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Brown Students’ Top Ten Most Successful Come-ons at Fishco. Last Night

Fabbio

Fabbio

10. “I’m being ‘over 21’ for Halloween; what’s your costume supposed to be?”

9.  “Actually, as a member of ARRR!!!, I get to dress like this every day. Hey, why don’t we [insert your own booty joke here]”

8. “I can see right through your costume. Are you going as ‘Not the Corporation’?”

7. “Early Halloween party? I thought this was a late Saint Crispin’s day party. Now my Henry V costume just makes me feel out of place. Let’s get out of here.”

6. “No, I wasn’t too lazy to dress up. My conscience just doesn’t permit me to be part of the othering of the undead”

5. “If you think this ‘Slutty Ruth’ costume is questionable, you should see my ‘Slutty Annmary Brown’ costume.”

4. “Apropos of nothing, I’d like to tell you that in my opinion tea is just glorified water.”

3. “Yes, I’m dressed as Russian Lit. And yes, I am that easy.”

2. “Tonight I’m the Headless Horseman, and I can think of exactly one way in which you can make me feel complete”

1. “This reminds me of a Halloween party I threw one time. At my Newport house.”

On Journal Reading

Isazappy

Isazappy

For many of us these days, the careful keeping of a journal seems far too disciplined and ever-so lonely compared to the easy online alternative of Facebook “profiles.” Why copy your favorite lyrics onto the pages of a Moleskin when you can paste those lyrics all over the internet? Why cultivate your mind in the private, modest means of a few blank, silent pages when you can share your thoughts with the world on a blog? Most people suggest journal writing is a means of catharsis or a simple working-through of personal thoughts. It’s a place where we can sit back and not care what our words “sound like.”

But was journal writing ever so pure? What is the true motivation behind keeping a journal? Are we not always conscious of how we are portraying ourselves? Especially where it concerns writers and artists, it seems impossible to assume that journals are not a place for exhibitionism. When we pick up the journal of a famous writer, we must do it with consideration for her knowledge that one day she would have an audience.

Virginia Woolf preempted one of her journals with the following musing: “What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight, or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.” While she desires to work through her thoughts with a “stream-of-consciousness-approach,” she is also interested in shaping her diary, and in suiting it to herself. Her journal itself takes on a character.

A senior at Brown who wished to remain anonymous commented on these same issues of audience. “I don’t think of my journal as representing me in the way my Facebook page has to represent me. I mean, there is also the visual element to online journalism. But my journal is also like a deep cultivation of myself. And I totally think about who might read it one day.” A Brown sophomore, on the other hand, who also wished to remain anonymous, admitted that she had written things she would rather “destroy” and that her journal writing was “confessional.” But, if we are sure nobody will read our work, why are we often so quick to destroy it? Why do we throw away things we have written that were meant to be a simple experiment in the first place? We take ourselves seriously as writers, and we take care to work through our identity, whether it be on our profiles on Facebook, or behind the scenes.

Take Susan Sontag’s journals, for example. Specifically, “Reborn,” the earliest of her collection of journals, accounting for her teenage years through her young adult life in New York. The collection of entries seems to consist, at first, of entirely personal musings, typical preoccupations of an overzealous young woman: the most recent sightings of her female lover, critiques of Anais Nin, the appropriate level of involvement in college life (“…every day I shall set aside for writing and study outside in the sun, and whatever time in the evenings I can manage—I shall be quiet, courteous, and disinvolved!”—page 17). There seems to be a certain solace in a genre that does not automatically formalize writing. Sontag continually “instructs” herself in all sections of this journal, “not to try to be amusing,” “[to] tell yourself you are not good.” There is an informality and a bareness to this language that speaks to the liberating quality we most commonly associate with journal writing. But still, in these self-instructive remarks there is a mission toward understanding and improving oneself. There is an apparent desire to build oneself up and to construct oneself. It’s not unlike reading another student’s blog: choppy, sex-filled, presumptuous, and daring, but still overtly, if not overly, aware.

The journal has always been an offering of a self-portrait, carefully crafted or brashly stated. It doesn’t have the aid of photographic memoirs or the burden of a minute-to-minute update on our “likes” and “dislikes.” But it is often a carefully crafted expression and a meditation on the persona.

Like

It’s a Tuesday morning and the ‘Roaring Twenties’ English class isn’t exactly roaring. The discussion—on a short story about two girls from the ’20s—has some of the class yawning and others processing their ideas:

“But, like, the inconsistency of them, like, being able to achieve all of these goodies and, like, lead sort of, like, a lazy life, but also, like, maintain their figure, so it’s, like, I guess that sort of goes along with, like, the inconsistency…” said one student, “And then they try to, like, introduce the game to, like, a woman at work who, like, pokes fun at the game, and then they’re like, okay, you’re out, and sort of, like, separate these two worlds.”

Like, whew.

Why did we start using this word “like” to fill our silences? As research may show, it helps us “soften” our statements.

“It’s just, while you’re thinking, you’re insecure,” said the student, who asked to be anonymous. “You have to fill the silence.”

It goes further than that, though. Theresa DiDonato, a former professor of social psychology at Brown, says the issue of conformity plays a large role in our choice of language. “It makes sense,” she says, “that [like] peaks around high school, because of issues of conformity and fitting in with peers.”


High school, and even middle school, were times in which our own image was very important, and even our choices of language have an effect on that image.

Role models and cultural influences have great influence on young people as well. Child development professor Mika MacInnis calls the phenomenon “inherently reinforcing.” We’re told — largely by the media, in the form of, say,  TV shows, whose ‘real teen dialogue’ includes the lovely word—that this is how people our age are supposed to sound, so we unconsciously change our patterns to fit this. Using the word in all its glory is not only practical and easy for teens, it’s behavioral imitation, says MacInnis.

DiDonato says it’s all about who we surround ourselves with. “I don’t think people would grow out of it if they stayed in the same context,” she suggests. In other words, when entering transitional phases, such as leaving school for the business world, individuals make a concerted effort to restrain their habits. Thus, there is the perception that adults have grown out of “like.”

Then again, everyone is capable of putting on different voices, accents, or speech habits when the time is necessary. This is what linguistic anthropologist Marcy Brink-Danan, calls a synchronic language change. The development of speech patterns doesn’t change over time; rather, people gain the ability to alter their speech when necessary—this is why, for example, you know not to drop F-bombs around your grandma, or, in this case, why you probably use “like” less in, say, an interview.

So the fact that people associate “like” with young people may simply be that cultural norms do not require us to censor our speech. The young person’s “language ideology,” says Brink-Danan, has come to be associated with “like.”

Many different cultures (languages)—including English—have filler words. Even English has a multitude of options. What is it about “like” in particular that has made it so durable and so widely used?

Assistant Professor of Anthropology Paja Faudree suspects it’s simply a very efficient word. “It keeps on enduring,” she said. “I keep expecting ‘like’ to fall of the map.” It doesn’t, though, and she says it probably has to do with the word’s multitude of uses. “My suspicion is that [like] is much more structured and content-filled.”

Indeed, the uses of “like” vary from a simple filler word to a way to introduce a quotation or thought to a means of adding emphasis to an adjective. And of course, it goes quite well with the infamous “ya know?” With all those uses, it becomes possible to use the word sixteen times in one sentence.

Like’s versatility has become impossible to ignore, and its function has made teachers realize that it’s a reality. “It’s not necessarily evidence for inarticulateness,” says Faudree. (Whew.)

Brown students seem to have similar notions of the word as the adults who surround them. The student, who we’ll call Molly, offers this: “Like actually has meaning,” she said. “It’s, like, a comparison word.”

“I tried to stop using it,” Molly says. “It makes you sound less smart and intelligent.” She admits that many have called her out on her use of the word, and her entrance into college has forced her to censor her speech at times. The same probably holds true for most of us. “We’re [freshmen] adapting to, like, a more adult way to, like, express ourselves.”

Molly too says it’s a cultural thing. “It’s just, like, the vernacular of, like, where we’re from and just, like, our generation.”

At a late afternoon lunch in the Brown’s dining hall, three female first-years and one male sit around one of the square tables.

“I was reading this article about speaking well,” says one first-year, Liza Schmidt. “Instead of saying ‘like,’ just pause and collect your thoughts.”
Schmidt has had her own issues with her (over)use of the word. “My adviser won’t let me say it,” she said. “During our first meeting, he was like, ‘no like, NO LIKE.’” Schmidt remained practically silent the rest of the meeting.


Most of the people at the table said their parents gave them a hard time about using like. One claimed that her older sister was even stricter. “Her college professors gave her a hard time, so when she came home she was always really conscious of it,” says Jenny Gold, a first-year.

But most of them agree that it becomes awkward to use alternatives to like in many contexts: “Who’s going to say ‘she exclaimed’ or ‘he remarked?’”

“College is an interesting time,” concludes Gold, “’cause, like, people are trying, like, not to say like.”

Expiration Dating

This entry is part 3 of 6 in the series Sexperimentation

milkLiving off-campus and off meal plan, I often find myself with a fridge full of food threatening to rot, sour, mold, or wilt in the immediate future. The race against the expiration date requires quick and decisive action, often goaded by impulsive combinations of ingredients. I find the same impulse that fuels the consumption of perishable food also often fuels decisions about sexual involvements. As a result, some overlap in terminology occurs. Enter the term “Expiration Dating.”

“Expiration Dating” refers to a relationship in which one can, to borrow lyrics from Lil’ Wayne, “see the end in the beginning.” Expiration Dating occurs when both parties enter a relationship fully aware that they’ll be parting ways in the near future. Stints in foreign countries, school vacations spent at home, vacations to visit friends who in turn introduce you to their charming friends— all of these situations provide ideal conditions for expiration dating. In the same way the expiration date stamped on the container tells you when you should start thinking twice about putting those mozzarella balls in your salad, the circumstances of Expiration Dating designate a clear end date for romantic involvement.

I enjoy perishable foods. I also enjoy expiration dating. Or I adhere to it. Or I support it. Or I practice it. Or I’m confused. Here’s the real story: shortly after starting something vaguely romantic or at least unmistakably sexual, I almost always seem to board a plane for another country or another city. Yes, I am a serial Expiration Dater. In my long and storied succession of experiences, I have learned a few things.

First, if you self-identify as an Expiration Dater, or recognize yourself in the description above, it probably also means you are a commitmentphobe. Know that about yourself, and welcome to the club.

Undeniably, Expiration Dating is fraught with a slew of emotional landmines. Why then, would anyone run the risk of experiencing this kind of psychological anguish?  Because—and this is the second thing I’ve learned—Expiration Dating has a shining secret: the sex—in the broad brushstrokes sense of the word, encompassing any and all sexual interactions—is really, really good. Romantic involvements with a foregone conclusion conjure a delirious (and highly addictive) sense of urgency. Destined to end prematurely, these interactions feel magical as they happen and seem ideal in hindsight. Expiration Dating often gives rise to a “what the hell” attitude towards sex, the rationale being, “We’ll probably never see each other again, so let’s get naked.” The shorter the shelf-life, the more reckless and impassioned the sex. This kind of sex is electric. It’s intense. It’s memorable. As long as you do it safely, I highly recommend throwing caution to the wind and trying it at least once.

The prime season for Expiration Dating at Brown starts somewhere around mid-March or the beginning of April, right at the beginning of the end of the semester. ED season is still a ways off for most students, but for some it’s already here: Point five-ers, leave-takers, and study abroad-ers–there are six weeks of fall semester left. This is the High Season for you. What are you waiting for? Hop to it!

But, buyer beware—because Expiration Dating often stops short before the infatuation has time to fizzle naturally, I guarantee the abrupt separation will leave you wanting more. I understand the overwhelming desire to devour more of a good thing, I’ve been there, but I would still recommend that you adhere to the expiration date.

See the official statement from The FDA (The F*cking and Dating Administration) on Expiration Dating:

Soon after the Expiration Date has passed, there is a high probability that this variety of relationship will curdle or otherwise spoil. Those imprudent enough to extend a temporary relationship past its expiration date run the risk of contracting a dating-borne illness. The FDA recommends disposing of all expired relationships in an efficient and timely manner.

Trust me on this one: listen to the FDA. I’ve drunk enough curdled milk to know how bad it tastes. In the meantime, however, I suggest you open the fridge. Because there’s plenty of delicious produce in there begging to be eaten.

Leaves of Grass

Katerina Dalavurak

Katerina Dalavurak

Once you go black, you never go back. Steaming hot, strong, intense, comfortable and familiar or else delightfully exotic, black tea has fueled civilizations through the ages and will continue to build empires long after the fall of mediocre Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. A highly placed source (the back of a Celestial Seasonings box) tells me that the Chinese emperor Shen Nung brewed the first cup of tea quite by accident when dried leaves from a nearby plant fell into a boiling pot of water. The emperor, in the name of science, tried the brew and pronounced it delicious.

We’ve come a long way from gravity-assisted, haphazardly-stewed leaves. In many cultures, tea is an art form, and nearly everyone can take comfort in a well-brewed mug of strong black tea. Now I drink upwards of five cups a day, so you’ll never hear me say there’s a bad time for tea. Certain situations, however, call for certain teas. And since black tea comes in so many flavors and levels of potency, well, there’s pretty much a variety for any occasion.

 

Irish Breakfast: Ah, Irish Breakfast. The perfect substitute for a good night’s sleep. The Guinness of teas, Irish Breakfast is dark and bitter but gets the job done nicely. James Joyce’s Ulysses begins with the main character eating eggs and sausage and drinking this stuff . While it may not spur you to heights of creative genius, this tea definitely comes in handy for frigid Monday mornings.

When: Irish Breakfast should be downed with near-clinical efficiency while running out the door to your 9AM class. This brew sets the drinker’s blood and mind in motion, and imparts to you the stoic spirit of the Emerald Isles as you trudge across campus.

How: Steep the leaves for two to five minutes, careful of their tendency to over-brew. The process is simple, perfectly suited to rising from a comatose state.

With: Irish Breakfast is a strong brew, and adding milk or sugar tempers the bitterness quite nicely. A little bit of lemon never hurt, either.

 

Earl Grey: A more genteel drink than its brash Irish counterpart, Earl Grey enlivens your typical black tea with the fragrant addition of bergamot. According to legend, the Second Earl Grey, prime minister of Britain, saved a young Chinese boy from drowning and received the blend from the boy’s grateful father. Wikipedia, however, assures me that this story is but a myth.

When: Earl Grey can be enjoyed at any time of day, as a moderately caffeinated morning brew, with sandwiches at teatime, or as a comforting blend as the sun sets on a cold Providence evening.

How: Again, Earl Grey should be steeped in boiling water for two to five minutes. If you find that the result is too weak for your liking, feel free to steep it again.

With: Milk and sugar. It’s British, what did you expect?

 

Masala Chai: We’ve all had chai from Starbucks or Tealuxe (or, for the truly desperate, the Ratty). But there’s a difference between the cloyingly sweet, milky taste of these commercial drinks and the homemade stuff. Real chai is sugary, yes, but its many spices give it nuance and subtlety. It’s like a precocious teenager of dangerous sweetness surrounded by opinionated and vocal aunties. Its complexity demands that chai be had not as an accompaniment to a meal but as an experience in itself.

When: Chai is just too heavy for the morning. Treat it like alcohol: before 5PM, it’s just weird.

How: Heat milk and water in equal portions on a stovetop. For convenience, stick two or three storebought bags of chai in the pot. Add cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. For variety, experiment with star anise or black pepper. Don’t skimp on the cardamom–it should be the prevailing spice. Strain the tea and add honey or sugar to taste.

With: Friends. The amount of preparation involved and the sweet, social nature of chai fairly demand that it be enjoyed with company.

 

Of course, there are variations upon variations of these teas, and nearly infinite ways of preparing them. Experiment with different mixes, spices and brewing times, and be sure to use boiling hot water for every heartwearming cup. My boss, an extremely British man, used to tell me, “Bad day? Cup of tea. Good day? Cup of tea. Personal problems? That’s a bit more difficult. Tea and a biscuit.”

Amen.