Rush and Other "Progressive" Dartmouth Things

Locutionary

Words and words and words and words

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Rush and Other "Progressive" Dartmouth Things

I went to Rauner today with my WGSS 10 class and we got the opportunity to look at some interesting material pertaining to sexism, feminism, and gender as it relates to Dartmouth’s history. I read an edition of the publication no longer in circulation, Spare Rib. The edition had a specific focus on the Greek system and rush as it relates to women, a topic that I have been grappling and arguing about for the past week. Arguing quite fervently. The two articles related to rush in the volume offered two different criticisms of sororities. The first argued that the Greek system is a terribly degrading process, which has the unfortunate consequence of exploiting the self-consciousness that people bear. In the articles it states that, “Too many of us willingly accept and participate in a system that judges and them either accepts or rejects a woman on the basis of a five minute conversation. We insist that this should not be taken personally, yet how else can a woman take it? Isn’t she the person we just rejected on the very basis of who she is?” (Spare Rib, Spring 1993). The second argues that sororities are inherently undermining the greater feminist coalition of women on this campus in that it partitions us into insular cliques that berate, undermine, and antagonize the others. While this publication was published over 20 years ago, it is haunting in how easily you could deceive yourself into thinking it was published yesterday.

While sororities like my own have diverged from this toxic path towards more inclusive and meaningful ways of recruiting new members, the mainstream Greek culture still smarts of the same problems. We have somehow deceived ourselves into thinking that the same problems of exclusivity and sexism have been resolved. The Greek council touts its victory in making the Greek system inclusive in that anyone can rush and has the chance to participate. But it covers over the fact that rush is not even a real possibility for everyone, whether that be for financial restraints or mental health issues. The Greek system is inclusive in title only. There is a significant difference between diversity and inclusion: one is a numbers game and the other is about actually changing the dynamics of socialization. There is no substantive inclusion. The fact that someone can be denied a bid for being their most genuine self when someone else who lies about engaging in activism to seem more feminist to cater to a house does. The fact that Greek houses still treat their minority members as a tally to prove to other houses and the campus that they are “not racist”. The fact that a house was told explicitly from their national to “accept less Asian women” because they are “not pretty enough” and took that to heart in their next formal recruitment cycle. The fact that sorority girls buy into the whole “white dress” tradition that obviously mean to demonstrate the importance of a woman’s purity. The fact that houses like AKA and APhiO are completely disconnected from the Greek system to the point where many people don’t even know they exist. The fact that members who need financial aid to be a part of a house are forced to perform more duties and act as a “house-keeper”. The fact that guys send each other blitzes detailing when they have events with a sorority as a reminder for their members to expect and prepare for coitus. The fact that meetings are fraught with outright racist jokes that members feel safe enough to yell in the privacy of their own houses because no one will snitch if they’re part of the club. How are we so delusional as to think that the Greek system is not toxic?

I know that I still bear the shame and the guilt of the Greek system because when it comes down to it, I’m still in a Greek house. While I may not be the chief authority or have the most right to speak so critically of the Greek system for that reason, I believe that people still have the right and the obligation to speak out about a system that they are in if something is egregiously wrong with it. I can be an American and still critique America so that it can do and be better. The other publications that we read were harshly satirical and were such a breath of fresh air because they didn’t hold anything back. As jarring and shocking as these pieces were then, they’re still as striking now compared to the tempered, measured ways that we write today to cover our asses. So that we don’t make enemies. So that we don’t stir the pot too much. So that we don’t get backlash. Academia might be partially to blame. Writing esoterically and “appropriately” is the only way that anyone will actually listen to your argument and what you’re trying to say. God forbid someone say “fuck your white tears” because we are too quick to get personally offended then we are to check our privilege. So I urge that we bring back biting poetry about demon vaginas to criticize our current repression of female sexuality. Bring back the spreads with women’s advertisements revised with shocking catchphrases to criticize beauty standards. Bring back the satirical articles about “10 things you can do with a severed penis”. Be bold.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Infirmed.

Departing this verdant microcosm made me ill,

Diseased and poisoned,

Unrecognizably disfigured,

An irreparable invalid.

Leaving these cloistered quarters

Of myopic worldliness,

Supported by auto-aroused academia,

In turn made me the one who lost perspective.

 My wandering ambulation was transient,

As though each step forward

Was a fabrication of mind and not matter,

And I found myself seeing rose again.

Body returned and thoughts forced to follow,

All was left as though preserved with cosmic formaldehyde.

Each form exactly in place,

Eyes glassy and blank stares looking ahead.

Yet you peer as far down those colored rounds,

As you can bring yourself to bear,

And find that there are wisps of thinking,

Swirling around and metamorphosing.

Then their eyes find you,

Only to find that they’re covered with human tissue,

Unlike the plastic veneer that covers theirs,

And I am the one that is infirmed.

Those once endearing figurines,

You held on to and placed safely on the mantle,

Have cracked and chipped away

Their delicate porcelain.

Acid and stress from posturing force

And from facile and trite gravity,

Wearing away the parts that are beautiful and of substance,

Only to leave a grey mass of coprolite.

The stench that lingers from this toxic reaction,

That is made aromatic by the rose glass,

Has penetrated their pores

And made itself a home in their insecurity.

But how tragic it is that ceramic cannot sense

That it is being tainted.

The pestilence of my being is nothing

Compared to their addictive anesthetic.

For we are all sick,

Terribly, terribly sick.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Dial Tone

I'm feeling melancholic again, world. Just generally depressive without any real trigger. Rather I think it's been a trend in my emotions that have been imperceptibly taking on a negative tangent slope. It's been a series of constant insecurity, guilt, anguish, passivity, anxiety, and loneliness. Anxiety about how much financial burden I'm placing on my family in my international expenditure. Guilt in spending a term abroad when it really doesn't apply to my degree and seems quite frivolous, especially because I'm not enjoying it as I should. Anguish and disappointment at my academic trajectory, which seems at this point to be irreparably damaged. Insecurity regarding where the hell my life is taking me now because all I seem to have are impressive words, empty promises, unsubstantial dreams, and a recurring pattern. Loneliness despite the presence of people, none of whom I really feel like I want to reach out to. There is not a single person in this world that I feel as though I can talk to. I feel as though I am just a body in this world that is lacking a fundamental driving force. All the gears and machinations are at work, but to what they are working towards is beyond me. It all seems quite pointless and I don't want to continue.

Life is nothing but a string of disappointments and I have no motivation to try and struggle and work fruitlessly towards something that inevitably will escape me. Nothing is guaranteed, despite my best efforts. There is nothing I find gratifying anymore and if I honestly have nothing that I am looking forward to down the line, why am I wasting the breath that could serve someone who does? I feel like more and more of me is being chipped away each moment that passes. All that I seem to latch onto ends up crumbling away and I end up in free fall again. No interest, no person, no dream seems enough to keep me level. It's gotten to the point where I cannot express fundamental human functions of empathy and compassion to those closest to me. Even towards a friend who is really struggling with her problems as of now. I can't bring myself to comfort and cajole. It's as though I've forgotten how to. My head is in this perpetual mental state of television static and all that I am inputting from the world is a dial tone.

Monday, November 16, 2015

Absent from a Critical Time

Within the short amount of time that I have actually been a part of my collegiate institution, there has been so much turmoil that stems from students seeking social justice. Black Lives Matter (BLM) is a group that aims to advocate on behalf of the marginalized and discriminated against group of black individuals on our campus and is actively working to bring the racism felt by minorities everyday to light. As a minority myself, I am highly sympathetic towards their cause for I feel that there does exist a degree of social stigma that stems from racist sentiments that manifests as microaggressions. I sadly cannot say that I have been very supportive of their movement given that I have not actively participated in their protests, being abroad this term. Studying across the pond this term has made me quite disconnected from all that is happening on campus recently, especially given the recent events regarding the bold protest that has spurred a lot of contention among my peers. Getting secondhand information regarding the events that unfolded, I find myself conflicted as to where I stand on this issue. While some have reported the event to have been physical and verbally violent, I have my reservations about the truth of these statements. Many have said that the accusations were exaggerated to denounce and discredit the BLM movement and from what I was able to see from footage of the protest, I do not think that the sort of aggression that was expressed was as extreme as what has been conveyed. I do not condone the use of violent measures to fight social justice battles, but I can understand what could drive individuals to act as contentiously as they did.

While I can only speak for myself, being in a position, where such discrimination and subversive hate is put onto you without any way for you to truly escape, can make one feel helpless and frustrated. Being above it and staying strong against it can only do so much to alleviate the kind of pain that you feel. It builds and grows the more your voice is not heard and acknowledged. It escalates the longer this kind of mental violence is allowed to continue and when it seems like there is no vision of a world without racism, that's when it all comes out. Effusive, cathartic, and violent rage at being forced into the unjust world as it exists. So we scream and we shout in an attempt to regain hope that we can shape the world to be free of these horrors because it seems like there is no other way. I know it doing so we may alienate the people that are supportive of the kind of world that we seek, but this anger and frustration is not targeted at you specifically, but the institution and the system that encompasses all of us. When we as minorities can't be sure where you as an apparent majority stand, seeing you quiet and sitting appears to us as another voice that silently assents to the grievous system. It is maddening to think that our suffering is our own and that the agony we feel is only seen by your eyes.

But this being said, I think I have also been on the other end, where I have been the one receiving someone else's expressed pain. It is frightening and alienating and the first reaction I have is to avert my eyes and shrink into my shoulder. It's easy for me to be offended by these accusations that are seemingly thrown in my direction, because I know myself that I do stand with them in my heart of hearts. I can't help that I am not physically bleeding when they are, even though all of my mirror neurons help me feel the same sensation of blood on my skin. I feel dazed and confused when I am accused of being a part of a racist system. And it hurts when someone assumes this to be the case because it seems like they are making a judgment on my character and the kind of person that I am without evening knowing me.

My greatest disappointment in light of these recent events stems not from these two sentiments, but from the defensive reactions that people have to them. The hateful speech against the protestors, which happen to ironically underscore everything they are protesting, and the dismissal of the protestors for being "amoral" and "uncivilized" ignore everything that is concretely felt by those involved. Instead of being so quick to judge based on the little that we know about these individuals involved, we should try to extend our most basic human ability to sympathize or even to empathize with the sentiments on either side. I wish that it's not naive to think that we can still try to make something good of the bad that we only seem to see in each other.

Friday, October 23, 2015

Second Generation

Recently, my mind has been mulling over the idea of what it means to be American. It was only in the last year that I have been officially deemed a US citizen and can truly be called Korean-American. All my life, I had only really referred to myself as Korean, because as far as I was concerned my blood, heritage, and family were so. But being here in the UK where being American is also associated with the title of 'foreign' has left me in conflict with how I identify. In the US, I always felt the scrutiny of other Americans as being 'foreign', regardless of whether they were white, Hispanic, or otherwise. I always felt as though I needed to make some display of my 'American-ness' through my behavior and speech in order to prove that I had lived in this country for as long as I can remember. I felt as though I had to show strangers through my ability to speak clear and articulate American English that I too was one of them, an American. But regardless of how American I wanted to be, I could never really called myself American. All my life, people would ask me where I was from, with the clear intent of trying to pin what kind of Asian I was. Understanding that, I would always answer that I was Korean, only to be met with the dreaded question of "Well, North or South?". When I was younger and had no real idea of what that distinction meant for the history of my ancestors and my people, I would get offended and quickly respond "South" with the intent of showing that at least I was a better Asian between the two. Like it was somehow shameful to be identified as North Korean. I look back at my younger self and regret how little value and confidence I had in my cultural identity. If people ask me that question now, my response is a long winded one. I tell them that I do not see the political drawn line that divides people with a common history, language, and culture. That I am blind to that distinction which I find has diminished the grave injustice that Koreans endured at the hands of nations that played a game of hegemony as it ripped families and a common nationality apart. I know that other friends of min, who have been raised in a similar situation to mine, have varying responses to the question "Where are you from?" that range from a forthright dismissal of their ethnicity to solely a wholehearted embrace of it. Now being naturalized and in the UK, I find that I don't know how I want to answer that question anymore.

Here, it's almost too easy for people to figure out that you're American. All you have to do is say hello and you're quickly met with the response, "Oh, you're American.". A phrase which is said with varying inflections of disdain and intrigue. All my life, I had never been identified by another person as being American at first blush, so I was taken aback at first. I have to this point just accepted that label because questions quickly follow it. "Where in the US?" is an inevitable response, even though it seems as though no one who asks that question really has any idea of US geography and thus the answer has no real significance. The conversation that proceeds after greeting someone for the first time here is painfully predictable. After these questions and my response of "Colorado", I get some knowing looks and then the cringe-worthy question of "So pot, amiright?". But that's getting off track. People that I have run into during my time abroad, just accept that being American is this innate way of being and disregard the way that a person looks to identify someone as such. This occurred to me as sort of novel, despite the fact that we have all learned in school that the US is the melting-pot of ethnicities. It was only in being somewhere other than the United States, that I finally felt as though I could identify as American. But in doing so I feel as though I am betraying an essential part of who I truly am by failing to acknowledge that I am more than American. Eighteen years of being Korean and only identifying as Korean only to all of a sudden lose that here has made me acutely aware that what I say in response to THE question is more important that I realized. 

My parents had always told me that I was not American and that I should never act as though I was. I was taught Korean consistently as a child because my parents believed that one should know their own mother-tongue. Sleepovers were strictly taboo in my household because it was culturally inappropriate and Korean food was all that was ever really made at home. I never truly appreciated what my parents gave me when they forced me to learn to be Korean. They gave me an identity that comes with a rich history, culture, and heritage and they taught me that it is tragic to be Korean only by title. They knew that growing up in the US would automatically instill me with an American identity. They made sure that I realized that being completely ethnically Korean would always make it so that I was different from White Americans. And instead of teaching me to feel deficient in that way, they filled the separation with a robust Korean identity that makes me feel as though I have even more to myself. I've now decided that if someone were to ask me that question again, I would know how to respond. 

I'm Korean-American and I don't need to justify myself to you.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Bright Lights Bigger City

So if you know me, you know that I'm not versed in urban, but I aspire to be. I've fallen in love with places like New York City and I'm committed to the idea of living there someday. With Edinburgh, its the same story. At first I really had my reservations because I felt like the city was a bit cold in more ways than one. I know that's true of city life in general, but there was just this kind of subtle aloofness that rubbed me the wrong way initially. But with more time that I spend here and the more people I connect with, I feel almost comfortable. I learned a lot about myself in the short span of time that I've been here or at least reaffirmed what I already subconsciously understood. I'm not big on being the kind of person who goes out and parties at clubs. I don't really appreciate being dumped amongst random inebriated people without a little backup. I'd much rather meet people in a less forced situation that's more laid back and open.

Don't get me wrong, I've met some nice people this way and I appreciate the assistance broadening my social sphere, but I don't really know if I need it. There are somewhere around 15 people that came across the pond on the same study abroad program and I'm happy to say that I've clicked with a few of them. My equestrian lover (meaning that she loves horses, actually she loves all animals) is such a bubbly, friendly, loving person (a great complement to my sarcastic, brash self). I've already made plans to go to Paris with a dude that is pretty laid back and definitely on his organization shit. I have yet to really get to know the rest of the crew, but I really hope to. The seniors on the trip are like the cool kids on the block and kinda do their own thing, which makes me feel like the younger sibling that wants to be with it. I secretly wish that I was one of them because they're just really smart, insightful people.

One of my closest friends from college who's on this trip with me lives on virtually the opposite of town (I would have to walk a fucking hour to get there) in a building that's basically a repurposed hostel from what it looks like. It looks like it was built at least 50 years ago, but I could care less that they randomly have sinks and questionable smells in their rooms. They have the most friendly, inclusive, outgoing, happy, jazzed people that I have ever met. I decided to come visit him a few days ago and I am thoroughly in love. It wasn't quite a Dartmouth freshman welcome, but it was pretty close. I met this amazing, spunky chick who's from Connecticut and she's just the most hilarious and lovable person and this lovable Scot named Scott who I just adore. The whole building is just a fantastic community, which is basically what compelled me to gush in the written word. The first time I met them, they fed me, went to a bullshit creative writing (which turned out to be fantasy writing) meeting, and got KFC with me. Today I returned for more of the much needed affection and ended up watching part of a lesbian film in their common room with a handful of other people, ate some more, got groceries at Sainsbury's, and decided to make cupcakes at 9pm. I honestly have never laughed as much as I have with these people and it makes me sad to know that our love is on a timer. I'm so glad I found people here that I absolutely am fond of because I was feeling a little lonely here. Having meals alone is honestly so depressing so preparing meals for each other is seriously uplifting. I think we have plans to travel to Florence potentially, which honestly would just be incredible, but even just sitting around and talking is amazing. Fingers crossed that we stay friends even when I go back to the Big Green.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

I'm Not Built for This

So I finally have reached my destination of the beautiful Edinburgh. It was not at all smooth sailing that started when I realized I was fucked by how heavy my bags were. I decided to check one 50 pound bag and carry a duffel stuffed with the rest of my things in addition to a backpack that was way heavier than its contents would suggest. So with my backpack on and this 30 pound monstrosity over one shoulder and the other arm dragging about my luggage bag, it was just peachy. Basically the security checkpoint was hell since I was standing in line for a good chunk on time, switching shoulders and forearms to even out the pain of the straps cutting into my flesh. All of this exertion so sudden after my summer of lethargy made me sweat, literally and metaphorically. I was clammy and absolutely disgusting and that was not the end of my problems.

I thought I had run into some luck when it turned out that another girl from my study abroad program was on my flight to Edinburgh. We were able to share a cab and she left on the first stop. The normally scintillating human that I am only then realized that I was totally screwed since I only had a general idea and title of the place to which I was headed and not an exact address. Flustered when the cabbie stopped in the general vicinity of the place I was headed, I told him to go ahead and leave, even though I had no clue where the hell I was. The whole street shared the title that I thought was the name of a specific location. So I spent another good chunk of time walking up and down the street with all of my crap, while construction workers just gave me bemused looks. The normal response to a situation like this would be to call or text someone or just look up the address, but did I mention that my phone had zero service? My Hail-Mary was to connect to spare Wi-Fi, paying 8 pounds in the process, to no avail. Some guy then walks up to me, a person in obvious distress, and asks if I'm a student looking to check into housing for the university. I WAS ON THE WRONG FUCKING SIDE OF THE STREET. So thoroughly embarrassed I followed him and finally got to my room.

But no, that's not all. I wanted to pick up a few living necessities from the nearby convenience store. All was fine. I went to check out and luckily there was a woman I could follow by example. The plastic bags are not dispersed to all self-checkout stations and are rather in one place. Thanks to the lady, I did not have to panic for too long before finding them. So I get all situated and scan my items. Except that every minute it stops and tells me to go get someone to help me. I'm the only person who gets stalled over and over again and I swear the clerk can tell that I'm a daft American. After scanning my card the screen freezes on the same notification to get the clerk and there's some dispute about whether or not the card went through or not. Eventually the guy just gives up and tell me to get out of his sight (not really) and I book it out of there.

After having been through all of that I'm pretty sure I stink, since stress and bodily functions are conducive to such things. So I get back to my room and I decide to take a shower since I already feel gross from a day of traveling. My room has its own complete bathroom and everything is new and fancy. The lights are turned on by a motion sensor and the shower has two knobs for water pressure and temperature. Pretty straightforward. So I turn on one knob for the pressure and when I turn the temperature knob the water stops. So I try again. And again. And the water just is fucking frigid or not there at all. There are these weird buttons on the knobs that dictate how far the knobs can turn so I fiddle with those for a while and twenty minutes of this tom-foolery, I'm pretty sure I'm a moron. I mean the red arrows are obviously a universal symbol of "turn this way for hot water", right? Eventually I give up and end up taking a frigid shower. Thirty seconds in and cursing the damn shower, the lights turn off. So I reach out of the shower and wave my hands around until they come back on. Thirty second later, they turn off again. And once more. At this point, I'm done with this shit so I just suck it up and take a frigid shower in the dark. Fantastic.

If this isn't a sign that I'm screwed for the rest of this trip, I don't know what is.

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