze from Patrick’s hands and pool next to the white sneakers we had bought together that morning.
Surrounded by shattered drywall, I no longer recognized the sweet boy who carried an extra hairband on his wrist for me. He was enveloped by a roiling anger, one that disguised his tacit sadness and broke my heart.
From where I was sitting, this display was unmistakable.
Taxed with maintaining a “tough” persona, men are oftentimes afforded little emotional leeway to express their insecurities, sadness and struggles. Rather than being deemed “brave” for seeking help from others, guys are sometimes encouraged to bypass public expressions of sensitivity in favor of “manning up.”
Steeped in cultural pressure, our society has delineated a narrow breadth of “masculine” traits. Those who are stoic, athletic and attractive (not to mention great in bed) are adorned in gold stars sanctioned by their soaring testosterone levels. [pullquote speaker="" photo="" align="center" background="on" border="all" shadow="on"]Feelings that fall outside these demarcations are a signpost for traditional manhood’s greatest opponent: emotional vulnerability.[/pullquote]
While women are now forging multidimensional identities, men are sometimes denied comparable flexibility. Despite battling gender discrimination on various accounts, female college students excel in academics, athletics and the arts, while men interested in traditionally “feminine” activities, such as fashion or theater, have their sexualities examined under a microscope.
On the opposite side of this binary, the few times that Middlebury has engaged in conversations about masculinity, the word “toxic” has been hastily tacked on. Reeling to prove they’re not the “bad guys,” male students either condemn misogyny or stay silent to avoid implication. We spend so much time talking about what men should not be that we ignore the expectations we have placed on them.
No stand-up guy wants to be confused with a predator. He doesn’t want to be labeled a “pussy” either.
In the #MeToo era, celebrating physical and sexual prowess borders on predation. By comparison, overt affection or weakness gets you branded as a “little b*tch” among other guys. In a contemporary Catch-22, this perception falsely conflates masculinity with violence and blurs vulnerability and femininity.
In truth, competitiveness and the right dose of rowdiness are by no means problematic. Even I, a staunch feminist, understand the allure of “tough guys.” (I admit, I’m a bit of a drunk brawler, so a scar or black eye is right up my alley.) [pullquote speaker="" photo="" align="center" background="on" border="all" shadow="on"]When strength and sensitivity become mutually exclusive, however, we deny men the platforms to express softer emotions while keeping their “man card.”[/pullquote]
* * *
Crinkling the aluminum of his third Miller Lite, Penn State senior Matt Auerbach muses in agreement. (He’s usually a Coors guy but the pandemic has limited his usual alcohol inventory.) “I think one of the biggest problems is the fact that people keep telling [men] to ‘be yourself’ and ‘express your emotions,’” he said. “In the same vein [we] look down on men who do open up and are vulnerable.” This dilemma demonstrates a nominal commitment to progress without challenging any of the constraints men face. Telling someone to be “compassionate yet stern” or both “stoic and expressive” is a semantic blur of 1950s tradition with 21st-century cognizance.
Interestingly, emotional suppression seems to loosen when women are involved. Clark Cossin, a 21-year-old Swiss native, echoes this sentiment when he describes his relationship with his parents. Squinting at the overcast sky, he lights a cig over FaceTime. “It’s a different kind of love from a father than it is from a mother,” he shares, migrating outside to puff smoke into the Saint-Prex landscape. “Compassion — I think that’s the mom’s role. And the dad’s role is to instill discipline.”
The tendency for men to turn to trusted women for guidance illuminates the relative security in opening up to the “more emotional” sex. Part of this perception harks back to the traditional role of a loving woman maintaining household unity as she bakes bread for her breadwinning husband. Sourdough may have enjoyed a recent comeback, but these stereotypes need not follow. Mothers, girlfriends and sisters — possibly unequipped to handle a deluge of pent-up emotion — become the filters for feelings supposedly too “effeminate” for male friendships. However, eschewing these challenging yet oftentimes worthwhile discussions within male friendships codifies stereotypical macho identities.
Johnny D’Aversa, a senior at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, feels less pressure to keep up this charade. “When my girlfriend dumped me,” he shares, “I called [my friend] Peter and I cried on the phone a little bit.” His strikingly light eyes — thick brows perched above them — briefly dart to the bubble bath he’s preparing. “But I don’t think most guys would do that,” he adds quickly.
Despite individual commitments to open-mindedness and activism, many Middlebury students have likely experienced the manifestations of society’s dominant, gendered culture. A Pew Research Center survey found that only 50% of respondents thought society looked favorably on “caring” men. That figure jumped to nearly 100% when applied to women.
These trends, although not necessarily Middlebury-specific, lay the foundation for what is an “acceptable” way for men to act in friendships, in the workplace and, of course, in college. Until we create space within our Middlebury community for a wide range of emotional expression independent of sex (yes, that includes crying), it will be impossible to find common ground with one another. Perhaps it is time for our private identities to bleed into our public lives.
Being a “real” man then is much more than bench-pressing and banging.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021 and a columnist for The Campus.
(09/17/20 9:57am)
“You know, you really remind me of my little sister,” my dinner date declared, his thin-lipped mouth broadening into a cheerful grin. “She tries to be perfect all the time. Like you.”
Few men have left me speechless. This one, however, had a way with words.
In a corporeal manifestation of my horror, I accidentally swallowed a mouthful of fettuccine alfredo — unchewed, no less — and began wheezing. Rather than acknowledging that I was, in fact, hacking uncontrollably, my date gazed into my watery eyes and told me they reminded him of “beautiful black holes.”
I almost ripped my clothes off right then and there.
While I’ve always had a propensity for men who make bold statements — and trust me, this one gets bonus points for the unprecedented creativity — my date soared far past brazen, crashing and burning somewhere between heinous and unbearable.
In his defense, had I responded with a weak smile, an “Oh, that’s nice,” or even simply ignored the comment, I could have allayed some of the tension (to clarify, it was the awkward, not sexual, type). But no, in all of my wisdom, I croaked out a sarcastic joke, congratulating him for bringing up both incest and perfectionism on a first date. Good one, Maria.
When the night ended, I walked home alone under the orange streetlights and eavesdropped on couples strolling by. Their shards of conversation, injected with playful banter and surreptitious whispers, belonged to a language even the Rosetta Stone could not uncode.
As the early February chill wrapped around my waist, I knew one thing for certain: this boy and I were never going out again.
The next morning, my Kim Possible ringtone woke me up, mercilessly.
Maria, had such a great time with you. Dinner on Friday?
It was the text’s muted enthusiasm that made me perspire. Did I give him a hand job under the dinner table and simply forget? Did he have a fetish for girls who make slightly off-color jokes? Was I being featured on some new reality TV show called Civilians Finding Love? Momentarily enthralled by my third explanation, I envisioned myself as a hometown celebrity, swarmed by Fairfield County soccer moms desperate to get my autograph (a girl can dream, can’t she?).
I returned to Middlebury for the spring semester days after my chaotic date, slightly scarred but with high hopes for connection. Short of discussing it in therapy, I recounted the absurdity of the story over Ross brunch and vowed that, this semester, I would be gunning it for Nicholas Sparks-esque romance, rather than that cheap Adam Sandler sh*t.
My attempt at love was far less than successful. Only weeks later, we got sent home for the semester.
Packing up my bedroom, I peeled my feminist posters off the walls of Starr 205 (a room whose quality time with me was tragically cut short) and stuffed my oversized sweaters into duffels. I couldn’t help but think the universe wanted me to be perpetually single. Slow and steady in the right lane, I drove home, wondering how my love life would pan out in isolation.
The truth was, I came to realize, that romance was now unequivocally inconvenient.
At Midd, B.C. (before Covid), we could grab-and-go some combination of intimacy and connection with relative ease. The pure existence of options (namely, other students and a lack of parents) wrangled into a 350-acre campus created an arena for attachment, both profound and superficial. It was common, natural even, to be hooking up with someone on Friday nights, Snapchatting someone else who added you “by search” but didn’t acknowledge you in the dining hall, and doing homework with your friend-that-you-may-have-feelings-for all within the same week.
And so, I have found myself in a number of situationships, contending in a ring of convenience. My weekends were marred by boozy bonds and daylight dates with boys who didn’t quite fit into my romantic life. In an effort to “keep an open mind,” I went out with a number of guys who I had little in common with, some of whom were emotionally unavailable and others whom I wasn’t even attracted to. The common thread throughout all of these interactions, however, was that I somehow managed to flee with nothing short of a preposterous story (see above).
But in the wake of a pandemic, it is no longer feasible to flit around without considerations of our health and safety. Now, more than ever, we are forced to be discerning about who we let into our lives and how, if at all, they fit in. Gone are the days of utilitarian connections, making out with someone at a party who is cute enough or maintaining a fizzling relationship for the “good of the friend group.”
Now that human connection is spatially inconvenient, even on our small Vermont campus, I wonder if the pandemic has given us a rare gift.
For arguably the first time, we will be forced to form intentional relationships, ones that are neither stained by poor communication nor misunderstandings.
Our school year will be differentiated by a marked cognizance: an obligation to briefly discuss our physical whereabouts with each of our new partners. Without explicitly expressing that we’re planning to “toot it and boot it,” if you will, or, alternatively, longing for a Taylor Swift-inspired romance, we can use Covid to broach the subject of desired commitment level. Not only has the pandemic impacted each of our individual comfort levels with physical intimacy but it has spilled over into those of our roommates and suitemates. Consequently, we each have an unprecedented responsibility involved in romance that may just remove the ambiguity that usually plagues love at Middlebury.
Romance, in whatever form we seek it, might come to fruition for us sooner than the vaccine.
MASK OFF MIDD, blurry lines are so last season.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(09/10/20 9:59am)
We’re in his American-made car, this blue beast equipped with two Lysol cans and enough sports equipment to outfit half a hockey team. As he rolls to a stop next to my Honda, he expertly (maybe a little too expertly) toggles to Niall Horan’s “Slow Hands” and the sensual lyrics fill the car.
Slow hands, like sweat dripping off our dirty laundry. No chance that I’m leaving here without you on me.
We make initial eye contact — you know, that look — and I’m ready to close off our date with a smooch. Unsure if we’re supposed to kiss through our masks (that could be hot, right?), I make the executive decision to take mine off. In a manifestation of my unparalleled sex appeal, the mask strings get caught on my dangly earrings and, when I finally wrestle them free, I’ve broken a sweat from the stress of my unexpected skirmish. Oblivious to my struggle, he seamlessly removes his own mask, revealing a set of lips destined for Chapstick advertisements. I ready myself for the soft impact of the kiss.
And then, in all of my wisdom, I lunge forward and give him a side-hug — a side-hug — and blurt out, “Thanks for such a fun time!” before bolting.
I’m a natural at a lot of things, but boys have never been my forte. Add a global pandemic into the mix, a healthy dose of personal anxiety, and Middlebury’s “We encourage sexting during Phase One” policy, and I am left wondering: what could possibly go wrong?
While I’m undeniably outgoing, have a deafening laugh (some would dare call it a cackle), and say “hi” to people I follow on Instagram but have never had a conversation with, my boldness does not necessarily translate into romance. Sure, I’ve asked out guys first, mailed some love letters and, most recently, private messaged my Zoom crush (ballsy, I know), but these spurts of confidence are nevertheless intertwined with my (somewhat endearing?) clumsiness.
You might not find “chronic awkwardness” on Web MD, but trust me, I have all the symptoms.
A relic of my high school love life (or rather, the wasteland that resembled a love life), my romantic awkwardness developed when my eight closest friends all started dating each other. The ninth wheel of my friend group, I was on my own to navigate proms and first dates while it seemed that everyone around me had already figured it out.
I’d like to think that I’ve stockpiled enough good karma to carry me through my love life, but I have stumbled through nearly every romantic milestone. Namely, when I had my first kiss, I pulled away after ten seconds and exclaimed “I’m a virgin!”
Even more famously, one week after “Cupid Shuffling” my way through senior prom, my date, a dashing lad with a penchant for backflips, started successfully pursuing the 2016 U.S. Olympic gymnast, Laurie Hernandez.
And finally, lest I forget the times during my freshman year that I would wake up in the morning to booty calls and, worried that not responding would be rude, message back with a genuine, “Sorry didn’t see this, was asleep!”
Thankfully, I have managed to survive these cringey moments with only mild bruising and a considerable amount of laughter. For the most part, I have kept my awkwardness at bay during college (I no longer flirt by sending my class crushes unsolicited Quizlets) and, despite hook-up culture at Middlebury, have found myself on a number of dates. With time, patience and a bit of hopeless romanticism, I have gained some footing when it comes to love.
Romance in college, naturally accompanied by its own anxieties, is even more challenging when you’re a girl of commitment. In truth, there’s a part of me that wishes I were comfortable with casual flings, those drunken hook-ups that end nearly as soon as they start (I’m talking figuratively and physically here, boys). However, through the years, I have learned that attracting the people you desire, whether that’s a short-term or committed connection, hinges on being honest with yourself and others.
As we begin at Midd, I wonder what love in our rural Vermont town will look like this year. The musky autumn breeze, usually crisp and sweet, will now mingle with the potent smell of hand sanitizer. Friends who typically reunite on Battell Beach will be replaced by individuals waving to each other as their masks hide their elation. Even Atwater, the setting of many freshmen’s first college party, will be overwhelmed by the sound of crickets chirping rather than drawn-out tones of “Mr. Brightside.”
Despite limiting our physical connections, both romantically and platonically, our desire for love and acceptance remains steadfast. Now, more than ever, we will seek comfort in one another and search for unique ways to show others we care about them. Tune in to my Middlebury Campus column, MASK OFF, MIDD. Laugh with me (or at me) as I navigate relationships during the era of Covid and have honest conversations about college romance.
MASK OFF, MIDD, I’m telling all.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(04/22/20 9:55am)
Two months into my freshman year at Middlebury, I got mono.
It was … well-deserved. (Sorry, mom.)
During the day, I was intimate with my essays and readings, delicately stapling printouts and color-coded notes. On weekends, I wasted my time at parties kissing guys who, after sticking their tongues down my throat, would lean in and whisper, “Hang on. Gotta piss.”
If that isn’t classy, I don’t know what is.
One night stands should not exist at Middlebury. Frankly, the framework that underpins casual sex is incompatible with Midd’s whopping 2,500 students (give or take a few). Small colleges prevent anonymity — a staple of random hookups elsewhere — and muddle otherwise impersonal sex with interconnected, complicated social undercurrents. At Middlebury, both casual and committed relationships are limited by friendship dynamics and calling arbitrary dibs on class crushes. But these factors alone are not enough to preclude relationships.
On numerous Saturdays nights over the past three years, I have wondered if it finally snowed enough to break all the cell towers in Vermont. That could be the only logical explanation for why my male peers, rather than sending me a text composed of simple words and sentences, opt for a tasteful Snapchat: “roll thru.”
It’s pathetic, but genius.
Snapchat has eliminated the discomfort of expressing interest, enabling men and women alike to send bold, visual messages that disappear within seconds. After a message is opened, recounting the conversation becomes hearsay, protecting the sender’s interests and invalidating the recipient’s claims. In a small university, the app thereby reduces the accountability involved in romantic pursuits, contributing to the uncertainty inherent in intimacy.
Despite these gray areas, many claim Midd is a relationshippy school, citing the recycled admissions statistic that 60% of alums marry each other (the real number stands at 17%, although I’m willing to believe in fairytales if you are). I admit, there are pockets of committed couples (see: much of my friend group). An arguably more relevant dialogue, however, deals with “pseudo-relationships,” a term coined by Leah Fessler ’15 in her thesis, “Can She Really ‘Play that Game Too?’”. Fessler uses “pseudo-relationships” to refer to partners continuously hooking up, oftentimes only with each other, without commitment or emotional investment. Of the 75 Midd students polled, Fessler found only 8% of women surveyed were satisfied in their pseudo-relationships. The majority of male respondents also felt insecure in ambiguous romantic arrangements; despite favoring committed relationships, most men felt their masculinity was judged on the number and attractiveness of their partners. And yet, in an environment where relationships are stunted by booze, insecurities and a rigid social life structure, no one feels comfortable asking the “what are we?” question, much less answering it.
This past fall, I studied abroad at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. Compared to Middlebury, St. Andrews is a traditional relationship school; there is a distinct “get to know you” culture centered around (relatively) sober courting. Most refreshingly, I went the entire semester without hearing the phrase “Snapchat message.”
I refuse to believe that I magically became more appealing the minute I went abroad. Sure, I had a “cute” American accent, but I was still loud, bad with rules, and prone to eating food in the grocery store before paying (sometimes I have to scan an apple core at the self-checkout line). These tendencies are wholly un-Scottish, which is why it surprised me that I was disproportionately (not to mention soberly) pursued across the pond.
Unlike Americans, Scots and Brits do not walk on eggshells. There is little space for Middlebury-esque pseudo-relationships in a culture that barely tolerates ambiguity. Once, a British guy I was seeing felt compelled to inform me — unprompted, no less — that he had enjoyed getting to know me but solely wanted a physical connection. Although I liked him and was bummed, at least I wasn’t left wondering how he felt. When we consequently broke things off, it was cordial.
By comparison, defining relationships at Midd becomes a painstaking process of obscuring and ignoring emotions (or the lack thereof). To this date, my personal favorite euphemism for “I just want to sleep with you” — which I received from a male friend during my second year of college — remains, “I’m in love with you but have a lot on my plate, so let’s hook up and talk about it after.” Good one.
To be fair, it isn’t entirely Middlebury’s fault. In many ways, St. Andrews has superior dating conditions: a larger student body, more cafés, a drinking age that permits controlled alcohol consumption in pubs or bars. Still, just like Midd, the town itself is a “bubble,” and so should theoretically incubate the lack of romantic privacy we say prevents “traditional dating” at Midd. And yet it doesn’t.
Hook-up culture is not an inevitable product of 20-something-year-olds, hormones and empty beds. We’ve created it.
The shortcomings of Middlebury’s romantic environment have more to do with the current, limited dialogue surrounding intimacy than an explicit desire for commitment. This is a loss: no matter how casual a fling, everyone wants to be respected. We might take a page out of the Scottish playbook. There is something undeniably sexy about being honest about what you want.
Maria Kaouris is a member of the class of 2021.
(09/27/18 10:00am)
DOMESTIC VIOLENCE FATALITY REVIEW COMMISSION
MONTPELIER — Firearm use and regulation crowd the headlines of local and national news sites as polarizing debates surrounding the demand for legal action continue. After the shooting in Parkland, Fla. that spurred hundreds of rallies across the country in February, the Vermont legislature was one of the state governments most attuned to the unrest.
After the thwarted school shooting plot by Fair Haven High School student Jack Sawyer, Vermont officials began to grasp how close to home unregulated guns can reach. Shortly after the Fair Haven attempt in April, Vermont became the first state to pass a law increasing the minimum age for gun purchases to 21. The legislature and Governor Phil Scott also passed laws to ban the use of bump stocks — which allow guns to fire nearly at the level of a fully automatic weapon — and expand background checks for gun purchasers.
Lawmakers in the Green Mountain State have now turned their attention to another deadly combination — firearms and domestic abuse. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV), over 10 million women and men experience domestic abuse per year. Adding firearms to the equation, NCADV writes, increases homicidal risk by 500 percent.
In response to these statistics and the continued push for increased gun control, Vermont officials recently passed Act 92, which went into effect at the beginning of September.
The new law allows police officers to temporarily confiscate firearms from anyone who is cited or arrested on a domestic assault charge. This seizure is permitted given two conditions: first, the weapon is taken according to a search warrant and, second, the confiscation of the firearm occurs in order to protect the victim, their family members and/or the officer involved.
“[Act 92] takes the gun right out of their hands immediately,” said Avaloy Lanning, executive director of the Rutland domestic violence shelter NewStory, in an interview with VTDigger. “[Domestic abuse arrests] are times that an abuser or a perpetrator is going to feel the most threatened, and it may be the time they are most likely to use a weapon at their disposal.”
Vermont officials, in effect, are attempting to control one facet of domestic violence and create a more stable environment for those at risk of abuse.
Some Vermont lawmakers also see Act 92 as a practical legal step. “I think what it does is clean up and potentially standardize practices about how to go about this statewide,” said Rory Thibault, Washington County State’s Attorney, to VTDigger.
“What’s important with Act 92 is emphasizing the critical time period immediately after an alleged domestic violence incident, to promote safety, and likewise, ensuring there is a mechanism there to review those exigent removals [of firearms] when they occur.”
Thibault endorsed the new law in an effort to put a stop to domestic abuse while temporarily removing firearms from the hands of aggressors.
In theory, his perspectives complement the findings of the Vermont Attorney General’s Office — over half of the domestic violence homicides in 2016 were committed with firearms. Though the link between domestic violence and firearms is indisputable, Middlebury Chief of Police Thomas Hanley offered another perspective. While Hanley believes the law’s intentions are sound, he stated that its execution has structural flaws.
“If you serve an order on a person, [Act 92] doesn’t allow the police to go in and get the guns,” Hanley said. “It mandates the [aggressor] to turn them over to the police or a third party.”
Hanley expressed concern that this process is filled with uncertainty and is procedurally far too complex and time-consuming. “The third party is told that they are responsible for these guns and if they give them back to the [aggressor] then they are held in contempt,” he said. “[The third party] has to hold these guns securely. There’s no definition of what ‘securely’ is.”
While he is worried about the link between domestic violence and firearm usage, he believes Act 92 is heavily flawed. Because there is not appropriate gun registration, the aggressor may not even be giving the third party all of his or her gun supply. Without the ability to obtain a search warrant based on this order or the event, Hanley said, “if [the aggressor] is really intent on harming somebody, this law doesn’t [prevent] it.”
While skeptical of the new law, Hanley believes the relationship between domestic violence and firearms needs to be addressed. Similarly, Kerri Duquette-Hoffman of WomenSafe in Middlebury shares Hanley’s sentiment toward the often fatal link.
“My hope is that we will see more weapons removed at the scene of crimes,” said Duquette-Hoffman on what the implementation of the new law could mean for domestic abuse cases in Addison County. “The requirement that domestic assault charges must be arraigned the next business day may also prove to be an important tool for survivors.”
Lawmakers, police and organizers share her hope.
Although responses to the new law vary, most agree that Vermonters must provide increased support for domestic violence victims and create functional legislation that addresses the problem in a timely fashion.
“The presence of firearms in situations of gender-based violence is such a substantial concern for survivors and such a clear risk that we must take action to reduce it,” Duquette-Hoffman said.
Finding a middle ground between legal action, organizational involvement and community support will ensure a safer Vermont.
(05/03/18 1:16am)
MONTPELIER — In recent years, a movement towards inclusivity has begun the refamig of binaries regarding gender and sex to longer be based on those assigned at birth. The proliferation of these evolving ideas has turned the heads of scientists, lawmakers and others as they grapple with dismantling prior gender roles and assess the implications of these legal, medical and social changes in our society. While many institutions and governments have had difficulty accepting these advancements, certain Vermont lawmakers have acknowledged societal evolutions in order to stay abreast of social issues.
In its attempt to approve the initial H.333 bill that requires all single-occupancy bathrooms be “gender free,” the Green Mountain State aims to make public restrooms more inclusive to trans and gender-nonconforming individuals. While multi-stall bathrooms will remain gendered, their private bathroom counterparts will be labeled as gender neutral in schools, hospitals, places of worship, stores, workplaces and other public spaces.
With support from the House, the bill is on track to be approved by the end of the current legislative session. Senator Becca Balint of Windham District, who presented the bill on the Senate floor, sees its passing as a change that would “benefit many Vermonters as they seek to meet their most basic of human needs.” Balint’s claim acknowledges the frustration and fear that many LGBTQ+ community members feel in their everyday lives and especially when asked to choose from a gender binary.
Jacob Tobia, national LGBTQ+ rights activist, member of the transgender community and co-producer and host for the MSNBC show Queer 2.0, sees the adoption of gender neutral bathrooms as one that benefits the community and dissolves fears of physical or verbal violence. In the TIME Magazine article, “Why All Bathrooms Should Be Gender-Neutral,” Tobia writes, “Allowing trans students to ‘use the restroom that feels most comfortable to them’ assumes that a comfortable option exists in the first place.” Vermont officials’ support of gender-neutral bathrooms caters to Tobia’s call for the dissolution of traditional gender binaries with the goal of creating more comfortable and safer accommodations.
Senator Balint, the Vermont Senate’s Majority Leader, reinforced this bill with another avenue of persuasion. Rather than solely encouraging it in association with gender-nonconforming individuals, she extended the benefits of the bill to caregivers. Instead of caregivers forced into deciding which bathroom to use based on the sexual identification of the child or disabled person they are assisting in the restroom, they can use a gender-free private restroom without anxiety. Furthermore, Senator Balint argues that the creation of gender-neutral restrooms increases restroom accessibility for men and women waiting on long lines.
This bill would become official legislation on July 1 if approved by the Legislature and Governor Phil Scott. Currently, it must be reconsidered by the House because the Senate has made minor changes, mostly focused on plumbing protocols. Proposers of the bill emphasize that public places need not make structural changes to their bathrooms in order to comply with the bill—instead, only the signs must be changed to indicate gender-neutrality.
The passing of the House bill looks hopeful—with the House of Representatives approving an initial version of it with a vote of 123-19 and limited current opposition.
While some may view gender-neutral bathrooms as a radical step, Tobia emphasizes that colleges have widely adopted gender-free bathrooms. At Middlebury, there are 15 non-residential buildings that have gender-neutral restrooms. Middlebury posits in its statement on all-gender restrooms that, “Everyone has the right to meet their basic needs in a safe environment, without feeling threatened or intimidated… All-gender restrooms provide an opportunity for our community members to enter a restroom without being questioned or interrogated.”
The push for a more inclusive environment is not just found at Middlebury. In 2016, Yale University joined the more than 150 colleges who have endorsed all-gender bathrooms and have additionally permitted transgender individuals to use their preferred name on their diploma instead of their birth name.
While it seems that institutions across the country are encouraging changes that acknowledge the challenges gender nonconforming people experience, there are still opponents who disagree with such changes. A few years ago, a proposed Indiana law attempted to criminalize entering a public restroom that differs from that person’s “biological gender,” which is defined by “sex at birth.” The repercussions to violating this law could include a $5,000 fine and up to a year in jail. While seven other states have tried to impose similar laws in recent years, Vermont seems to be leading a progression of social change.
To opponents of the bill and gender-neutral bathrooms in gender, Brenda Churchill, a transgender resident of Bakersfield, VT, writes: “Remembering that this bill applies to everyone and hurts no one is what is most important. Vermont is a state that often has shown the rest of the United States where to go and how to get there.”
(04/05/18 1:26am)
SWANTON — Envision prison security guards with heavy holsters dodging psychiatric doctors and nurses rushing to check on their patients. Under Vermont Human Services Secretary Al Gobeille, this chaotic scene would become a reality. In response to the recent demand for more hospital beds for Vermont psychiatric patients, Gobeille has posited that the best place to expand would be in a temporary mental health wing at Northwest State Correctional Facility in Swanton, VT.
According to Seven Days VT, Gobeille has requested 2.9 million dollars from the House Health Care Committee (HHCC) to build the mental health wing and estimates that its annual operation would cost 6.5 million dollars. The HHCC, however, does not support this 12-bed Band-Aid solution for both policy and financial reasons.
Gobeille’s concern for the lack of psychiatric beds is ingrained deeply in his mission to alleviate the “mental health crisis,” as he puts it. In August 2017, after doctors and nurses from Central Vermont Medical Center unexpectedly arrived at Governor Phil Scott’s office for an impromptu meeting, Governor Scott assigned Gobeille to talk with the disgruntled hospital staff a day later because he was unavailable. The staff, who attempted to shed light on the psychiatric bed crisis, engaged in a dialogue with Gobeille and categorized the issue as both socially and financially urgent.
In Vermont, in order for patients to receive mental health care from a psychiatric treatment facility, they must first gain medical clearance. During the time of medical clearance assessment, patients usually reside in an emergency room bed for an extended period of time. This can be extremely problematic because emergency room resources are being over-utilized while patients are not even receiving the psychiatric help they need. Michael Brigati, the emergency department nurse director at Copley Hospital, divulged in an NPR interview, “We don’t have trained mental health counselors [here]. The environment in the ER….at times can be chaotic, loud. So it has a potential to escalate these people while they’re in crisis.” Brigati emphasizes the importance of care in which doctors not only recognize the nuanced needs of patients, but also provide them with the proper psychiatric assistance in a conducive environment.
Citizens and officials alike, however, are convinced that there needs to be a restructuring of the mental health care system in order to alleviate the crisis. According to the Vermont Association of Hospitals and Health Systems, the number of psychiatric patients admitted to private hospitals rose by nearly nine percent between the years of 2012 and 2017. This frightening statistic alongside a lack of resources has resulted in a pandemonium that has pushed Gobeille to advocate for a psychiatric wing at the Swanton prison.
The addition that Gobeille proposes would cater to those who already reside in prison and are battling mental health issues, those who cannot be criminally charged due to mental illness and those who have already been charged and are awaiting a mental evaluation. In a Vermont Public Radio podcast, Dominic Sisti, director of the Scattergood Program for Applied Ethics of Behavioral Health Care at the University of Pennsylvania, shared that, “Many times, individuals who really do require intensive psychiatric care find themselves homeless or more and more in prison. Much of our mental health care now for individuals with serious mental illness has been shifted to correctional facilities.” It seems that Gobeille has used these national cues to inform what he sees as the wisest and most feasible course of action for the expansion and evolution of the Vermont mental health system.
Gobeille’s temporary solution focuses on the way mental health systems can dole out aid. The Vermont Human Services Secretary claims that patients who are required by the state to seek out mental medical care in prisons often end up remaining in the hospital beds for prolonged periods of time due to the intricacies of their legal rulings. In turn, this creates congestion in the system and does not allow for efficient patient care.
Not only are there underlying issues in the accessibility of mental health care, but the House Health Care Committee also stands in Gobeille’s way. Committee chair Alice Emmons does not see Gobeille’s resolution as a viable option. In an interview, she expressed concern for the cost and purpose of temporarily establishing a wing in Swanton. She urges Gobeille and other officials to focus more on a long-term mental health system plan, in which more resources are allocated to pre-existing facilities, increasing the number of available bends and post-treatment housing.
While Gobeille’s hospital-prison complex is making headlines, he also offers a longer-term plan related to his temporary solution. Approximately 45 times the cost of the Swanton extension, the creation of a 925-bed St. Albans prison complex is part of what Gobeille and other officials see as a “silver bullet” solution. Gobeille proposed that this future prison would house both male and female patients regardless of their need for psychiatric assistance. The House Health Care Committee, however, has once again formally vetoed this idea for fear that it would exhaust resources for a temporary plan and would, for the first time, segregate patients who seek out help through the criminal justice system. Representative Anne Donahue recognizes the reframing of mental health issues as one that is challenging to justify because inmates would be separated from other patients despite needing the same medical treatment.
Other critics of Gobeille’s plan include Wilda White, the executive director of the advocacy program Vermont Psychiatric Survivors. She claims that, “This is not a system that needs more capacity to deal with crisis. This is a system that needs more capacity to deal with prevention and early intervention.” White sees salvation in the creation of a structural support system that includes local therapy, more post-treatment housing, and education programs.
Despite varied ways of addressing the mental health system, one thing officials and citizens can agree on is the need to quickly resolve these problems. With the federal government phasing out an exemption program that allowed Medicaid funds to be invested in mental health facilities with 16 or more beds, officials must scramble to reach an agreement before the state loses this federal funding. The exemption, according to Seven Days, foots the cost for over half of the mental health patient beds. The CEO of the Brattleboro Retreat, Louis Josephson, said, “We think we have a problem now? We haven’t seen anything.” While the Scott administration grapples for other alternatives after both of their proposal rejections, the goal is clear: find room and care for patients in need.
(03/22/18 1:33am)
BURLINGTON—Customers clamber to see the menu, kids are raised on to parents’ shoulders to get a superior view and the sweet smell of crêpes wafts through the building.
Vermonters who have been to The Skinny Pancake in Burlington, VT can vouch for the popularity of the restaurant. Garnering over 470 reviews and a hefty four stars on Yelp, The Skinny Pancake on the Burlington Waterfront attracts both locals and out-of-towners. Its versatile breakfast, lunch and dinner options also offer choices for vegan, gluten-free and other diet-restricted diners.
Perhaps one of The Skinny Pancake’s biggest staples is its Sweet Menu. Known for items such as “The Heartbreaker,” a banana, strawberry and Nutella-filled crêpe, this restaurant is described on Yelp as a “heavenly” and “life-changing” experience. Why, then, have owners and founders Benjy and Jonny Adler chosen to remove Nutella, an integral crêpe ingredient, from the menu?
The answer rests in The Skinny Pancake’s roots. Founded on being an ecologically sustainable business venture, the restaurant seeks out the creation of an environmentally safe “food shed” while maintaining a tasty menu. This overarching mission was the impetus to ditch Nutella and confront the product’s number two ingredient—modified palm oil, which is infamous for its detrimental environmental impact. In a statement on The Skinny Pancake website, Benjy Adler explains that the creation of modified palm oil plantations is responsible for the equivalent of 300 football fields worth of rainforest being torn down every hour. With oil palms replacing trees for production of this sugary hazelnut spread, environmentalists have grown concerned about the impact Nutella and similar products are having on the environment.
Even France’s ecology minister, Ségolène Royal, shared in a 2015 interview with Canal+ that, “We have to plant a lot of trees because there is massive deforestation that also leads to [climate change]. We should stop eating Nutella, for example, because it’s made with palm oil.”
Although Ferrero, Nutella’s parent company, has attempted to diminish its ecological footprint, its priority remains catering to the consumer rather than maintaining rainforest biodiversity. With the demand for palm oil plantations expected to triple by the year 2050, The Skinny Pancake has decided to make an impact where it can. Both Benjy and Jonny Adler see it as their collective mission to avoid contributing to this deforestation and to reduce the environmental impact of their business venture.
The importance of rainforests for global environmental health cannot be overstated— rainforests produce over one-fifth of our oxygen, house diverse populations of both plants and animals and help maintain the climate. Although Benjy and Jonny recognize this, they did struggle with reconciling their environmental mission and satisfying their customers.
Concerned about reduced customer satisfaction as a result of their ecological quest, The Skinny Pancake founders reached out to Alan Newman, co-founder of Magic Hat Brewery, Seventh Generation and Gardener’s Supply Company, for advice. After speaking with Newman, Benjy Adler wrote in a blog post that he realized, “Our Nutella conundrum need not be a binary choice between our values or our guests. We can pursue our mission and improve the tastes our guests have come to love.” With this adjusted mindset and the affirmation of The Skinny Pancake’s mission, the Adlers entered into the search for an ecologically-viable (and delicious) substitute for Nutella.
They finally settled on a delectable alternative, which is listed as “Choco Nutty Budder” on the revamped menu. As this palm-oil-free chocolate hazelnut spread made its way onto the menu, the eco-friendly owners added 15 new menu items, abandoned 10, and changed 12. Their desire to rid The Skinny Pancake of Nutella created structural menu changes that gave the restaurant a facelift and encouraged other sustainable practices.
In a Burlington Free Press interview, Benjy Adler reported that, “In keeping with our mission, we dug deeper into sourcing locally. We will be featuring Vermont blueberries on our menu year-round now, and we’re finally joining the movement to celebrate organic Vermont kale in all its glory.” It seems that The Skinny Pancake’s anti-palm-oil kick motivated the owners/founders to embrace the Green Mountain State’s food riches and implement changes that create an enhanced local image for their business venture.
While the implementation of Choco Nutty Budder will soon be appearing on the menus of other Skinny Pancake branches (including the Montpelier, VT and Hanover, NH branches), it seems that there has also been a fairly recent reframing of The Skinny Pancake’s business model. After a company-wide customer survey, the higher-ups of Skinny Pancake discovered that patrons of the Hanover branch desired an expanded non-crêpe menu, a bigger selection of alcohol, and the implementation of wait staff instead of the semi-service model in which customers order at the register after waiting in line.
While the creation of a more formal dining experience has not been as explicitly pursued in the Vermont branches, the changes in the New Hampshire branch signify the versatility of The Skinny Pancake and the owners’ willingness to evolve to satisfy customers while simultaneously maintaining ecological values.
Although Benjy and Jonny were initially concerned with customer satisfaction after the abandonment of Nutella, University of Vermont freshman Sam Brady, who considers herself a Skinny Pancake regular, affirms the general scope of their decisions. In an interview with The Campus, she divulged, “I know a lot of people really love Nutella on their crêpes… but it’s not good for the environment. Skinny Pancake’s environmental choices are very important to me because it helps reduce environmental waste.”
The “waste” that Brady refers to can be categorized as the ecological destruction that results in restaurants ignoring the implications of the ingredients they choose and the way in which they prepare their food. With over 7,200 pounds of Nutella spread used in 2017 alone at The Skinny Pancake, environmentally-conscious customers like Brady see the benefit, and even the draw, of small changes that are intended to transcend the Vermont community and discourage the current production method of modified palm oil.
While some organizations such as Greenpeace claim a boycott will not necessarily affect the problematic mode of production, it is clear that more sustainable food practices will develop if local restaurants cultivate changes such as The Skinny Pancake has.
According to Dan Detora, the director of food services, the SGA has allotted $20,000 for Nutella alone this year in Middlebury’ dining halls. The deliberate choice of local food chains like Skinny Pancake to eliminate the palm oil product provides an example of sustainable food practices that could lead students and the college to follow in similar sustainable food activism.
(02/22/18 2:23am)
MIDDLEBURY — With the opioid crisis continuing to erupt across the country, Vermont government officials seem to be breathing a collective sigh of relief for the first time in years. Identified in 2016 by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) as a state with a significant increase in opioid overdoses, Vermont has recently responded by pouring resources into addiction recovery programs. Through the Care Alliance for Opioid Addiction, Vermonters in need of treatment can seek out medication-assisted therapy (MAT) in the comfort of a local treatment facility.
A state report published on Jan. 22 shows that opioid use in Vermont has decreased by 96 percent coupled with nearly a 100 percent decrease in overdoses. These recent improvements can predominantly be attributed to the time and money the state department has invested in opioid-addiction programs that span the state. Implemented only four years ago, the Hub and Spoke system of the Care Alliance for Opioid Addiction creates an accessible environment with individualized treatment techniques.
Through the program, patients are anchored to a local treatment facility (or hub) for the legal and guided dispensation of methadone and buprenorphine, narcotics used to treat opioid addiction. Stemming from this more generalized system of treatment are the spokes of the program—patients are assigned a specialized team of a nurse, physician, and coordinator in an attempt to pinpoint the nuances of their addiction. From this, addicts can be appropriately dealt with on an individual level as there is one three-person team for every 100 patients. Furthermore, with seven hub clinics, Vermont officials stress that opioid-addiction care is accessible in every region of the state and is simultaneously incorporated into the healthcare system.
Despite recent improvements, citizens are haunted by images of opioid abusers passed out on bus benches, loved ones waving goodbye in the morning and never returning, and local news stations devoting more and more time to heroin overdose stories. Residents of the state were sent into a quiet turmoil in 2014 when the former Governor Peter Shumlin committed his entire State of the State address to discussing Vermont’s “full-blown heroin crisis.” His call for treatment reformation sought to aid, not punish, drug abusers. His focus and empathy regarding the opioid emergency arguably has shifted the way in which public and legal discourse is now handled—rather than viewing heroin use as a reason to incarcerate people, he called for the recognition of addiction as a “chronic disease.”
The New York Times reported that under Gov. Shumlin’s guidance, opioid treatment in Vermont increased by over 770 percent between 2000 and 2014. Although this can be seen as a victory because many addicts are seeking out the necessary treatment, it did not preclude the 80 opioid-related fatalities in 2015 or the 112 in 2016, according to the Vermont Department of Health. While it is rather challenging to pinpoint the cause of the epidemic, the National Institute on Drug Abuse has turned to healthcare providers. In the late 1990s, pharmaceutical companies confirmed that there was not a sizable risk for addiction to opioid medications, leading to a spike in prescriptions by physicians. Before it was apparent that opioid addiction was a national problem, it was too late. By 2015, Today, patients abuse these prescribed drugs at one-fifth to one-third of the rate of the previous two million reported in 2015 by the National Institute on Drug Abuse.
Dr. Mark Levine, Vermont’s Health Commissioner, acknowledges these troubling statistics but sees the state’s tremendous improvements as an indication of a hopeful future. In an interview on Vermont Public Radio, he expresses the gradual process of systemic changes that have allowed for the partial alleviation of this crisis. “We’ve made great progress and we need to acknowledge that, although we can’t let up and we have to embark on numerous additional initiatives,” Levine said.
This constant understanding of progress as a first step instead of a resolution may be what keeps the state government’s continuous efforts in action. “We have capacity now with no waiting lists for anyone who is seeking treatment to have access to treatment, we have a very strong history of partnership with Medicaid,” Levine said. “In prevention we have new prescriber rules that we’re beginning to see some traction from, [and] … a Vermont prescription monitoring system which has been effective.”
These programs address healthcare roadblocks and the overzealous prescribing of opioids for pain relief. Although two Vermonters die each week week from opioids, the government has recognized the epidemic and is seeking innovative ways to address it. Some citizens have voiced their concern that more resources should be devoted to opioid education rather than focusing funds on addiction clinics.
Jolinda LaClair, director of Vermont’s drug prevention policy, sees the integration of school and community educational programs as a crucial next step in addressing the crisis. Others argue that homeopathic solutions should be explored and endorsed as a viable option instead of the current MAT offered by the state. Despite varied perspectives on how to deal with the crisis, it is clear that Vermonters share a common goal—improvement, and eventually total alleviation, of opioid abuse.