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(03/04/21 10:56am)
This is the first installment of the column “WRMC Radio Roundup” from the Middlebury College radio station, in which WRMC executive board members offer album recommendations.
Are you tired of listening to “Channel Orange?” Have you decided it's time to branch out, spread your musical wings and hear something new? Look no further. The Executive Board of WRMC, Middlebury College’s radio station, has selected a wonderfully wide range of albums, spanning time and genre, for your listening pleasure.
*RIYL = Recommended If You Like; if you like these artists, you’ll probably enjoy this recommendation
General Manager’s Pick — Rayn Bumstead ’21
Album: “For The First Time” - Black Country, New Road
Genre: Post-Punk
RIYL: Black Midi, Iceage, Deeper, Slint
Blurb: “For the First Time” is the debut album from the Brixton, England-based band Black Country, New Road. The group has already been hailed by Stereogum as “one of the most exciting, transformative young bands to come out of not just the Speedy Wunderground/Windmill ecosystem, but out of this new generation of genre-mutating rock artists overall.” The band describes its sound as “jazz-inflected post-punk,” and “For the First Time” delivers on that claim. It is dark and moody, makes use of a saxophone and contains some re-appropriated Phoebe Bridgers lyrics. Sounds weird? You should give it a try.
Tech Director’s Pick — Maddie Van Beek ’22
Album: “The Leo Sun Sets” - Serena Isioma
Genre: R&B/Soul
RIYL: Dua Saleh, Arlo Parks, Orion Sun, MICHELLE
Blurb: After the release of her hugely popular single “Sensitive,” Isioma returns with her EP, “The Leo Sun Sets,” which deals with identity, youth and independence. Each song unlocks another part of her narrative, punctuated with playful riffs and melodies that echo childhood lullabies.
Creative Director’s Pick — Chad Kim ’23
Album: “L. W.” - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard (KGLW)
Genre: Microtonal Rock
RIYL: Kikagaku Moyo, levitation room, Babe Rainbow
Blurb: Back in the fall, these boys from down under reprised their affinity for microtones with their K. G. album, followed a week later by the single, “If Not Now, Then When?,” hinting at the advent of an ensuing “L. W.” album. They did not disappoint. In addition to completing their microtonal trilogy, “L. W.” laments and warns of the modern apocalypse of climate change and corruption through their creative acoustic tones paired with their signature rock style.
Concerts Manager’s Pick — Eric Kapner ’21
Album: “I Don’t Hate Hate You” - Ogbert the Nerd
Genre: Emo
RIYL: Sorority Noise, Snowing, PUP
Blurb: It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a show in a dingy New Jersey basement, but this album takes me back to that experience anytime I listen to it. Ogbert the Nerd’s debut record is as messy and loud as it is well written and catchy. Continuing a long tradition of semi-underground emo, “I Don’t Hate You” deals with getting over the past, stumbling into adulthood and generally feeling bad all the time.
Music Director’s Pick — Dan Frazo ’22
Album: “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” - Chinatown Slalom
Genre: prog-rap, pop/rock
RIYL: Bamily, extremely bad man, Mosie
Blurb: Most bands entering the music scene lead with an EP, a few singles, or something of the sort. Chinatown Slalom is not most bands. Right out of the gate, this Liverpool-based group released a full-length album titled “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” The band’s four members live together in a house in their hometown, with the words “Everyone’s Invited” spray painted onto the walls, so naturally their music is a seriously eclectic mix. If you like collage-style samples, pedal-driven synth or eerie background harmonies, this album is definitely worth a listen.
Studio Manager’s Pick — Lucy Rinzler-Day ’21
Album: “Kids Talk Sun” - Camila Fuchs
Genre: Dream Pop, Psychedelica, Darkwave
RIYL: Björk, Cocteau Twins, Beach House, Katie Dey
Blurb: Listen to while stoned in the dark.
(03/04/21 10:55am)
Daylight, to Ariadne Will ’22, is a phenomenon that is both universal and, depending on a person’s perspective and location, ever-changing. When she decided to launch a recurring publication from her home of Sitka, Alaska during the pandemic, it was this philosophy that led her to name her project Daylight Zine.
Daylight, a “zine” or self-published small-batch print work in the style of a magazine, is founded and curated by Will and based out of Sitka, though it draws submissions and inspiration from all over the country. Will made her first zine in February 2020 as a Valentine’s Day gift, creating all the content and visuals herself, and got instantly hooked on the medium. She found herself totally absorbed in the creative process and knew she wanted to do it again, but this time, she also wanted to open her zine to include outside contributions.
The zine serves as a platform to draw creators together during an exceptionally insulating time, while also acknowledging positionality. With a combination of vivid photography, prose works, digital collage and compelling organization, Daylight Zine manages to do so in a way that is genuine and visually beautiful.
Looking through a copy of the most recent edition, called “Heritage,” there is a wonderful mix of over 20 contributors from Sitka, Middlebury and beyond. From the first page, the reader is treated to a combination of lush visuals and captivating prose. Alternating between photographs, studio art and works of prose and poetry, Will’s carefully balanced curation gives all submissions equal focus and respect. Elements of collage add visual interest and authenticity. Although the layout was created digitally, the zine retains aesthetic features that give it an almost handmade quality.
Will says that submitting to her zine should feel “safe enough for people to take a chance on a written piece when they don't consider themselves a writer.”
For Will, creating the zine is definitely a labor of love — with an emphasis on labor. Reviewing submissions, curating content, deciding the final order of submissions and getting the zines printed and shipped are just a few of the many steps Will must take herself to produce a single volume. All the while, she also takes accessibility into account by pricing the zine as low as possible while still breaking even. Still, the feeling of holding the finished product in her hands and sending it off into the world makes it all worth it.
“It’s exhilarating… like, I created this,” Will said. Because every volume of the zine is unique, each round of submissions is equally exciting and unexpected. In fact, Will encourages unique multimedia submissions.
“You can send a video and you can put in the QR code [and] a still from it, or you can write a song and we can publish the sheet music,” she said. Regardless of the medium, some of her favorite submissions are those that showcase new perspectives, especially unexpected contributions from people she may not personally know.
In Daylight Zine’s most recent edition, one Sitka resident, who is fluent in Mandarin, submitted a piece about Chinese characters and the nuanced meaning and history they carry, focusing on Taiwan. Even a detail as subtle as font choice mattered in this piece, as some fonts did not include the necessary tone markings for the characters.
“Here's a part of history that no one's ever taught me. This, you know, white Alaskan girl … here's this history in this one character,” Will said of experiencing that piece. It’s these moments of connection and learning that the zine aims to lift up, and its celebration of art feels particularly powerful in the context of a global pandemic.
“Making time to create something feels really special. Reading something, or receiving a prompt that makes you want to respond, is also really special, and I think that's especially important right now,” Will said. To those considering submitting but feeling vulnerable or unsure, Will had some final words of encouragement: “Your art is beautiful. I want to share your art with the world.”
Editor’s Note: Ariadne Will ’22 is a Local Editor for The Campus.
If you would like to submit a piece to Daylight Zine, follow this link.
(02/04/21 10:59am)
The most entertaining thriller I’ve read in months is by the author Walter Tevis, an Ohio University professor who died in 1984. The novel’s title: “The Queen’s Gambit” (1983).
Perhaps you are familiar with “The Queen’s Gambit,” which was adapted into a smash-hit Netflix series of the same name last October. The show tells the story of Beth (Anya Taylor-Joy), a chess prodigy in the 1960s who dominates her mostly male opponents as she struggles with drug addiction. But while the Netflix show is largely framed as a sports drama/coming-of-age story, Tevis’ novel is an altogether darker — and even more exciting — affair than its TV adaptation. The book is a neurotic parable of obsession and commitment, a 244-page roller-coaster through the trials and joys of perfectionism.
Sometime in the late 1950s, eight-year-old Beth Harmon is sent to an orphanage school following her mother’s death in a car accident. The only extracurricular activities there are screenings of Chuck Heston biblical epics and the forced consumption of tranquilizers. Jolene, one of the few Black residents at the orphanage, becomes Beth’s first friend. The second is Mr. Shailbel, a custodian whom Beth encounters when sent down to the school’s basement to clean blackboard erasers.
Beth notices that Shailbel plays chess by himself and asks him if he can teach her the game. After some grumbling, Shaibel begins to coach Beth over the course of several months. We soon learn she’s not just a gifted player but a child prodigy who can play — and beat — multiple high schoolers simultaneously.
When Beth becomes a teenager, she’s adopted by Mrs. Wheatley, an alcoholic homemaker who eventually allows her daughter to compete in chess tournaments in exchange for a 15% “commission” on Beth’s winnings. Eventually, Beth becomes an unstoppable player, rivaled only by another prodigy, Benny Watts, and an assortment of grandmasters from the USSR.
In some ways just as interesting as Beth herself, Mrs. Wheatley injects a fair amount of humor into Tevis’ otherwise solemn narrative. “Mrs. Wheatley wiped her chin with her napkin when she finished the wine and lit a final cigarette,” Tevis writes. “‘Beth dear,’ she said, ‘there’s a tournament in Houston over the holidays… I understand it’s very easy to travel on Christmas Day, since most people are eating plum pudding or whatever.’” When Mrs. Wheatley later on asks Beth to hand her a drink, she explains that her “tranquility needs to be refurbished.”
One gets the sense that Tevis merely goes through the motions when describing Beth’s adolescence (excluding chess), but then again, Beth isn’t really trying in that department either. Largely friendless, she’s underwhelmed by a few romantic flings, has little interest in joining an exclusive high school club and doesn’t even think about going to college. In contrast to the Netflix adaptation, in which Beth progresses in her relationship with others beyond chess, Tevis’ Harmon essentially begins and ends the story as a cypher.
Tevis’ reluctance to fully scrutinize Beth as she grows older results in a narrative blunder. Jolene from the orphanage reunites with Beth when they are both adults, deciding to help Beth get into physical shape for the novel’s final tournament in Moscow. Jolene has enrolled in a master’s program now and also landed a job at a law firm. But the events of an earlier episode where Jolene molests Beth at the orphanage cannot escape a conscientious reader’s memory. As unsettling as the actual assault is, the scene’s lack of reassessment by Beth or Jolene — or even the novel’s narrator, for that matter — renders the recommencing of their friendship disconcerting.
Faults aside, “The Queen’s Gambit” is truly a prince among thrillers. Especially pulse-raising are the novel’s chess scenes, which are written with a combination of elegance, control and jargon that echoes the labyrinthian style of the recently deceased John le Carré. Take Beth’s final game in Moscow against Borgov, the seemingly unstoppable world champion.
“If [Beth] let him rook out, it would tear her apart. If he allowed her queen to move to the bishop file, his king’s protection would topple. She must not permit his bishop to check. He could not allow her to raise the rook pawn… In the whole of her mind, in the whole of her attention she saw only those embodiments of anger — knight, bishop, rook, pawn, king and queen.”
Tevis chooses short, concrete words that attack you as this heated passage rises to a fever pitch; you see here the stormy waters through which Beth’s mind navigates, yet also gain the sense of everything being in its right place. I have no idea what moving the “queen to the bishop file” actually entails, but I’m grateful that Tevis’ prose so adamantly ensures — almost grabbing me by the lapels and outright demanding — that I know how it feels.
(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.
(01/27/21 8:46pm)
In J-Term of 2017, Thor Sawin swiped his ID card to get into a Middlebury College building for the first time. Sawin, an associate professor at MIIS, was teaching a winter term course in linguistics, and had a moment of realization when he first set foot on the Vermont campus.
“I'm like, ‘Oh yeah, I'm home,’” Sawin said. “I didn't even need to do anything special. I can check out a book out of the library with the ID card that I already had. It works in both places.”
Sawin, who also serves as the current president of the Faculty Senate at MIIS, understands that faculty at the college might not know just how intertwined the two schools are. He had been previously asked by college faculty who his provost was (Jeff Cason, just like the college) and who his president was — to which he replied, of course, “Laurie Patton.”
Financial fears about MIIS and its purported drain on the college aren’t the only barriers to total cohesion between the two institutions. Some college faculty still believe that MIIS simply doesn’t offer anything to the undergraduate liberal arts experience that Middleury provides, while others suggest that a failure of communication has left college faculty in the dark about MIIS’ efforts and values. And for some, a belief that MIIS is a fundamentally independent institution colors these sentiments.
“It's just not Middlebury. It's not Middlebury College to me,” Frank Swenton told The Campus.
From an administrative perspective, that simply isn’t true.
“Monterey employees are Middlebury College employees. These folks are part of the family. They do fantastic work for the College and for Big M,” Provost said, using the term for the whole Middlebury institution, which includes the college, institute, schools abroad, Bread Loaf School of English and more. He also noted that Middlebury’s effort throughout the pandemic to provide wage continuity for employees and educational continuity for students applies unquestionably to all units, including the college and the institute.
However, for Monterey faculty and staff, a division between the institutions described by some college faculty isn’t just less visible — it’s impossible.
“Here in California, we can't help but be constantly thinking about Vermont. Everything that happens in Vermont totally affects our life.” Sawin said, noting that many decisions at MIIS can't be made "without thinking about Vermont first," but that college faculty aren't always obligated to think first of their California counterparts.
Word traveled in pieces to MIIS after Middlebury’s faculty voted 122 for and 133 against ending the college’s relationship with the institute. Even though the motion lost, a nearly-split vote was a blow to morale at the institute, according to Sawin.
“It was a depressing feeling around here,” Sawin said. The vote was especially disheartening in light of herculean efforts taken by institute faculty over the last several years to fit themselves into Middlebury by streamlining work, adjusting their jobs and cutting costs. MIIS reduced its full-time faculty from 84 to 71, 11 of them through a workforce planning process, last year, and the institute’s programs are currently well-enrolled despite an expected hit because of pandemic. However, Sawin said, the college’s faculty didn’t seem to be recognizing these painful belt-tightening measures and intense enrollment efforts.
In reflecting on the climate at Middlebury that led to the vote, Sawin noted, “Either [college faculty] don’t know what we do, and we haven’t done a good job of telling our story,” Sawin said. “Or what if they know our story and they still think that what we do is not valuable?”
Swenton’s proposition to move some current MIIS programs to the Vermont campus rather than eliminating them was met with mixed feelings. Sawin emphasized that while some faculty would be happy to do their job anywhere, many have a deep sense of pride about being Californians, and connect their academic work to the state and local environment. Sawin cited the institute’s close relationship to Silicon Valley, connections to Asia and the Pacific and research on oceans as some of the ways that the California location is integral to the work of its faculty.
“We’re glad that you like us, and we get that ending our campus doesn’t mean you want to fire us and throw us into the street,” Sawin said. “But California is a big part of what we do, and what we are.”
Swenton likens MIIS to an office of a company being moved, or employees being transferred to a different branch, and he says that expecting individuals to move for a job is “legitimate and not unexpected”.
“I don't think it's an unreasonable ask,” he added.
While moving operations to the Vermont campus may be plausible — if not academically practical — for the institute’s faculty, this strategy doesn’t present a contingency plan for staff in California, who would likely lose their jobs were the campus to be dissolved and its programs transplanted.
Swenton acknowledges that job loss would likely occur, but says that this fact does not excuse the expenditures of maintaining MIIS. In his view, Middlebury bailing out a bankrupt Monterey on accreditation probation 15 years ago has already been a service to the employees of MIIS, but the college is not obligated to maintain that employment in perpetuity. “Would I say that for sure every single person who is used is working there, every single staff member and faculty member, would be moved over? I don't know, maybe that's part of the reason for the resistance,” Swenton said.
From an administrative perspective, moving Monterey’s programs to Vermont isn’t on the table — in addition to the benefits of having a West Coast presence, David Provost says that the presence of 600 graduate students alone would be unsustainable for Addison County.
“There isn’t housing stock in Addison Country to support 600 new individuals living here,” Provost said, noting that their existence would require massive new development. “Where would we put them? Where would they learn?”
In addition to unrealistic infrastructure investments, Provost also noted that, without a doubt the closure of the Monterey campus would result in job losses for staff. He said that while he believes the college would hypothetically offer new jobs at the college to those staff first, asking those individuals to transplant from Northern California to the drastically different central Vermont would be logistically difficult for both those staff and the college and would lead to the widespread layoffs that the college has tried to avoid.
Correction: An earlier version of this piece identified the wrong number of faculty who left MIIS through the workforce planning process. It was 11, not 13.
(01/10/21 6:07am)
“...Winning is wonderful. Winning in sports. Winning elections. It beats losing them. But the reality is that winning is only fulfilling if you do it through the rules, and you do it by being able to contribute to other people.” These were the words that Rudy Giuliani spoke in his commencement address to Middlebury’s class of 2005. Then known for his swift response to 9/11 as mayor of New York City, Giuliani received an honorary degree during the ceremony.
More than 15 years later, Giuliani spent months peddling false claims of voter fraud in an effort to subvert the results of a free and fair democratic election. These efforts came to a head on Jan. 6 when Giuliani stood before a crowd of Trump supporters and called for “trial by combat,” provoking a violent insurgence that targeted the Capitol building and disrupted the election confirmation process in a riot that resulted in five deaths.
Giuliani has been unwavering in his propagation of this rhetoric, standing alongside the president to put America’s people and values alike in jeopardy. Even when the tangible dangers of this rhetoric became apparent on Jan. 6, as the mob breached the barricades to the Capitol, Giuliani tweeted, “To all those patriots challenging the fraudulent election...You are on the right side of the law and history.”
This attack on our democratic institutions could not be further misaligned with Middlebury’s values. President Patton made a point of reaffirming these values shortly after the incident. “Yesterday’s horrifying, violent events by domestic terrorists, incited by the president, have undermined the basis of our most cherished American values, and we condemn them,” she wrote in an all-community email on Jan. 7.
In light of Giuliani’s role in these violent events, Middlebury must act on such condemnation by revoking his honorary degree.
We acknowledge that the revocation of an honorary degree is not to be taken lightly. However, such measures are not unprecedented: several colleges and universities, including Yale and the University of Pennsylvania, revoked honorary degrees granted to Bill Cosby once he was revealed to be a serial rapist. And, within the days since the Capitol riot, both Lehigh University and Wagner College have revoked honorary degrees formerly granted to Donald Trump, citing his attacks on the foundation of democracy.
A symbolic degree has nothing but symbolism to offer. It represents the acknowledgment of a college’s values embodied by individuals and their work. For Middlebury to continue to bestow this honor upon Giuliani — whose actions directly endangered lives while instigating insurrection — would betray its values as an institution. To revoke it would be to fortify them.
This editorial represents the opinions of the Middlebury Campus’s editorial board.
(12/03/20 10:59am)
At their senior celebration, on-campus members of the class of 2020.5 donned beanies and parkas instead of caps and gowns. Sitting socially distanced on the sloped stands of Alumni Stadium, the Super Seniors’ celebration bore little resemblance to the traditional ski (or sled) down the Snow Bowl. But, like many Covid-19-adapted events, their moment together was a cherished stand-in.
After the Oct. 8 announcement that J-Term would be conducted remotely this year, a committee of students and administrators planned a November substitute ceremony for the Class of 2020.5 that was to take place on the last Saturday on campus.
But on Friday, Nov. 13, with caps and gowns still in the mail and another week of classes on campus remaining, Gov. Phil Scott announced that social gatherings would be restricted to members of the same household. A few hours later, the college announced similar restrictions on campus.
But the Class of 2020.5 was determined to come together one last time. The restrictions would not take effect until 10 p.m. on Saturday, more than 24 hours after the announcement was made to students via email.
Class officers Julia Sinton ’20.5 and Ben Slater ’20.5 immediately hopped on Zoom and got to work. They coordinated with school administrators, the event management department and school health officials to expedite a version of the event.
On the afternoon of Nov. 14, members of the Class of 2020.5 gathered at Alumni Stadium to celebrate the end of their Middlebury careers.
For Sinton, the announcement of the new restrictions was gutting. Not only was she going to miss out on the February ceremony at the Snow Bowl that she had been looking forward to for over four years, but the many hours she and the committee had spent planning an alternative November ceremony were also thwarted.
“We had been planning every small detail to make sure it would abide by guidelines and be a safe event,” Sinton said. “I think every single college student deserves to be honored and celebrated, and to have that loss was really devastating.”
The original graduation, scheduled for the morning of Nov. 21, the final day on campus for students, would have included as many elements of a normal February graduation as possible.
The Snowbowl had offered to blow snow and provide equipment rentals so that graduates could ski down the trail. Students were going to wear caps and gowns, receive a replica of Gamaliel Painter’s cane and eat a special meal before and after the ceremony at Proctor Dining hall.
“I was really impressed from the start with the care and involvement the administration was willing to take in order to make some kind of celebration possible, given the circumstances,” Sinton said.
When students were informed on Thursday, Nov. 12 that a campus quarantine would begin the following day, Sinton was assured that the event would still be permitted. But on Friday, the state restricted events to only one household due to a statewide increase in Covid-19 cases, resulting in a last-minute cancellation of the event.
Sinton called her co-chair. He had not yet heard the news but immediately suggested that they “just do it tomorrow.” Sinton was skeptical, but Slater was steadfast. He believed they could — and had to — try to make it happen.
The two began calling their contacts in the administration and the event management department. School officials were doubtful that the logistical challenges of the proposal could be overcome, but Sinton said they were also sympathetic.
“People really wanted it to happen for us,” she said.
Mid-morning the next day, Sinton received a link to a Zoom invite. The celebration would take place.
“It was really special to know that so many people at the college had worked hard all night, trying to collaborate and make sure something could happen before the restriction set in,” she said.
Sinton sent Facebook messages and emails to her classmates to tell people about the afternoon event, encouraging them to spread the word.
Annie Blalock ’20.5 had been selected in October to be the class speaker. When Sinton called and asked if she still wanted to deliver her speech, Blalock at first said “definitely not.”
Class speakers are chosen based upon a speech that they write and submit ahead of time. Blalock felt she could not give her original speech because it addressed a different occasion, under different circumstances.
“I had written the speech for chaos, but this was even more chaotic — this was a different level,” she said.
But, after thinking it over, Blalock made a phone call to Tom Sacco ’20.5.
Sacco had also submitted a speech. Blalock remembered Sacco’s humorous writing style, and thought that his voice might help bring joy to the occasion.
“He wrote the speech that would have brightened people’s day,” she said.
Sacco enthusiastically agreed to work with Blalock, and the two met less than two hours before the celebration to combine their speeches and add new elements.
Though the speech was “full of typos” according to Blalock, she still felt proud of the final product.
“Our Feb essences combined and we created something beautiful,” she said. The two printed the speech at MiddXpress with just minutes to spare before the celebration began.
The class of 2020.5 filed into Alumni Stadium, each receiving a tote bag filled with gifts including a blanket from the alumni association and a “Class of 2020.5” beanie.
From the turf below, President Patton greeted the students and introduced Blalock, who delivered a speech that weaved Sacco’s witticisms with the main message of her own original remarks.
Blalock noted the tumultuous four years her class had shared — from Charles Murray to the introduction of swipe-in dining — and joked that despite these events, “we still lacked the foresight and were ignorant enough to come back this semester amidst a pandemic and thought it would go well.”
But, she continued, the community and unity of spirit among her class made it inevitable that they would join together on campus for their final term. She described the confidence, quirkiness, drive and communal love that defined their “Feb-ness” and their experience together.
The end of their Middlebury careers would be wistful, and the world they entered tense and uncertain, but Blalock encouraged her peers to “bring Feb-ness to whatever [they] do.”
“Feb-ness will help us deal with this chaotic garbage fire,” she concluded, “and this chaotic garbage fire will be better for it.”
President Patton followed with her address, and the celebration concluded with a blessing from Dean for Spiritual and Religious life Mark Orton.
The celebration, having lasted about 30 minutes, ended with Sean Kingston’s “Fire Burning” blasting through the stadium’s sound system. The Super Seniors began to dance.
The music was soon shut off and the students were reminded of the importance of distanced congratulations.
The atmosphere was not filled with sadness. Sinton, Blalock and Sacco each described the happiness and gratitude of the Feb class for being able to come together in person one last time.
“It was really amazing to feel how grateful the class was to have any kind of anything,” Sinton said, adding that many were comforted “just to have a space to be together.” Sacco emphasized the atmosphere of celebration and cohesiveness he felt during and after the event.
Blalock described a reluctance in the air. “No one really wanted to accept that this was it, this was the reality,” she said.
“While I don't see that as closure,” she said, “I don't think I'll have closure on the semester or Middlebury. I think that was as close to closure as I can get at this time.”
The three agreed that they did not consider the event their true graduation, hence why it was called a “celebration” instead. This was both because it did not look like what they had imagined and hoped for, but also because a week on campus, finals, theses and other milestones were still to come.
“It was an overwhelming feeling of like, ‘wow, this is it,’” Sacco said of the end of the event. “Which quickly went away because it was like, ‘I have homework to do.’”
“This is not by any means the last event the college will hold for the class of 2020.5,” Sinton said. “But it's a space for the class to gather together one last time and enjoy each other's presence and remind each other of how far we've come and all of our accomplishments.”
(12/03/20 10:58am)
For some Addison County farms, there has been a silver lining to the pandemic.
Fears about grocery shopping and meat shortages drove Addison County residents to avoid grocery stores, and many turned instead to local farms and businesses that would deliver produce and other foods to them. Many also started growing their own gardens at home.
Golden Russet Farm has been growing vegetables in Shoreham for 30 years. In early spring, owners Judy and Will Stevens invited shoppers to come into their greenhouse and choose plants to transfer into their gardens back at home. These sales continued through the end of June. While swaths of people couldn’t cram into the greenhouse like they had in years past, Golden Russet was able to get creative and profit off the growth in demand they were seeing.
“There was a lot of talk in the spring about food scarcity and so people wanted to take charge of their own access, so we had many people buy plants from us who were either new gardeners or who had gardened in the past but who wanted to expand their gardens,” Pauline Stevens, the owners’ daughter, said.
As spring turned to summer, Golden Russet saw continued enthusiasm for their Certified Organic vegetables. Their produce can be found at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op and a handful of Burlington grocery stores, and it is also served at local restaurants like The Arcadian and American Flatbread. The farm stand was constantly in need of replenishing, and the demand for community-supported agriculture (CSA) subscriptions this fall was higher than ever before.
Scuttleship Farm, owned by couple Annie Hopper ’14.5 and Sean Willerford ’14, has also benefited from pandemic-induced shifts in shopping habits. The pair raise lamb, beef and chicken in Panton, a small town on the shores of Lake Champlain, nestled between Addison and Vergennes.
Since its inception, the farm has relied heavily on direct-to-consumer sales, both through its online store and its Barn-Store, which has allowed the farm to be flexible and creative these past eight months. Scuttleship’s team is made up of just three people, including Hopper and Willerford, so they also had the ability to continue farm operations without many protocol changes by podding together and keeping all other social interactions to a minimum.
Throughout spring and summer, hoards of new customers visited Scuttleship’s online butcher shop and the Barn-Shop, which was sanitized regularly. Many of these customers were worried about national food supplies and looked to buy food with as few intermediaries as possible. “We were really lucky in that we weren’t depending on distributors or restaurants,” Hopper said, as both of those channels saw drastic declines in sales.
By early summer, Scuttleship had sold all the meat that was expected to last them through the summer and into the fall. “We weren’t cashing in on the increase in demand for freezer-ready meat because we couldn’t make more of it,” Hopper said.
This summer, Scuttleship introduced chickens, which take just eight weeks to raise, into their offerings, allowing the farm to smooth out the lumps in cash flow that are inherent in the business.
In reflecting on the large numbers of new customers who turned to Scuttleship, Hopper said “I just hope they remember us in a year.”
Not all farms have gotten these boosts — for some, instead, “the pandemic was the straw that broke the camel’s back,” said Chris Hodges, who owns Cornwall’s Sunrise Orchards with her husband Barney Hodges ’91.
Statewide shutdowns of restaurants and bars created a domino effect and Sunrise was hit hard. “Without bars and restaurants to sell to, our customers who make hard cider weren’t able to pay us,” Hodges explains.
In a normal year, Sunrise Orchards would have packaged half of their harvest to sell at Shaw’s and Price Choppers in New England, as well as local stores such as the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op. However, between stagnant prices for already low priced goods and the incredibly high start-up cost of packing, it wasn’t feasible to do so.
As Sunrise works to return to the stability and profitability they have experienced in years past, Hodges remains positive. This fall, the orchard was able to hire eight workers from Jamaica to pick apples through the H-2A temporary foreign agricultural worker visa program, a partnership between the Jamaican and American governments.
The men, all of whom have years of experience working this eight-week job at Sunrise, harvest alongside a few of Sunrise’s longer term workers.
All three farms noted how lucky they were in that almost all their work is done outside, thus decreasing the risk involved for employees and allowing day-to-day operations to stay primarily unchanged.
While the three farms had very different experiences these past eight months, the owners of each of them share both gratitude and hope.
“People have been really supportive,” Hodges said. While neighbors don’t buy apples in the same quantities as hard cider producers, and therefore can’t make up for the lost business, “they have been really kind in their words.”
While they might not be Scuttleship’s ideal freezer-ready meat customer, Middlebury students — especially those taking semesters off — have played a huge role in helping other local farms.
“During a normal year, we struggle to find help,” Stevens explained. “We always end up pulling it together but it’s usually piecing it together between part- and full-time.” This year however, Golden Russet received a huge surge in applicants from Middlebury College, both in the summer and the fall.
Kate Peterson ’22.5 took her fall semester off of classes and worked for Stevens at Golden Russet, getting her hands dirty each and every day — and loving it. Jack Brown ’23 worked for Sunrise Orchards all summer and through October, also taking the fall semester off. He plans to work at the orchard both this spring and summer.
(12/03/20 10:57am)
Hannah Laga Abram ’23 won the Ward Prize for the 2019-2020 Academic Year. The award recognizes first-year students who demonstrate exceptional skill in writing. Laga Abram, whose work was nominated by three professors, also received a $500 cash prize. Ryo Nishikubo ’23.5 and Mia Pangasnan ’23 were runners-up for the award, and Emily Garcia ’23, Gloria Escobedo ’23 and Kate Likhite ’23 received honorable mentions.
Established by his family in 1978, the prize is named for Paul Ward ’25, a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist and diplomatic reporter.
A committee of three faculty judges from different academic disciplines decide on one winning submission, two runners-up and three to five honorable mentions. About 50 students are nominated each year for the prize, drawing from work in both fall and spring classes.
Laga Abram said she was surprised to hear she had won the award.
“I’ve been in love with words for as long as I can remember, so it’s delightful to feel seen and heard in that way and be at a school that treasures the magic of language,” she said. “I’m flabbergasted, honored and grateful to all of my professors, the judges and others who make the Ward Prize possible.”
Laga Abram’s winning work was titled “The Ecology of Folklore: A Relational Examination of Storytelling Traditions in Ireland and Iceland,” which she wrote for her Environmental Anthropology class.
Professor of Anthropology Michael Sheridan nominated Laga Abram’s piece for the prize in May, and asked to serve as a judge on this year’s panel in September. He said that her essay demonstrated talent and thoughtfulness beyond her years.
“She engaged the topic insightfully, and then boldly and creatively connected it to course readings and themes. She demonstrated a mastery of the topic that I would expect from a junior or senior who had been marinating in a discipline for a much longer time,” Sheridan said. “It was a beautiful text and a shining example of the craft of writing.”
“Stories have so much power in reminding us that the earth — and ourselves as a part of it — are alive, wildly beautiful, and made of mystery,” Laga Abram said.
Writing and Rhetoric Professor and Writing Center Director Genie Giaimo took a lead role in coordinating this year’s process. Working in conjunction with Giaimo, Writing and Rhetoric Professor James Chase Sanchez selected the faculty for this year’s judging panel.
Given that there are only three judges for the prize, one of Sanchez’s biggest goals and challenges was getting “an array of voices and disciplines” on the panel. Even with the challenges of online learning this semester, Sanchez had no trouble finding judges to serve on the panel, which consisted of Professor of History Ian Barrow, American Studies Ellery Foutch and Sheridan.
Sheridan said that he enjoyed the diversity of thought that comes from having judges in different academic departments. “By having the judges come from different parts of the college, it balances out differences like disciplinary approaches to knowledge and aesthetics,” he said.
The prize has received steady enthusiasm from faculty and students alike in recent years. To keep this momentum going, Giaimo hopes to see a greater number of nominated pieces from STEM classes.
Professor of Writing and Rhetoric as well as Gender, Sexuality, and Feminist Studies Catharine Wright has been a recurrent nominator over the past twenty years. “[I nominate essays] that leave me excited after reading them, stimulate me with their insights and ambition, and move me,” she said.
Editor’s Note: News Editor Abigail Chang ’23 and Managing Editor Riley Board ’22 contributed reporting.
(11/19/20 11:00am)
This semester, I’ve had the pleasure of producing the first season of the Siefer’s Scoop podcast for The Middlebury Campus. The podcast provides a window into the lives and perspectives of collegiate student-athletes, most of whom compete at Middlebury. For the past three months, I’ve interviewed 11 Middlebury student-athletes – spanning 11 varsity teams – about how Covid-19 has affected their year, the ways being an athlete has shaped their Middlebury experience and why they chose Middlebury, specifically. I also produced an episode diving into the political activism led by student-athletes this semester, which was featured in our Election Issue. There’s a lot to reflect on, but here’s an abbreviated recap of what I have learned from the podcast this semester.
First off, Covid-19 presented predictable challenges to the realm of athletics. Athletes adjusted to masks and social distancing mandates, which introduced novel elements to practices. Some athletes struggled with finding a mask that was compatible with their rigorous exercise, and others longed for the group-wide drills that restrictions prohibited.
“It’s tough [wearing masks],” Noah Whiting ’22 said. “If you're sweating a lot like I do and you're running for a while after a certain point [the sweat] does start to fill your mouth. A lot of us will run with multiple masks on us and just switch them during the run or during intervals.”
Athletes also missed the element of competition this season, with the NESCAC cancelling competition this summer. Many teams turned to alternatives such as intrateam competition or virtual meets, finding creative ways to quench the thirst for competition.
Outside of Covid-19, our student-athletes spoke enthusiastically about why they loved their team. Long rides to matches, for example, are a bright spot for squash player Alex Stimpson ’23. Eli Drachman ’24 spoke highly of meals with the swim team, and Amanda Frank ’23 reflected positively on the adventures she’s taken with the tennis team, such as apple picking this fall. Other athletes described the built-in support system that sports teams provide and the valuable time management skills that they’ve learned through being an athlete.
Perhaps my favorite section of the podcast was my staple “Why Midd?” question. Answers varied, but common responses included the people, culture and aesthetic beauty of the campus. Hearing these responses often brought a smile to my face, reminding me to be grateful for the place I call home.
“The campus is incredible,” Lizzie Kenter ’23 said. “Vermont at any time of the year I’m in love with. Every student that I talked to here seemed extremely passionate about whatever it was that they were doing and that was an intoxicating thing.”
“It became really clear to me that… it’s a special team, and this is a special place,” Drachman said. “[Middlebury] stands out. Coming here and immediately feeling a part of the team meant the world to me.”
This podcast has taught me a lot of things: how to record audio via Zoom, how to navigate editing software and how to generate questions for interviews. But one of my biggest takeaways was that through all the craziness right now — the pandemic, election and social justice issues — our students are able to figure sh*t out. This semester may be abnormal, but our athletes expressed that as long as we are able to live, learn and compete with one another in the heart of the Champlain Valley, we have things pretty d*mn good.
Thank you for supporting the Siefer’s Scoop podcast this fall. Thank you for the kind words, enthusiastic inquiries and feedback. If you or someone you know is interested in being a guest on the podcast in the future, please don’t hesitate to reach out.
I’m looking forward to next semester, where I’ll kick off season two of the podcast.
’Til then, stay well, and go Panthers!
(11/19/20 11:00am)
Audiences joined the RIDDIM dance crew for their fall end-of-semester show “RIDDIM World Dance Troupe Zooms In” on Saturday, Nov. 14. Some spectated from a tented stage set up behind Mahaney Arts Center while others admired at a distance, watching the performance projected live on McCullough lawn. The show was performed twice — once at 6 p.m. and again at 9 p.m. — as part of the “Light Up the Night” Fall Arts Fest series.
The show opened with a video of crew members trickling into a Zoom meeting, an ode to the way interactions on campus have changed this semester. In a brief introduction, members engaged in hilarious activities without realizing their microphones or videos were on, a frequent and relatable occurrence for many taking remote classes. After the audience had a good laugh at Max Lucas ’21 turning somersaults in bed, Malia Armstrong ’22.5 putting on mascara and Jarlenys Mendez ’23 being nowhere to be seen, attention turned to the stage lit with purple lights and filled with dancers dressed in all black.
The first performance was “Studio 2020,” choreographed by Lucas, Paula Somoza ’21 and Miraal Naseer ’21. Dancers followed the beats of the rhythmic “Safety” by Gashi, bringing blistering energy to the stage even as the weather began to drop below 50 degrees. As the first dance progressed, dancers were able to demonstrate more individual moves as others provided space for them by staying low; they chose and adapted moves from across the dance spectrum, forming their own visually compelling stories.
As the dancers from the first performance ran off, six new ones appeared onstage, dancing to Ozuna, Doja Cat and Sia’s “Del Mar,” executing complicated choreography over lyrical and sexy music.
After a brief intermission, waves of dancers joined the next act, choreographed by Madeline Elkes ’22. Her piece “Stay” engaged the audience with a performance of striking synchronicity. Despite an appearance of gentleness as the crew danced to the soft whispers of singer Gracie Abrams, the moves grew forceful at times, following the rise and fall of the music. In the middle of the song, to echo its growing softness, all but two dancers left, displaying marvelous control in slowness and in speed. “Living during a pandemic is stressful, and I wanted my dance to be a stress relief for everyone,” Elkes said.
In direct contrast, the next piece, “Achey Bones,” choreographed by Anna Loewald ’21, electrified the crowd. This dance was characterized by Loewald as “a fusion footwork piece.” True to her words, dancers Lucas, Somoza and Loewald held their hands behind their backs at moments to maximize audiences’ attention on the footwork.
“I enjoyed this song particularly for this present moment as we are struggling through a global pandemic, social movements, an important election, etcetera, all subjects that cause great fear, anxiety, and sadness,” Loewald said.
After the dancers exited the stage, it remained empty for an extended period of time. Just as some began to wonder where the dancers had gone, murmuring words among themselves, the performers appeared unexpectedly on stage with colorful dresses. Until this point of the night, the dominant tone on stage had been black and white, and this sudden infusion of colors was surprising to many. This was the beginning of “Aadam Tarana,” choreographed by Amun Chaudhary ’23.5 and Miraal Naseer ’23, a piece that was inspired by South Asian dance style Kathak, which stresses storytelling, expression and fluidity. The name “Tarana” is a reference to a focus on movement and a style heavily influenced by dances of the court and the palaces in South Asia.
Next was “Psychoanalysis,” which featured a green-lit stage and chill beats. Isabelle Davis ’21, the choreographer of the piece, described it as “blending different modern techniques that I have studied and channeling this into a fresh take on modern style dance.”
Following the piece, chairs, blankets and pillows were brought on stage for a short but engaging transition performed to the Kanye West song “Famous.” Dancers hastily got dressed, put on coats and rushed to their seats to read. The transitional piece served as a mediator between “Psychoanalisis” and the next dance “My Emotions,” choreographed by Lucas, who described it as a “a chilled-out, nostalgic [one] with elements of urban and hip-hop dance movements.” Positioned in a triangle, dancers on the three vertices crouched down as others stood, relaying riveting vitality from different levels.
In a whiplash-inducing style shift, the next dance, Leeeć, was a Polish-folk-dance-inspired piece. The performance touched on themes of nature, mythology and death, according to choreographer Lucas. The next piece came at another 180-degree twist — “Electricity,” designed by Ali DePaolo ’23. DePaolo worked through the initial stages of choreographing this piece with teammates through Zoom, teaching from a room in BiHall to dancers in their respective dorm rooms. In an email to The Campus, she wrote, “I wanted to create an opportunity for people to try a new style, learn some classic jazz technique and showcase personality on stage.”
Next up, “Perfect Pose,” choreographed by Kevin Mata ’22 made an “explicit attempt to understand what it means for different bodies to perform femininity in a celebratory way.” Dancing to Cousin Stizz’s “Perfect,” performers used their bodies to convey a strong, defiant attitude.
The night concluded with “Telephone” — in bright red lights, waves of dancers sprinted across the stage, presenting one final move for the audience before finishing with a bow. Among loud cheers, the performers blew kisses to the audience through masks. The show was captivating from the first ding of someone entering a Zoom meeting to the final strike of poses.
(11/19/20 10:59am)
It is difficult to overstate the magnitude of comedian Dave Chappelle’s imprint on our zeitgeist. Even calling him a comedian feels like the wrong title; perhaps activist or social commentator is more apt. This week, for the second time, Dave Chappelle hosted “Saturday Night Live” immediately after a U.S. presidential election. The first — in 2016 — followed the election of President Donald Trump; the second occurred just a few days ago, after Joe Biden was voted president-elect.
As a comedian, Dave Chappelle has been known to inject his jokes with sophisticated social commentary, mixing it with his branded slurry of lewd humor. If you have been deterred by Chappelle’s particular concoction of crass jokes in the past, I would urge you to see it not as profanity for profanity’s sake but rather as a vessel through which Chappelle is able to reach millions to deliver his insightful commentary and introspective storytelling. To overlook Dave Chappelle as a political activist because of his comedic crudeness would be a grave misstep.
In his opening monologue on Saturday night, Chappelle took on a rather serious tone, donning a well-tailored suit instead of his signature one-of-a-kind, army-surplus-inspired jacket. He began the monologue, cigarette in hand as always, with a remembrance of his great grandfather, who was a slave before being freed. Chappelle remarked that he wished his great grandfather were able to see him at that moment — see a Black man in America who has become successful enough to fly to New York City via private jet to host “Saturday Night Live.” But Chappelle doesn’t stop there. He notes that his immensely popular sketch comedy show, “Chappelle’s Show,” has begun streaming on Netflix and HBO, though without Chappelle receiving any payment. Longtime fans of Chappelle (or those who kept up with early-2000s current events) know that even in success, “Chappelle’s Show” did not go off without a hitch. Instead, Chappelle voided his contract and left the show during the production of its third season. In his Netflix special “The Bird Revelation,” he likened his relationship with the show’s network to one not unlike that of a pimp and his most profitable prostitute. Chappelle finished his musings on a punchline, as always. “[You] were bought and sold more times than I was,” Chappelle said, assuming his great grandfather’s voice, relaying to the audience that despite his success, Chappelle was still confined by deeply rooted, harmful institutions.
While the joke naturally aroused uproarious laughter from the audience, it was meant to be much more pensive than its reaction would lead one to believe. “I can’t even tell something true unless it has a punchline behind it,” Chappelle said. It is this constant embattlement that Chappelle seems to face in each of his Netflix specials and his monologues,and even back during his “Chappelle Show” run. If he were to simply outline the enormity of the racism he faces on a daily basis from a political or social standpoint, no one would listen. If he were just a comedian, he would be unable to discuss the issues he feels are most pressing in America. Every time Chappelle walks out onstage and grabs hold of a microphone, he is walking a tightrope. At the beginning is Chappelle, tentatively putting his weight on the wire, eyeing what lies across: an audience and a society that understands the plights he speaks of, understands the inhumane racism that has been systematically oppressing Black people for centuries and understands the social critiques he speaks of and wishes to enact change. The burden of this thin wire is the comedic sheath Chappelle must veil his commentary in. If he is not funny enough, his audience won’t stay long enough to listen, and if it’s pure comedy, he fails to reach his goal and educate his audience.“You guys aren’t ready,” said Chappelle. “You’re not ready for this.”
It is an interesting affair to watch both of Chappelle’s monologues back-to-back. There is a clear distinction in tone that is influenced directly by the political circumstances of the time. In the first monologue, he is light, funny and cautiously optimistic. He talks of the impending Trump presidency with the same humorous disbelief that most Americans did at that time. He wishes Trump well in the White House and makes light of his infamous Access Hollywood tape through a joke about himself staying in Trump’s New York hotel. Referring to the Obama administration, Chappelle remarks how profound it was to have a Black leader who made deliberate efforts to bring to light the very same racial issues about which Chappelle speaks. His optimism is matched by an equally optimistic tone in his newest monologue, though marred with much less levity. Chappelle addresses racial issues with urgency and openly points out the hypocrisy of white-on-Black racism that prevailed in Trump’s and earlier presidencies.
Chappelle isn’t joking anymore about the seriousness of racism in America, and neither should we. His monologues and stand-ups have tipped the balance to weigh much more heavily in social critique than in pure comedy. His recent special “8:46” built directly upon the surge of Black Lives Matter movements across the country this summer. Chappelle’s deftness for the comedy craft is unquestioned and unparalleled, and the timeliness of his critiques are as dire as ever. I implore you to consider his words and listen to his voice with earnest intent. For white people, now is the time for listening; we have been talking for far too long.
(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 10:00am)
Around an hour and a half into “The Trial of the Chicago 7,” clean-cut antiwar activist Tom Hayden (Eddie Redmayne, who, thankfully, doesn’t sing in this movie) stares down rabble-rouser Abbie Hoffman (Sacha Baron Cohen).
“My problem with you,” Hayden says, “is that for the next 50 years when people think of progressive politics they’re gonna think of you. They’re gonna think of you and your idiot followers passing out daisies to soldiers and trying to levitate the Pentagon. They’re not gonna think of equality or justice.”
Hoffman smarts off, asking if Hayden would have protested at the DNC if the recently assassinated Senator Robert F. Kennedy had been the nominee instead of Humbert Humphrey. Enraged, the two young men — who represent two very different sides of 1960s progressivism — engage in fisticuffs until their lawyer, William Kunstler (Mark Rylance of “Wolf Hall” and “Bridge of Spies”), bursts into the room.
This dramatic tête-à-tête raises questions. What exactly does it mean to be an American progressive? Is it necessary to play inside our democratic system and to engage with our government instead of tearing it down, or should we express political grievance in a more radical way, rejecting the status quo of liberalism and the very notion that our country is a democracy? And, is it that these two lifestyles are mutually exclusive, or is there a way that activists can unite them to build a better United States?
Aaron Sorkin’s new Netflix film, set during the aftermath of the riots at the 1968 Democratic National Convention and based on a true story, begins after the violent clashes between protesters of the Vietnam War and the Chicago Police Department. Richard Nixon has just been elected president, and newly-appointed Attorney General John Mitchell (John Doman) wants revenge on his predecessor, Ramsay Clark (Michael Keaton). Clark breaks protocol by refusing to resign his position until one hour before Mitchell was sworn in.
In retaliation, Mitchell orders federal prosecutor Richard Schultz (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) to try seven anti-war protest leaders for crossing state lines to incite violence, belittling a report that the previous administration’s Justice Department authored — which had concluded that Chicago’s violence was mainly the fault of the police. And to make the mostly-white jury less sympathetic to the activists, the Justice Department adds Black Panther Party National Chairman Bobby Seale (Yaha Abdul Mateen) to the list of defendants, although Seale was not even in Chicago during the riots.
The trial, overseen by Judge Julius Hoffman (Frank Langella) was a real-life travesty of justice and an outright circus. The film deftly captures some of the event’s most wild episodes, both comedic and terrible. In one scene, Hoffman (the activist, not the judge) arrives at the witness stand in black robes, which Hoffman (this time, the judge) asks to be removed. The activist reveals a policeman’s outfit underneath the robes with a badge that reads “pig.” In a more gruesome scene, U.S. marshals beat, gag and enchain Seale, the trial’s sole Black defendant. Frank Langella’s character constantly refers to Seale as “The Black Panther” with just a hint of a pause before the word “Panther,” not even bothering to conceal his racism.
And all of this is set to the music of Sorkin’s dialogue, a manner of speech which fans of “The West Wing” and “The Newsroom” know well: it's zippy, smart and brimming with sincerity. Some critics dismiss Sorkin’s writing style as unrealistic. Earthlings, they argue, don’t actually respond to prosecutorial questions with replies like “I’ve never been on trial for my thoughts before.” These skeptics, however, don’t appreciate that Sorkin has always been more hyper-realist than realist. Eloquent as they are, his characters give off plain and true emotions, and they reserve their wittiest tirades for when they’re in strong, almost transcendent states of anger or joy. This film rollicks from beginning to end, and it's largely because of the beauty of its language.
I’m from Minneapolis, and while watching this movie I remembered the protesters who were tear gassed this summer, just blocks away from my home. I saw the National Guard trucks that were seemingly everywhere, and I watched the Third Precinct burn in my city. Any viewer of this film who has a soul will be outraged by the modern parallels that this film draws, with its unblinking portrayal of the Chicago Police Department’s brutality and the sheer loathing that motivated the Nixon administration's persecution of the main characters. Go to Netflix, see this outstanding film — and vote.
(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.
(10/29/20 9:55am)
Most Americans have heard the expression “the melting pot” used to describe the diversity of our country. Most have also heard the commander in chief refer to immigrants as “animals” and talk about “sh*thole countries” when referring to nations like Haiti. This juxtaposition poses an important question: What would the re-election of this president mean for the future of immigration in America?
Immigration was a central issue in the 2016 campaign as Trump turned the notion of a border wall into a ubiquitous catchphrase and joked about deporting his opponent. This year, however, the pandemic and subsequent recession have forced immigration to take a backseat in the national consciousness. There is only one word to describe the actions and sentiment of this administration towards immigrants: xenophobic.
While his base celebrates the border wall, the president is busy finding additional ways to keep people from other countries from entering America. Forbes Magazine reported that by 2021, Trump will have reduced legal immigration by almost 50% since arriving in the Oval. We saw a glimpse of this within the first months of his administration when he signed the executive order that banned citizens from Muslim-majority countries like Iraq and Libya from entering the U.S. In the name of American safety, the “Muslim ban” established clear prejudice against foreign nationals, an ideology apparent throughout his term. Another legacy of Trump’s tenure is his most unpardonable policy: children in cages. Pictures of young migrants forced to live in horrible conditions, wrapped in meager tinfoil blankets were all over the news and social media, yet it seemed like the people writing policy at 1600 Pennsylvania were unperturbed.
Since then, the Trump administration has quietly created more policies to slow and stop forms of legal immigration, the most recent being his proclamation to temporarily suspend work-based immigration to the United States. The wording of this policy is consistent with the administration’s attack on anything foreign: they claim their aim is to protect American jobs, yet simultaneously alienate the immigrant base that makes up for 17% of the labor force and 10% of the electorate. Saying immigrants “present risk” to the American labor force is inherently counterproductive to the country’s economic growth. Trump brags that he gave life to the best economy of any modern president, but his policies may stifle U.S. GDP growth for years to come.
The numbers provide a compelling argument on their own, but the administration’s rhetoric raises even more concerns. It first alarmed me in early 2017, when I heard a radio conversation on Breitbart between former Trump campaign strategist Steve Bannon and senior advisor Stephen Miller. They addressed the “scary” realities of legal immigration in the country and demeaned foreign workers. My parents are first-generation immigrants who came over legally and have been here for over 20 years, so I’ve had my eyes opened to the colossal amounts of red tape within the naturalization process for a while. It is the deliberate deceleration of this process that is perhaps the biggest “silent killer.” The Trump administration has made it harder for people to obtain work visas by adding harsher guidelines for businesses that make it harder to sponsor foreign workers. Here’s the bottom line: even the thought of immigrants working and improving business in this country makes the White House uncomfortable.
“Aliens.” It’s been the official nomenclature painfully attached to foreign nationals for years. The term is all over tax forms, immigration documents and even the news. We see it just enough to remember that there has always been the slightest bit of distaste towards immigrants in this country. The Trump administration has amplified this “slight distaste” into an explicit bias, yet that hasn’t discouraged immigrants from expressing their love for this country. Even though they can’t vote, my parents have been constantly reminding me to spread the word about voting.
Whether it’s passion, hope or just anger that gets them moving, immigrant communities are more active in our democracy now than ever, and that is proof that they are no different from the “Americans” that the White House explicitly favors. We cannot pinpoint why exactly the Trump Administration loves to make this distinction, but if it is allowed to continue, the principles of diversity and progress that have made this country so attractive to the outside world will become obsolete.
(10/22/20 9:59am)
It’s March 10, 2020. At around 1:30 p.m., Middlebury students received word to pack their suitcases in preparation for an early spring break. It was around 7:30 p.m. in Stockholm, Sweden. As texts rolled in from frantic friends back on campus, I stood among a roaring crowd of over 5,000 Swedish hockey fans.
“Are you coming home? We just got the official email,” a friend texted. “Nah I’m still here, we’re still going strong,” I sent back. “The Swedish government is pretty chill right now, luckily.” Luckily. I thought I had nothing to worry about. 48 hours later, I was on a plane home.
In the wake of Sweden’s controversial approach to battling Covid-19 through “herd immunity,” I’ve reflected on my Covid-19-shortened semester abroad in Sweden’s capital city of Stockholm. I hope that my perspective of Sweden’s response from right before the pandemic can shed a light on Sweden’s widely covered response over the last seven months.
Especially when — after being completely asymptomatic — I would later test positive for Covid-19 antibodies.
A product of your own environment
When I arrived in Stockholm in January, Covid-19 was making its way through China and beginning its slow but steady global spread. It wasn’t until the Milanese outbreak in Italy in mid-February that most of the West began to wake up to the potential threat of a worldwide pandemic.
Even as President Trump downplayed the threat of the virus in the United States, Americans were nevertheless starting to learn the basics of social distancing and other measures that we’ve grown to know all too well. This was not happening for Swedes; it was from my parents over FaceTime that I first heard about the idea of social distancing. Life in Sweden faced no interruption, and thus neither did my daily routine. Classes, public transit and every business in the city were still running as normal. I was a product of my own environment.
The Italian outbreak was my first wakeup call. In Italy, Middlebury shut down its schools abroad, sending home friends from Middlebury and others in the program in late February. My roommate in Stockholm, Jacob, was traveling in Milan during that outbreak. When he returned, we convinced our program that he should quarantine. “We are not expecting to see new cases of Covid-19,” said Dr. Anders Tegnell, Sweden’s Dr. Fauci, after Sweden’s second confirmed case on Feb. 27. “It is important to remember that there is a difference between individual cases and the spread of infection in society. That is not taking place in Sweden.” That assertion would not hold for long.
Testing
Let’s first use testing as an early case study of Sweden’s response. Sweden’s cases per capita has remained on par with much of Europe despite its more open approach. One reason for Sweden’s apparent success at first glance might be a skew in the numbers. Here in the US, testing for Covid-19 is increasingly available, albeit with a significant delay, to those with or without symptoms. In Sweden, it remains difficult today to get a test without either being hospitalized or showing recognizable symptoms.
When Jacob, my roommate who traveled to Milan, returned to Sweden in early March, my other roommate and I vacated the room so he could quarantine for two weeks. Yet, it took a week and a half of constant contact with public health authorities to authorize his test. Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg, who expressed she likely had contracted the virus during her travels around the continent during the late winter, was unable to get a test herself in the spring due to similar reasons and standards. Even today, the Public Health Agency’s guidance on voluntary quarantine states, “If for some reason you have been tested despite not having symptoms, the seven days start from the day you had the test.” I think we can agree that “if for some reason” countries are not testing asymptomatic people potentially exposed to Covid-19, they’re not doing enough testing.
Sweden vs. the United States
To understand Sweden’s lax response to Covid-19, it is also crucial to understand how it is one based on qualities so ingrained Swedish culture. These qualities make the Swedish model difficult to directly compare with a chaotic “herd immunity” method of the US, but we can still compare their basic differences.
Sweden is built on an intense trust in their welfare state, as is crucial in any social democracy, which is palpable in Swedish society. Swedes entrust the state to provide them with free healthcare, education, generous unemployment and many other benefits in exchange for high rates of taxes.
This trust has defined Sweden’s response to Covid-19. With its lack of any sort of national lockdown, Sweden stands almost alone with its approach to confronting the Covid-19 pandemic.
So how has Sweden attempted to confront the virus? The short answer: lagom. A term in Swedish meaning “not too much, not too little,” lagom is a balancing concept found in nearly every part of Swedish daily norms from work hours to alcohol consumption. In response to the Covid-19 pandemic, Sweden has tried, and failed to find a point of lagom.
In the spring, they closed universities, banned social gatherings larger than 50 people and encouraged the elderly and the at-risk to isolate themselves. However, restaurants and other shops remained open and few steps were taken to discourage people from public interaction. Swedish primary and secondary schools remained open and compulsory to attend — it is still illegal to homeschool your children or keep them home from school for family or personal reasons. Social distancing is encouraged, but few masks are worn.
Many conservatives in the United States, including the President, have pointed to Sweden as an effective example of Covid-19 mitigation largely free of state-wide lockdowns and masks. Here in the United States, lockdowns, masks and many public health guidelines have been unnecessarily and dangerously politicized. We’ve learned all too well that one’s feelings about each of these safety measures are the product of one’s environment, culture and political leanings.
In the U.S., small government libertarians pointed to Sweden as a reason to lift these lockdowns and the far right spent months protesting social distancing guidelines and stay-at-home orders. This is an errant comparison for two reasons. First, they fail to recognize that the very example they reference relies instead on more government trust and influence, and, second, occurs in a far smaller country with a population largely centered in only three major cities.
The depoliticized Public Health Agency in Sweden trusts the population to adhere to basic guidelines and have Swedes trust one another to do the right thing. The approach of “herd immunity,” which has not been specifically endorsed by name by the agency, hopes the virus spreads at lagom: slow enough to not overwhelm the healthcare system.
However, Swedish deaths per capita nearly match the tragic levels seen in the United States. Sweden’s nursing homes were decimated in the early stages of the virus, the main source of its nearly 6.000 deaths, a substantial number in a country of only 10 million. In Sweden, around 90% of its deaths are from those 70 or older; 95% are of those 60 or older. In the US, on the other hand, around 57% of deaths are 75 or older and 79% are 65 or older. Sweden’s overall health has spared more younger people from death than in the US, but the results are nevertheless tragic for its elderly population.
Additionally, despite keeping much of the economy open, Sweden’s economy was hit even harder than its Nordic neighbors that locked down. Sweden’s GDP fell 8.3% in the second quarter, compared with 6.8% in Denmark and 5.1% in Norway. Even if a restaurant or store is open, people’s behavior still changes in a pandemic.
Where do we go from here?
In June, my dad and I both tested positive for Covid-19 antibodies. After seeing how remarkably similar Sweden’s approach looked to my experience in March, I decided to get tested along with my father, who was still commuting through the middle of Times Square only weeks before the New York outbreak began to emerge. Even after my antibody test, I continued (and still continue) to follow precautions amidst the risk of a false positive test or even of reinfection. My father and I also can’t account for the unknown long term health effects that two healthy men may suffer going forward.
Sweden has sacrificed several thousand lives in exchange for a more open approach to tackling the disease. Swedish Prime Minister Stefan Löfven admitted in April that “[Sweden] will count the dead in thousands.” To their credit, Swedes are largely following health guidelines and keeping politics out of it. Cultural differences matter — this is a very Swedish strategy and is not something even remotely possible in the United States. The buy-in from Swedes is there, but the results are not. Sweden is far away from being anywhere close to “herd immunity,” and with no end in sight, the tradeoff is simply not worth the extra loss of life.
I did not expect to be part of the herd. When and if this pandemic reaches an end after months if not years of interruption, death and economic collapse, Sweden will not be standing above the fray. It will be right there in the middle of it.
Porter Bowman ’21.5 is an Opinion Editor for The Middlebury Campus.
(10/22/20 9:59am)
Clover Magazine, Middlebury’s only student-run fashion publication, aims to serve as an outlet for the stylish mind within academia. By snooping around their website, you'd get the impression that it has been around since more than six people could be in a room at the same time, but it was founded this summer by Karinne Aguirre ’21 and Madison Brito ’21.5.
According to its website, the magazine was founded as a platform for students “to think critically on the world of fashion within our own boundaries and on a global stage, provide an outlet to capture and create new forms of sartorial expression and redefine what New England fashion can be.”
Clover's current all-women staff, selected through an online application process, was cemented last summer. Each member has their own distinct passions, ranging from embroidery to portrait writing. The team is always accepting new members.
In consultation with their writers, the founders made the decision to adopt a blog-style publication method. Article topics are decided at a monthly meeting and subsequently released on a regular schedule, with a few days between posts. This way, according to Brito, the magazine is "more casual, more reader friendly and more honest."
"It's a snapshot of the times in which we live," Brito said. "We're not skirting around uncomfortable topics and writing about what we think the readers want, instead of what they actually want to read."
The magazine’s content focuses on the fashion world’s complexity. “Fashion has a more profound meaning. It's hard to pinpoint, but fashion as a way of expression became more interesting to me over time. There's a lot to be said about it," Aguirre said.
“How the Pandemic Changed my Relationship to Fashion” by Meili Huang ’23 is an example of how the magazine offers students a new blend of artistic and cognitive expression. The piece provides a thoughtful and multi-faceted assessment of fashion in the Covid-19 era as observed through the lens of Huang.
Clover seeks to place itself in the conversations that explore the role of fashion in the global community and how it affects the lives of students. In the months and years to come, Brito and Aguirre want to go far. Aguirre has dreams of modeling. She sees herself on the runway, sporting the outfits she loves to write about and exploring fashion behind the scenes. In her words, she wants to explore "clothes in motion."
Brito wants to work in publishing. Understanding her natural writing ability and appreciative of the instruction she's received at the college, she hopes to find her home in a publishing house. As for the future of Clover, they see an opportunity for growth.
“Everyone contributes to [fashion], consciously or not,” Aguirre said.
(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.
(10/15/20 10:00am)
We’ve felt it too. The pressure, late nights and stress of this semester are more intense and taxing than usual. Of course, some of this can be chalked up to the global and national conditions of our present moment. Attending college during a pandemic and a moment of national unrest was always going to be difficult. Yet one Middlebury-made stresser adds yet another layer: our busyness culture.
During any given semester, college students all around the country pressure themselves to fill their time — to be perpetually busy — in order to get the most out of their undergraduate experience. But at Middlebury, this practice has elevated into an artform. Braggadocio of late-night studying, volume-shooting internship applications and long lists of clubs joined serve as battle scars of a productive semester.
Somehow, the pandemic has elevated these self-inflicted pressures. Now, without social outlets like weekend parties, days off or even just going to a friend’s room to break up the grind of the semester, many students are throwing themselves into work just to fill the time. The institutional and cultural pressure of internships and jobs are yet another stressor to deal with, adding more work to students’ already burdened plates.
Without open access to public study spaces, students are confined to their rooms, further blending the boundaries between study and relaxation. To make matters worse, while most professors are leading with grace and flexibility, some seem far too eager to burden students with large courseloads and unforgiving deadlines in an attempt to preserve the rigor of a Middlebury education. The sum of these parts is an overworked and under-rested student body. At Middlebury, the grind doesn’t stop; it just adapts. The nightmarish question of “was your pandemic productive?” looms over all students, even those taking the semester off.
These pressures were compounded last week with the college’s announcement of a remote J-Term and late start to the second semester. Faced with an empty three months to fill on short notice, many students are struggling to imagine how — or where — they’ll spend their winter. Only three weeks away from the decision deadline, many are scrambling to make plans.
For many students, the busyness stresses of the current semester are relatively “normal”: classes, internships and academic work. For some, leaving campus for an extended period of time means that these stresses will be replaced with the far more terrifying reality of the pandemic and the material health risks it brings. Students with proximity to frontline workers — or are frontline workers themselves — or to those with vulnerabilities must deal with much more serious questions than whether or not their professor will round up an 89. Conversely, others will retreat to comfort, far away from the most devastating realities of the pandemic, and be free to fret over the snowfall on the ski slopes. Without the equalizing force of campus, Middlebury students are headed for vastly different experiences, further heightening the student body’s class divisions.
But the common thread that connects us all is busyness, in all of its forms. Everyone wants to make their time away from campus worthwhile, but that word has a different meaning for each student. There is a pressure from both Middlebury the institution and Middlebury the culture to perform — and to perform well.
Yet we, the students, create that culture that we consume. There is an exit from this, and it begins with all of us appreciating the circumstances under which we find ourselves. Kindness to ourselves and others — however cliché — must be a motivating force for all of us as we finish out the term and navigate the winter. The grind of internship applications and busywork will not be what gets us through this pandemic. Thoughtful reconsideration of our own goals this semester is needed in order to create an environment that works for all.
This should also be a moment of self-reflection. Each of us should focus on prioritizing our own mental health and filling our days with what we value — not what others tell us is valuable. Moving away from busyness culture as a community requires figuring out what’s right for each of us and supporting that in one another. [pullquote speaker="" photo="" align="center" background="on" border="all" shadow="on"]It’s okay to be busy, but not for the sake of being busy.[/pullquote]
What makes Middlebury, and an on-campus experience, special is the people. Peers, staff and professors are why students came back to campus. Let’s not lose sight of that in the deluge of work that currently lays in front of us. Our social outlets may look different, but we should make time to maintain and cultivate connections and take care of ourselves. The community displayed during this past Spring’s evacuation was a fleeting glimpse of a better Middlebury — we have to make it permanent.
This editorial represents the opinions of the Middlebury Campus’s editorial board.
