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From Proc to TikTok: social life on campus
The Zeitgeist survey asked respondents about different facets of social life at Middlebury, ranging from questions about substance use to TikTok. College social life invariably evolves for students as they get older, but nevertheless, we tried to depict a general snapshot from first-years to super-senior-Febs. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); A majority of respondents reported having partied where alcohol or drugs were present, or having used one of these substances themselves, before coming to Middlebury. Of these respondents, more than two-thirds, 79.8%, said that alcohol was the most commonly seen substance. Over half of all respondents, 53.1%, had smoked marijuana, and just under a third had vaped or juuled before coming to college. A mere 14.1% reported being around or doing none of the above. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); Patterns of substance use are similar across different school types. Students from public and charter or magnet schools were slightly more likely to have smoked marijuana, while private and boarding schools were more likely to have used a fake ID. Respondents who attended private day schools were the most likely to report doing at least one of the options listed. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); The data show that coming to Middlebury was generally associated with increased substance use. Around 75% of respondents said they partied in the presence of alcohol and/or drugs more at Middlebury than they had before, while 73% reported consuming more alcohol than before. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); When asked how drunk they usually tend to get at Middlebury, approximately half (48.7%) said that they “get drunk.” A tenth of all respondents reported not drinking at all, and the same number said they barely drink. A small number of students — less than 6% of respondents — reported getting “brownout” or “blackout.” !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); We also asked respondents about their usage of various social media platforms. Instagram was the most popular form of social media among respondents, with almost two-thirds, 63.4%, rating it their most-used platform. Though more respondents reported using Facebook than Snapchat, the latter was used more frequently: 71.2% ranked Snapchat among their two most used platforms. Facebook reached this rank for only 41.1% of its users. Tumblr and TikTok were both relatively unpopular among respondents, with 14.9% and 13.2% reporting using them, respectively. While only 23.9% ranked TikTok among their top three platforms in November, the app became a popular meme since stay-at-home orders were put into effect in March. (The Campus tried to get in touch with a number of habitual TikTok users for comment, but none of them wanted to go public about their use of the app.) !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); 81% of students said they had met friends through mutual friends, making it the most common way through which students formed friendships at Middlebury. Classes, residence halls and extracurriculars trailed not far behind, with approximately 76% of respondents choosing each. 40% of respondents reported having met friends on nights out. Under the “other” category, “Feb” was the most popular with 18 appearances. “Sports” appeared 10 times, “First@Midd” 7 times. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); When asked about friend groups, 63.4% of all respondents reported being part of multiple groups, while 9.5% felt they were part of none. The data show some variation between different ethnic groups. Black and Hispanic/Latino respondents were more likely than white and Asian respondents to consider themselves part of only one friend group. Black respondents were also the least likely to consider themselves part of no friend group. !function(){"use strict";window.addEventListener("message",(function(a){if(void 0!==a.data["datawrapper-height"])for(var e in a.data["datawrapper-height"]){var t=document.getElementById("datawrapper-chart-"+e)||document.querySelector("iframe[src*='"+e+"']");t&&(t.style.height=a.data["datawrapper-height"][e]+"px")}}))}(); When asked about their Saturday nights, 75.2% of respondents selected hanging with friends as a pastime. Out of the five specific campus buildings listed on the survey, Atwater was the most popular with 39% of the vote, followed by the social houses with 35.6%. Approximately a tenth of respondents reported to be working. Respondents were asked to mark where on campus they feel most uncomfortable. The resulting heat map shows a hotspot that spans the entirety of the Atwater suites, as well as clusters around the athletics complex and the Ross and Proctor areas. The data show overlap with reports of vandalism, as well as the 2019 It Happens Here map which documented incidents of sexual assault and harassment.
Notes from the desk: engagement is a two-way street
Oh boy. Where to begin. It only takes a minute on Twitter to read that a liberal arts education is too coddling — that it shields students from the real world, and places feeling over fact. We need Charles Murray to bring us the uncomfortable truth and hard statistical analysis. Right? I’m not sure what classes the people making these claims have attended. Whether it be in Russian classes or with other political science majors, I find myself in uncomfortable discussions day after day. (In part this is because one big source of discomfort currently resides in the White House, which, even as an international student, I’ve heard is sort of a big deal). In my three short semesters at Middlebury, I’ve been anything but coddled; I’ve patiently read borderline dehumanizing arguments against reproductive rights, I’ve watched documentaries about exploited migrant workers and read Frederick Douglass’ “Narrative of the Life of a Slave” until I had to take a break because I felt physically ill. I vividly remember going to class after reading Douglass. Instead of praising its progressive outlook, my professor grumbled at length against the editor’s suggestion that a female slave’s escape would probably have looked very different — that Douglass’ tale was, in essence, a masculine one. A reasonable inference on the editor’s part, I thought, given that Douglass was only able to flee the plantation after physically fighting his slave owner. Besides, didn’t Toni Morrison echo this in “Beloved”? My professor scoffed that one could find feminist theory in any work if one wanted to — and with that, the conversation was over before it even started. Anyone who thinks I’ve avoided uncomfortable conversations wasn’t in that classroom. The discussions around Charles Murray’s third (yes, third) invitation to Middlebury have, in many ways, been a heightened, fever dream version of those I have had in some of my classes. Like with the aforementioned professor, it feels like talking to a wall, except in this wall there is an elephant-shaped speaker that blasts the words “free speech” and “free academic inquiry” at you at regular intervals. I don’t take issue with either of these things per se. Having attended German schools for half my life, I know how vitally important it was for myself and my classmates to study the atrocities of the Holocaust in an uncensored manner, even as we grew older and grappled with the difficult views of Holocaust deniers. Those classes were somber. I don’t take that as a sign that we weren’t ready to engage, but that everyone in the room understood the weight of the subject at hand. I’m not sure the same can be said about the conversations surrounding Charles Murray. What’s more, those conversations do not feel like dialogues at all. As a board, we editorialized on the topic of transparency versus clarity, noting that the co-presidents of the College Republicans had not succeeded at providing either. By refusing to meet with The Campus in person, they have effectively put themselves above the kind of “diligent and respectful” engagement they themselves implored the community to participate in. When it comes to articulating these nonsensical, one-sided demands about engagement, Parul Sehgal’s review of “Human Diversity” for The New York Times hits the nail on the head. As she notes, the very first page of Murray’s latest work bluntly states that if you believe in the constructedness of gender, race and class, you “won’t get past the first few pages before you can’t stand it anymore.” Read further into Murray’s work, and we find what Sehgal identifies as the book’s most revelatory line: “Now that we’re alone..." “Now that we’re alone. This book is for the believers. Rigorous readers, skeptics, the unindoctrinated — you won’t be persuaded by “Human Diversity,” but why should that matter? You’re not even invited,” Sehgal writes in her review. “How’s that for a safe space. How’s that for an orthodoxy.” Engagement is a two way street. There is an important and marked difference between discussing “unpopular opinions” (the sanitary way to say “unapologetic bigotry”) in the context of genuine academic discussion and giving them a literal, raised platform as will be the case with Murray’s upcoming lecture. I suppose my question is, what is enough “engagement” for the organizers of this event and what form do they want it to take? Is engagement not the myriad of op-eds published in this paper? Is it not projects like the Middlebury College Disorientation Guide and go/charleswho that keep alive the institutional memory of March 2017? Is it not the nuanced reviews of writers like Sehgal, who read his work in full and could point to its obvious shortcomings? It seems not, and perhaps that’s the point. There is an implicit demand on the part of Murray’s proponents to have those he writes about confront him in person. For the bodies that his work looks down on to be physically present at his lecture, when it is clear from Murray’s own writing that he is not interested in “engagement” at all. Elsa Korpi ’22 is an arts & academics editor.
Departments unite in new Center for the Humanities
Founded in the long shadow of the 2008 economic crisis and the anxieties surrounding employment which ensued, humanities programs across the country continue to seek ways to fight declining enrollments. The college’s new Center for the Humanities, housed in the Axinn Center, focuses on promoting cohesion, collaboration and scholarship between departments and other New England institutions. While the Center involves no new physical facilities, its leadership promises new approaches to teaching and cross-campus projects that will connect the myriad of humanities departments already at the college. The Center is the product of a decade of conversations. According to Marion Wells, the Center’s co-director and a professor of English and American Literatures, the process began in 2010 when James Davis, a professor of Religion, called together a group of humanities faculty. Their informal meetings eventually produced the Humanities Steering Committee in 2011. The creation of the Center was motivated by the recognition that the humanities had taken “a backseat” at the college and its peer institutions since 2008. The Campus wrote about the state of humanities this October in an editorial, which highlighted the fallacy of many assumptions surrounding humanities majors – including, but not limited to, their perceived low salaries and poor employability. The editorial cited data from the Center for Careers and Internships, which showed that “arts and communication formed the largest employer for the Middlebury Class of 2018, while financial services came in second.” The unemployment rates of 25–29-year-olds with Bachelor’s degrees in English and STEM fields were approximately the same, at 3.4 and 3.3% respectively, a 2019 report by the National Center for Education Statistics found. Similarly, the unemployment rates of Economics and Fine Arts majors both hovered around 4%. Faculty members felt a growing need for a more concrete vision of the humanities at the college, according to the center’s co-directors Wells and Febe Armanios, professor of History. In the early stages of the process, they consulted humanities directors from Colby, Dartmouth and Yale, who provided data and inspired the creation of their collaborative co-directorship. A similar collaborative leadership model is reportedly used at Franklin and Marshall College. Though Wells and Armanios assumed their positions in September 2019, the center has deliberately kept a low profile so as to focus on building a robust foundation. “When we brought in these colleagues from Colby and Dartmouth and Yale, we were told, ‘Take your time in this initial building period, take your time getting things set up and get them set up in the right way, make sure you have the support of faculty,’” Armanios said. “It’s a consultative process.” As part of this, the center appointed two humanities student fellows, Laura Friedrich ’20.5 and Molly Burnett ’22. Burnett was actively involved in helping build the center’s new website, which launched in early February. One of the center’s main objectives is to establish the Axinn Center as the formal location of the humanities on campus, similar to the relationship of the sciences to Bicentennial Hall, or the arts and Mahaney Center. [pullquote speaker="Molly Burnett '22" photo="" align="center" background="on" border="all" shadow="on"]Having a central home will increase the visibility of humanities on campus.[/pullquote] “When it was originally opened as a building, [Axinn] was more or less envisioned to be a place of gathering and coalescing over the humanities on campus, but it didn’t end up quite formalizing as such,” Armanios said. The co-directors hope that this formal locus can promote cohesion and collaboration in humanities curricula and among the faculty teaching them. Burnett echoed Armanios’ views, and added that having a central home will increase the visibility of humanities on campus. “In a sense [the identity] isn’t there,” Wells said. “People would say ‘I do humanistic work,’ but whether they see themselves as belonging to a community of humanists on campus is a really different question up until this point.” This sentiment persists in spite of the vast network of resources the college has invested in the humanities, including the over 40 Middlebury C.V. Schools Abroad, the New England Review, the CMRS-Oxford program and the Bread Loaf School of English. “There’s a lot of talk about those individual entities, but not about how they’re all the humanities,” Wells said. Plans for the center include “Public Humanities courses,” which would connect the college’s humanities program to the Middlebury community. Public Humanities classes, which are reportedly standard practice at the college’s peer institutions, would include a “Humanities lab” that encompasses subjects such as manuscript workshops and paleography, which Wells and Armanios say the college has not been able to offer before. A grant proposal for the project has already been written, according to Wells. The planners hope this collaboration could involve other colleges. Wells says that the center has sought to connect with other humanities centers in Vermont, and have received permission to join the New England Humanities Consortium (NEHC) with institutions including Amherst, Colby, Smith, Brown and the University of Connecticut. This membership gives the center access to new grant money available within the consortium. Without a steady increase of new students majoring in the humanities, Wells expressed concern that some humanities departments may become so-called “service departments” – departments whose courses students only enroll in to fulfill distribution requirements. This in turn would negatively affect humanities departments’ ability to get new tenure-track positions. Without the influx of young professors and new ideas, departments also risk looking dated and unattractive in the eyes of students. A vicious cycle forms. “We need to show how absolutely central the core humanities skills and concerns are to creating responsible, ethical and vibrant lives after graduation,” the co-directors said in an email to The Campus. The center’s inaugural event, writer Emily Bernard’s lecture titled “Black is the Body: Writing about Race in America,” will take place in Wilson Hall on Thursday, March 5. Bernard is a Professor of English at the University of Vermont and the author of several titles, including “Some of My Best Friends: Writings on Interracial Friendships.”
'Quicksand': If 'Gossip Girl' went courtroom drama
Picture eighteen-year-old Serena van der Woodsen and place her in a cold Northern city with a severely depressed boyfriend. Now, give her a shotgun. These are the rough outlines of Malin Persson Giolito’s 2016 novel “Quicksand” (“Störst av allt”). It is just as clumsy as it sounds. We fall into protagonist Maja Norberg’s narration in medias res, as she paints us a bloody picture of her dead boyfriend lying in her lap after the two opened fire in their high school classroom in Djursholm, a wealthy Stockholm suburb. Persson Giolito expands the well-established genre of Scandinavian crime novels and shows off her legal education in her description of Maja’s interrogations and eventual trial. In many ways, the novel trips on its own narration. As Maja is asked to recall the shooting and the events leading up to it in excruciating detail over and over again, the narrative begs to play with the issue of memory. Persson Giolito fails to harness it. Despite the hours that Maja spends in solitary confinement, we at no point see her falling into the traps of her own mind: Am I making this all up? What if the prosecutor is right, what if I did actually intend to kill all of them? Maja ends up as a remarkably flat character with seemingly little capacity for introspection. Parts of this can admittedly be blamed on translation. In between the lines of Maja’s narrative, I could hear the echo of the Swedish original and its habitual quip of cynicism that the English language simply cannot carry. To “Quicksand”’s detriment, the edge of Maja’s words just comes off as baseless anger. Persson Giolito’s portrayal of class in Stockholm is unimaginative at best, and much of the novel’s stacity derives it. Her narration codes wealth almost exclusively through clothes, jewellery and other material items, and brushes over the many other dimensions of class culture as if by choice. This description reaches its highest level of nuance when we find out that Maja is marginally less privileged than her best friend, as her dress was second hand while Amanda’s was bought off the rack. It seems Persson Giolito is so eager to show off the material possessions of her characters that the incisive findings about class in her blurb become an afterthought. Maja’s boyfriend, Sebastian Fagerman, is arguably the most interesting of the characters that the novel has to offer. The son of Sweden’s fictional richest man, other characters’ behavior around his family makes for interesting observations about the performativity of wealth. Maja mentions on several occasions how anxious her father is about his new money status, and when Sebastian invites Maja to join him on his father’s yacht, she makes a point of saying that her mother is probably out buying the most expensive suitcase she can possibly find. Objective socioeconomic status does not mean much when there is a much more affluent person to appease to. It is scenes like this that give Persson Giolito’s narrative the hues of humanity that she too often sacrifices for material. Sweden’s low Gini coefficient is a lazy excuse for such oversight. If Persson Giolito can dedicate ample space to a lagging description of a business dinner off the Italian coast that adds little to the plot, why is there such a sense of urgency when we finally get on the train to Tensta and have a chance to look beyond the villas of Djursholm? The novel’s relentless focus on materialism smells not of a genuine desire to explore and understand the meaning of class in Sweden, but of precisely the opposite. Persson Giolito’s attempt at introducing diverse perspectives through the character of Samir cements this impression. Standing in the assembly hall surrounded by his affluent classmates, Samir challenges a visiting economist on her neoliberalist views while Sebastian predictably heckles him. An awkward exchange about corporate tax rates ensues. Samir’s character has the potential for depth and dimension written all over it, but instead the novel resorts to the not-at-all tired trope that, wow, the immigrant kid in cheap trousers can actually be smarter than the rest of them! It does not take a sociologist to see how anticlimactic this setting is. “Quicksand” is not a horrible book, nor do I regret reading it. It just is not as good as it thinks it is. The question that lingered when I put the book down was not one about inequality or class culture, but why I was reading it in the first place. For style? Hardly. Because the courtroom scenes fed my law school fantasies? Perhaps. In some backward way, the novel reads like an extended metaphor for the things its own characters try so hard to criticise. Even if this is intentional, Persson Giolito’s flat narrative style is unable to carry it to term. “Quicksand” lends itself as yet another reminder of the work that stands between Nordic literature and a sophisticated understanding of the changing meaning of class, race and social status in the region.
Newsroom influencers: CrossFit
Here at Arts & Academics, we spend our time in the newsroom covering the cultural happenings on campus. But what about the latest phenomena in the online world? These topics often enter our conversations while editing the section, and we thought it was about time to let you all in on the fun. Each week, one of us assigns a current pop culture moment, whether it be a music release or fashion style, and we’ll each share our thoughts. This week, Elsa brought us to a CrossFit class on campus. EK: What better bonding activity for our section than mutual suffering? CrossFit has been part of the repertoire of fitness Instagram and lifestyle magazines for some time now, so when a source in my Russian class encouraged me to join CrossFit, I knew it belonged in this column. The setup of the workout is simple: first, a group warmup, then 10 to 20 minutes of hardcore working out. It can’t be that bad, right? False. By the last round of our glute-focused circuit, I was mentally going through every swear word in the Finnish language (of which there are a lot). Even so, all the frustration vanished the second time was called. The post-workout endorphins hit hard. Special thanks to the coaches for the high fives and can-do atmosphere — this was a good introduction. SB: I’ve never been more sore in my entire life. As someone who doesn’t ever lift weights, I was really nervous about this workout. “Doing CrossFit” is a status marker that some really athletic people wear like a badge. As we headed over we joked that we wanted to stand in the back the whole time, “for journalistic purposes,” but really because we were scared of standing out. However, I felt very supported and encouraged by all the student trainers and never felt judged. For anyone who is nervous about their fitness level and being judged by other students in the class — don’t be! Every- one else is in so much pain during the workouts they don’t even notice what anyone else is doing. I think I’ll go back, but only once my body recovers. AQ: There’s a certain stereotype I think of when someone mentions CrossFit — images of intimidating muscle-men and women double sting protein shakes come to mind. The atmosphere of rapport in the class, however, convinced me otherwise, though the class was definitely challenging. But who would’ve known — doing box-jumps brought out a competitive side in me that I never even knew existed. What can I say? We’re converts. Classes take place weekly on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday at 4:30pm and 5:30pm in the indoor tennis courts in the Nelson Recreation Center.
Hirschfield Film Series promises compelling, diverse season
Anyone strolling past Middlebury’s noticeboards is bound to come across the saturated posters of the Hirschfield International Film Series. Highlights from prominent film festivals and other critically acclaimed films will be screened free of charge in Dana Auditorium beginning on Saturday, September 14 at 3 and 8 p.m. “The key qualifier of films is to bring in films that otherwise wouldn’t be screened at Middlebury,” said Film and Media Professor Leger Grindon. Per its title, the Hirschfield International Series has sought to represent every language taught at Middlebury. Language departments are encouraged to submit titles and co-sponsor screenings, an offer that the French department has reportedly been especially prone to take up. Screenings can be used as an educational activity for foreign language students. Curation was previously led by the chair of the Film and Media Studies Department with input from professors, yet since 2018 student and staff representatives have sat on the committee. After reaching out to distributors, two members of the committee watch the promotional “screeners” of films in the catalog. To keep selections up to date, the committee transitioned to adding new titles to the programme in chunks, rather than scheduling a year’s worth of screenings at once. The series, which has included pre-release screenings and films that went on to become box office successes, has typically obtained screening rights at discounted prices because of its affiliation with the college. Media Production Specialist Ethan Murphy, who sits on the programming committee, declined to share exact costs, citing ongoing negotiations. In an article published in the Campus in 2013, then Catalog and Acquisitions Associate Sue Driscoll priced the rights at $200-750, with an average cost of $450-550 per film. According to Driscoll, these figures are still accurate today. The Hirschfield endowment is separate from that of the college. In addition to screening rights, it finances marketing and external speakers. For the screening of “Children of Men” earlier this year, organizers invited Burlington-based screenwriter and Academy Award nominee Hawk Ostby to Middlebury to share his thoughts on the film and his writing process. More than 30 years after its inception, the Hirschfield Series retains an underground character. “In a way [the series] has been around for so long that it’s taken for granted,’’ Murphy said. According to Professor Grindon, the department often struggles to get its own students to attend screenings. Streaming services like Netflix and Hulu have become the default scapegoat for the declining popularity of movie theaters, yet recent research shows otherwise. A 2018 study by Ernst & Young’s Quantitative Economics and Statistics group showed that “those who attended movies in theaters [...] also tended to consume streaming content more frequently.” In other words, people who enjoy film will most likely enjoy it through more than one medium. The Hirschfield Series does not attempt to compete with these services, and instead promises a unique viewing experience. According to Murphy, the technical features of Dana Auditorium alone create an unrivaled environment. “There are many films that depend more on composition, as opposed to plot, that can’t really make an impact on your computer [screen]. There’s a division in what kind of experience you’re looking for,” Grindon said. “If you take the time to go to a particular screening (...), you’re going to be more patient in watching the film. It gives more challenging films a chance to make a greater impact.” The 2019-2020 season will launch with “Monos,” a Colombian “survivalist saga” directed by Alejandro Landes. The film is Colombia’s official selection for Best International Feature Film at the 92nd Academy Awards.
J-Term Class Untangles History of Police Power
Let’s do some word association. The task is simple: I say “police” and you respond with the first three images that come to mind. For most, this evokes an archetypal uniformed police officer. But depending on who we are and what experiences our community has had with law enforcement, the details of that picture may vary. Some think of strength and protection, while others’ minds jump to guns, to yelling voices and shaky videos of police violence on Twitter. In this whirlwind of images, it is worth questioning why our idea of policing has become almost synonymous with the use of force. This and a plethora of other questions were addressed in “Policing the Globe: The Historical Origins of Contemporary Police Power,” a Winter Term class offered by the Department of History and taught by Visiting Professor Amit Prakash. Prakash, a self-described Europeanist, specializes in the history of the police in the French colonial world. The college’s Winter Term format provided a unique opportunity to teach a course he had had in mind for a long time. The course centers around the finding that the civilian police is becoming increasingly intertwined with the military. In practice this means that we see more and more force being used in the everyday operations of law enforcement. Since 1997, the Pentagon’s 1033 Program has distributed used military equipment to civilian police forces, giving officers access to gear that they often have not even requested. According to the Law Enforcement Support Office (LESO), 8,000 law enforcement agencies in the United States currently use equipment obtained through the program. Examples can be found as close as Keene, N.H., where a Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle (MRAP), roams the streets of the quiet town. Untangling the implications of this could fill up four weeks by itself, yet Prakash took his class a step further by approaching police militarization from a postcolonial angle. Policing is indistinguishable from governance, which in turn is informed by historical events. Counterinsurgency techniques as we know them today are rooted in the world of European imperialism when policing was used to maintain constant social control in the colonies, and the police acted as an iron fist to stifle challenges to the regime. “I think one of the contributions of postcolonial studies is to show that the shadows of empire are long. Colonial techniques survive colonialism and escape these temporal borders; just because they use the word ‘post’ doesn’t mean colonialism is over,” Prakash said. “As we know, culture tends to be sticky.” Today, globalization further complicates the spread of these practices. Like physical equipment, military techniques used in Afghanistan can now easily be brought “back home” and become part of the repertoire of civilian police forces around the country. Although this may feel distant, Prakash linked the issue to our personal lives. “The police are often our most direct contact with the physical manifestation of state power,” he said. “(They) become the real interface between the governors and the governed.” Consistent with the systemic inequality that colonialism left behind, how these encounters with the police play out can differ vastly between different ethnic groups. In class, Prakash emphasized the spontaneous nature of these interactions: “The police get to — in the moment — decide which laws to enforce and which (to) not … on certain populations. (They) aren’t necessarily going to be raiding Middlebury College because of underage drinking or marijuana, but they might well be raiding a street corner in the Bronx for the exact same practice by same age people. But they’re of a different color and social condition.” As an alternative to a traditional research paper, Prakash gave his students the option to explore a topic of their liking in the form of a podcast, a website or a documentary film. Students took advantage of this creative freedom. The projects, which were discussed in class, approached the content from a variety of angles and included interviews with the Addison County Sheriff and a minority police officer in Los Angeles. Some went as far as writing their own music for their podcast. Grace Vedock ’20 was initially drawn to the course because of its connection to contemporary issues like police brutality and decided to explore the issue of masculinity in policing as her final project. If her podcast episode is any indication, then gender cannot be exempted from discussion of police militarization. Through interviews with Laurie Essig of the Department of Gender, Sexuality and Feminist Studies and sociologist Michael Kimmel, she came to see social ideas of gender as tools to provoke soldiers to fight. The enforcement of masculinity creates bonding in the military, she found: “You don’t fight for love of country, you fight for love of brother.” Vedock spoke with enthusiasm about the final products which were presented in class and described the course as an eye-opening learning experience. “I think we all chose topics that interested us but were also complex, so distilling them was challenging,” she said, adding that her podcast overran the prescribed time limit by five minutes. “It’s definitely one of those classes where people left being like, ‘Wow, I had no idea that this was so widespread.’” From its premises to its outcomes, “Policing the Globe” makes clear that it is only by understanding our history that we can begin to comprehend the events of today. Or, in the words of William Faulkner: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
Reel Critic: ‘Children of Men’
What makes you get up in the morning when you know the end is near? This very question looms over Alfonso Cuarón’s 2006 film “Children of Men,” which is based on the eponymous novel by P.D. James. Set in 2027 Britain, Theo Faron (Clive Owen) must escort Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey), a young pregnant woman, out of a country where no babies have been born for decades. The film was screened as part of the Hirschfield International Series on Jan. 12. Perhaps the most immediately intriguing thing about “Children of Men” is the core of its conflict: instead of a nuclear war, an aggressive infectious disease, or another overworked dystopian trope, the film centers around a global pandemic of female infertility. Kee’s pregnant body is treated with exaggerated care and protection that becomes the single deciding factor in each choice made. Cuarón dedicates an entire scene to a room full of activists arguing over the best place to take her, which Luke (Chiwetel Ejiofor) concludes with a simple sentence: “This is your choice.” Now, pregnancy truly is the “miracle of life” and the female body its bearer. These political undertones are in part what allows “Children of Men” to preserve its poignancy even 13 years after its release. Major news themes of the past years are echoed in a manner that is almost frightening. Tight-lipped Britain shows a preoccupation with illegal immigrants who are held in cages by Homeland Security. Foreigners face deportation and are yelled down by officers on their way to the refugee center. Street scenes appear as though they are directly modelled after news images of Syria, Yemen or Iraq. Not only do these images feel eerily familiar, they are impeccably captured. Emmanuel Lubezki’s Academy Award-winning cinematography is dynamic, fluid and a pleasure to watch. Unlike typical, tightly-cut action scenes, scenes appear as though they were filmed in one drawn out shot. When the group is ambushed during their car ride, the camera circles around the inside of the car to show actions in real time. The result is a frightening series of obscure images that wholly absorbs its audience. Without noticing, you have held your breath for the entire duration of a scene. “Children of Men” is able to create this grip while holding the audience at an arm’s length. As the camera stays in Theo’s immediate proximity for most of the film, Lubezki shows scenes as they occur behind a window or in the far end of a room. Without the presence of the camera in the space, dialogue begins to appear completely candid, actions uncensored. Somewhat ironically, it is this physical distance that makes the film so thrilling: someone could turn their head and notice us at any moment. We are made to feel like eavesdroppers, a part of the mission. This level of sophistication extends to the film’s motifs. As Kee gives birth in a dreary, dim room and the fire momentarily silences as she walks through the hallways of a building under attack with her newborn daughter, it is difficult to think of her story as something other than a kind of secular nativity scene. Soon after they have passed the dismayed soldiers, some of whom drop to their knees and draw a cross on their chest, explosions reclaim the soundscape. “I thought that was so clever because that’s us,” screenwriter Hawk Ostyn reflected during the Q&A that followed the screening. “Things come into our lives and they move us for a little bit and then it’s [back] to the old.” In this regard, “Children of Men” has something to say about humanity’s tendency to stand in its own way. Rather than taking a hint and altering our actions, an almost chronic lack of self-reflection appears to drive us to the same disastrous mistakes time and time again. The film relies heavily on such technical subtleties — at times even too much. As a protagonist, Theo is opaque and relatively static. Despite occasionally raising his voice and breaking down in tears without prior warning, his demeanor is scornful and at times tiring to follow. Ashitey’s performance as Kee is by far the most interesting that the film has to offer, yet even her character feels underdeveloped as the script clings to her as a source of comic relief. For a film that discusses the core of our existence, the portrayal of raw humility in “Children of Men” leaves room for improvement. Ostyn’s commentary offered some insight as to why this may be. “What’s it like to get up when you know that there is really no future, how do you bother to do anything?” he contemplated as he described what initially drew him to the story. Perhaps the hopelessness of the situation has simply sunken into these characters, showing them as products of their environment. Yet while this may account for Theo’s staleness, many questions about characterization remain unanswered. Given its sheer quality of craftsmanship, it would be difficult to argue that “Children of Men” is not a film worth watching. Any issue with character development feels futile compared to the thrill that the film’s visual and philosophical elements spark. “Children of Men” has earned its right to be screened in 2019.
ISO Showcases ‘Midd Worldwide’
“Exits are on the left and the right in case of emergency, or if there’s just too much culture for you.” The crowd erupts into laughter, and Masters of Ceremony Sara Jarrar ’19 and Pyone Aye ’19 usher their witty colleague Hamza Kiyani ’19.5 off the stage in preparation for the first act. Kiyani’s warning is justified: a shortage of culture is certainly not an issue here. The annual cultural showcase “Midd Worldwide” of the International Student Organisation brought performances from five different continents to Middlebury in Wilson Hall on Nov. 30. Consisting mainly of dance and music, the show explored themes ranging from ancestral roots and cultural identity to resilience in the face of adversity. Getting this far was not easy. In the week leading up to the Friday night show, groups spent as many as three hours a day in rehearsal. “It was rough,” said Frieda Thaveethu ’22, who grew up in Malaysia and performed as part of the South Asian dance group Midd Masti. “But [rehearsing] was also a stress reliever. It’s a very social activity, and you get a break away from work.” A performance titled “Vietnam: Fields of Flowers” kicked off the show as the curtains opened to reveal a single figure standing on stage against a purple backdrop. Lit by a single spotlight, Thi Hoang ’20 sang a delicate Vietnamese melody that was followed by a traditional fan dance. Before the group had even settled in its final formation, a bass-heavy track boomed through the Hall and the fans were exchanged for contemporary choreography. This mix of traditional and modern elements became a common thread for the show. The Vietnamese group’s combination of a regional dance and a contemporary counterpart was utilized by many. Some even chose to pay homage to giants from decades ago, and paired the catchy beats of ABBA’s “Gimme Gimme Gimme!” and “Voulez-Vous” with disco moves representative of the era. Out of the Asian countries that dominated the line-up of “Midd Worldwide,” South Korea was particularly well represented. Beginning with an energetic choreography to “My Pace” by the K-pop band Stray Kids and followed by Jennifer Ko’s ’21 interpretation of a break-up song by R&B artist Lee Hi, the audience welcomed each Korean performance with enthusiasm. The clear showstopper of the evening also hailed from South Korea. A rendition of “Dope” by BTS, a band consisting of seven members who have gained astounding amounts of popularity across the globe, caused the crowd to go wild with excitement. Reproducing everything from the band’s intricate choreography to costumes familiar from their 2015 music video, the performance was accompanied by thunderous cheers. The event’s playful spirit was interspersed with more somber acts. Wilson Hall fell silent as MC Jarrar stepped on stage to recite a poem by Palestinian poet Rafeef Ziadeh, which described a young child killed by the Israeli army: “Who will tell Hadeel’s mother, busy baking bread and zaatar, that the doves will not fly over Gaza again, the doves will not fly over Gaza again, the doves will not fly over Gaza again.” In midst of spirited dances, it was performances like these that allowed us to take a step back and reflect on the pressing issues that continue to color everyday life in countries like Palestine. To Thaveethu, the event was primarily about community. “I think the whole point was to show our closest friends, the people we consider family, a different part of ourselves. [To show them] our other family, in some sense,” she said. “I’ve met so many people that I never would’ve met otherwise — we don’t have any classes together, we’re in different years. Sharing that interest in dance and our culture really brought us together.” In its essence, “Midd Worldwide” gave a platform to the often forgotten parts of our student body and its character. Whether it be American swing dance, Russian folk music, or a Guyanese drag queen, this is us.
Reel Critic: Shoplifters
Hirokazu Kore-eda’s 2018 film “Shoplifters” (Manbiki kazoku) illustrates the life of a Japanese family as they navigate life in poverty in contemporary Tokyo. The film was awarded the Palme d’Or at the 2018 Cannes Film Festival and was screened at the Dana Auditorium as part of the Hirschfield International Series. As Osamu Shibata (Lily Franky) and his wife Nobuyo (Sakura Ando) have no reliable source of income, the family survives on shoplifting and grandmother Hatsue’s (Kirin Kiki) pension. One evening as Osamu and his son Shota (Kairi Jo) are walking home from the store with their stolen groceries, they discover Juri (Miyu Sasaki), a young girl who they suspect is being abused by her parents. The family proceeds to take Juri in as one of their own. Every scene is its own concept that presents us with a new palette of rich hues. Shots are long and still, allowing us to take in the many shades unfolding in front of us that shift from cool to warm to reflect changes in mood and atmosphere. Kore-eda’s visuals are so captivating by themselves that merely sitting in the auditorium feels gluttonous. Equally enchanting is the realism of the film’s set design. The family’s miniscule apartment looks so lived-in that it is difficult to think of it as artificial. Whether it be empty cardboard boxes stacked in the kitchen or the sitting cushions scattered across the floor, the positioning of every piece of clutter seems essential. As the family sits around the low table in their ramshackle living room, the slurping of noodles dominates the soundscape. Conversation is sporadic and loosely scripted. Reminiscent of Hayao Miyazaki’s animations, Kore-eda makes the most mundane of events feel charming. There is nothing excessive here. Despite its elegant visuals, “Shoplifters” makes no excuses for the family’s outlandishness. Aside from their kleptomaniac tendencies, their internal dynamics are questionable. Shota, Osamu and Nobuyo repeatedly negotiate whether the boy is “ready” to call them his parents. Furthermore, as Aki (Mayu Matsuoka) is pictured comforting clients at her job at a Tokyo sex club, it is clear that her idea of genuine intimacy is skewed. There seems to be little difference in her interactions with the men that pass through the chat room and the way in which she talks to her grandmother. By not explaining these quirks Kore-eda maintains a steady ironic distance between his characters and the audience, thus adding yet another dimension to an already complex film. It is this obscurity that leads us to consider the film’s central questions. Although we know that Juri has been forcefully taken from her biological parents, it is difficult to convince yourself that she belongs with anyone else. As Nobuyo and Juri compare burn scars on their grimy bathroom floor, the sense of genuine care for one another is undeniable. Blurring the lines between right and wrong, “Shoplifters” makes us step outside conventional definitions and ask ourselves what really defines a family. Taking into account that Osamu and Nobuyo essentially kidnapped Juri with little apprehension, it should come as no surprise that it is not the only morally questionable act the two have committed. After Shota is caught shoplifting by store clerks and the family’s past is revealed to us, the truth unfolds faster than we can even begin to process it. In contrast to the steady, harmonious scenes that have built our trust in the family over the course of the film, flashes of interrogations, police badges and their empty apartment leave us to fill the gaps in ourselves. Perhaps this is exactly what makes the film so taxing to follow. Kore-eda repeatedly reminds us that our assumptions and conclusions are of no relevance, and that his film is not intended to be comfortable. “Shoplifters” operates on its own plane and on its own terms. It demands to be seen not as a piece of entertainment, but as a sharp analysis of the most basic unit of society. Watching “Shoplifters” is as much a cerebral experience as it is a visual one: the film is relentlessly focused and expects nothing less from its audience. With his skilled direction and the poignant questions that the film raises, Kore-eda creates a grip that holds us still for a full two hours.
Reel Critic: ‘RBG’
If nice girls do not file lawsuits, then Ruth Bader Ginsburg sure is not one. Screened in a packed Dana Auditorium on Nov. 1, the 2018 documentary “RBG” recounts Justice Ginsburg’s path from Brooklyn to the United States Supreme Court. Using archival footage and interviews, directors Betsy West and Julie Cohen highlight her pioneering work against gender discrimination in the 1970s and take us behind the scenes of the 85-year-old’s achievements in the legal world. It is needless to point out that the film is timely. Between Brett Kavanaugh’s turbulent confirmation to the Supreme Court and the midterm elections, questions of gender equality have been of particular interest to the public. At Middlebury, students have voiced their concerns about sexual harassment in both writing and at protests, and The Campus dedicated an editorial to affirming survivors. As the recent nominations of both Kavanaugh and Neil Gorsuch have added conservative voices to the bench, Ginsburg’s dissenting statements have received more attention than ever. In the first few minutes of “RBG” we are reminded that attention is not always positive. Familiar Republican voices and phrases like “this witch” and “Anti-American” echo in the auditorium against sunny shots of the Supreme Court in Washington D.C., followed by an image that by now feels like a rite of passage. Sixty-year-old Ginsburg sits in front of an all-white, all-male Senate Judiciary Committee wearing a blue pantsuit, much like Anita Hill and Christine Blasey Ford would after her. Yet this time we are not dealing with allegations of sexual harassment, but the pinnacle of a brilliant attorney’s career. Ginsburg entered the legal world at a time when the legal world did not want women. Beginning her law degree at Harvard Law School in 1956 after her graduation from Cornell University, Ginsburg was one of only nine women in a class of 500. The environment proved to be hostile. Female students were reportedly never called upon in classes and were questioned by the dean of students about how they could justify taking up a place that could have been filled by a man. Nevertheless, she persisted. Completing both her own and her husband’s work during his illness while caring for their young daughter, she established herself as a relentlessly dedicated and disciplined professional. Ginsburg has since become a champion of gender discrimination cases. West and Cohen give us brief snapshots of the landmark cases that she defended in front of the Supreme Court, ranging from Frontiero v. Richardson in 1973, which determined that benefits of the U.S. military could not be allocated differently on the basis of sex, to Duren v. Missouri in 1979, in which she challenged legislation making jury duty optional for women. Out of the five Supreme Court cases Ginsburg argued, she won four. It is these scenes that remind us of how recent such developments are. How easy it is to forget that 50 short years ago it was common for a woman to be fired for being pregnant, or to be required to have her husband’s approval to obtain a credit card. At its most fundamental level, “RBG” reminds us of the women who paved the way for us to be here today. But “RBG” is not only relevant to women. Through its depiction of Ginsburg’s husband Marty, the film reverses an old proverb to show that behind this great woman, there is a great man. Martin Ginsburg, who passed away in 2010 after battling cancer and worked tirelessly to give his wife’s work the credit and attention it deserved. Using his numerous connections in law, business and academia, he rallied to ensure that her name was on President Clinton’s shortlist of Supreme Court nominees in 1993. According to those interviewed throughout the film, it was Marty who allowed the reserved and soft-spoken Ruth to be herself and focus on what she did best. “We need more men like [Marty]”, said Gioia Kuss ’83 during the brief reflection session which followed the screening. “[Men] that believe in women, that believe in equality.” Given Ginsburg’s demonstrated legal talent and intellect, it is a shame how little time the film spends exploring it. Oversaturating the film with repetitive computer animations and awkward pop culture references, it seems as though West and Cohen are trying hard to make “RBG” relevant to an imagined millennial audience. Unnecessarily so: the few instances in which Ginsburg is allowed to describe her relationship to the practice of the law are moving, even electrifying. As she reflects on debates about partisanship in the Supreme Court which followed her disputed comments about President Trump, the audience is heavy with silence, only to be interrupted by yet another playful scene of Ginsburg dressed as the Duchess of Krakenthorp for an opera production. Footage of 85-year-old Ginsburg lifting bright green barbells while wearing a “Super Diva” sweatshirt is certainly entertaining, but it can hardly satisfy the audience’s yearning to understand the intellect behind four landmark Supreme Court cases and numerous dissenting statements. The result is an almost-but-not-quite account of a woman whom we know to be a legal powerhouse. Whether or not you agree with Ginsburg’s politics or her status as an internet icon, one thing is clear. In advocacy and resilience, we can all stand to be a little more like the Notorious RBG.
Reel Critic: Beats Per Minute
Their slogans are catchy, jeans are bleached and their health is progressively deteriorating. Robin Campillo’s award-winning 2017 movie “Beats Per Minute” (“120 Battements Par Minute”) follows the Parisian activist group Act Up in their battle against HIV/AIDS in the 1990s. The screening was co-sponsored by the French department as part of the Hirschfield International Series. The story begins following activist Sean Dalamazo’s (Nahuel Pérez Biscayart) difficult personal struggle with the disease as he falls in love with new member Nathan (Arnaud Valois). We are introduced to Act Up at their weekly meeting in a lecture hall and are accompanied by Fabien’s (Jean-François Auguste) forceful words of advice: regardless of your true status, as an activist you have to now get used to being seen as HIV-positive. What follows is a series of awkward protest scenes, bass-driven parties with bizarre biological animations and a lot of medical jargon. Though somewhat quirky, Campillo’s portrayal of Act Up is oddly refreshing: it is not a dumbed-down, sanitized and perfumed version of social movements. Instead we are allowed to experience the group and their messiness in first person. Despite taking place almost three decades ago, the events of the film feel contemporary. Were it not for Thibault’s (Antoine Reinartz) Gameboy in the hospital and the lack of laptops in the meeting room, the film could easily be set in 2018. The group’s passionate discussions about the inclusion of marginalized groups in their work and their constant struggle with corporate representatives bear a striking resemblance to issues which continue to color social activism as we know it today. As the group storms a high school to distribute condoms and flyers, the headmaster exhibits the same conservative attitude towards students’ sexuality which we still see in American sexual education today. Whether that says something about the stagnancy of Western social development can be debated. Yet “BPM” is not all protest and debate. Judging by the number of people who were shrinking in their seats, the film’s boldest moments are found in its sex scenes. Biscayart and Valois’ captivating chemistry gets to shine as the camera appears to glide over their skin. With every vertebra and skin crease on display, the audience almost feels like an intruder. As Sean reluctantly tells Nathan about an affair with a teacher that led to his infection and the lesions on his skin, the heaviness of the atmosphere in the auditorium was palpable. The film also proves its relevance to current debates by showing physical intimacy in a rather progressive way: sex in “BPM” is communicative and light-hearted throughout, all while never losing its spark. Plus: points for the consistent emphasis on protection — just please do not rip condoms open with your teeth like Sean does. Although the stories presented by individual characters are generally insightful and well-developed, supporters of the Bechdel test may find themselves getting frustrated. In its treatment of gay and lesbian women as accessories, “BPM” reflects the tendency of queer popular culture to pay disproportionate amounts of attention to gay men. Campillo feels entitled to throw around the derogatory word “dyke” for its shock factor yet gives little to no space for the development of female characters with strong presences like Sophie (Adèle Haenel), Eva (Aloïse Sauvage) and Hélène (Catherine Vinatier). While even characters with significantly less screen time, such as Germain (Médhi Touré) and Markus (Simon Guélat), get to vocalize their personal experiences with HIV, we are left to speculate what might have led the women to Act Up. As the majority of the film is spent closely following Sean and Nathan’s relationship, some may say that this observation is irrelevant. Yet such a view fundamentally misunderstands the film’s function. “BPM” is at its core a political film and thus deserves to be discussed in political terms. Hence, its downfalls in creating an accurate portrayal are important: the HIV/AIDS epidemic may have primarily affected men, yet women certainly were (and are) not immune to it. In its current form, “BPM” remains complicit in reproducing misconceptions about the insignificance of women in the movement against HIV. Even a slight expansion of this angle could have given the film a dimension which few have explored. As I walked out of the Dana Auditorium amidst viewers who, like me, tried hard to rub the marks of the film’s last half hour off their eyes, I found myself hyper-aware of my surroundings. Arnaud Rebotini’s soundscape and Campillo’s intricate cinematography force your mind to recalibrate. Sean may have been joking as he described the vividness which his HIV-status added to his life, but to the viewer that illusion is very much present. In its essence, “BPM” is what one would want a film about a personal struggle like AIDS to be. It is tender, it is unapologetic, it is raw and most definitely worth your time.