Fall break has officially begun! But before I was able to celebrate my future four day weekend, I had to make it through midterms. So in order to cope with the stress of little sleep and enough art history flashcards to make your head spin, my buddy (and fellow UT Improv co-leader) Dylan and I took a trip to the Metropolitan Market.
I know what you’re thinking. A minivacation to a market? But trust me, it’s so much more. It’s a wonderland. An expensive wonderland for a college student, but a wonderland never the less. We went with one mission in mind: stress relief sweets. Our mantra? Treat yo’self. You see, it was also the anniversary of perhaps the most important Parks and Recreation episode of our generation.
So, we treated ourselves. Dylan went with gelato while I reunited with my one true love… The Cookie. That’s right, THE Cookie. I’d explain to you the simple perfection of this baked beauty but no words can do it justice. It’s basically the most wonderful combination of all things chocolatey and delicious, just gooey enough in the center to melt away all stress and sadness. Basically heaven incarnate in a cookie. Next on the list? Beverages. An easy choice too, since no normal human can resist chocolate milk. (Unless you hate chocolate milk, which is totally fine ’cause that’s your opinion. I mean, you’re wrong, but y’know. It’s fine.)
With sweets in hand, we made our way out into the cool autumn evening. Before enjoying the spoils of our adventure, however, we couldn’t resist the neat little photo opp set up for us just outside the market doors. Dylan blends in perfectly.Taking a little break amidst the tests and essays was well deserved and necessary, and now we’re free, with a lovely first day of fall break before the second half of the semester picks up! Here’s to that lovely turn of phrase, treat yo’self!
In which we are faced with the curious knock of the wolf at the door.
To my dear reader,
If you were to ask me about one thing in my life that I truly cared about, one of my first responses would be my pet Golden Retriever, Cinnamon Buns Flores Wolfert. Dogs are, America tells us, man’s best friend. But sometime last summer, I got to thinking about how curious of a view this is. It’s not one that has always existed, as there was once a time when dogs’ predecessors – wolves – were a force to be feared and reckoned with. It’s certainly not one that all people share – as dog cuisine in countries such as China make evident. This is not to criticize such countries, but rather to consider the question, why do I so love an animal whose ancestors tried to gobble up Little Red Riding Hood? It is to answer this question that, over this past summer, I read Richard Francis’ Domesticated: Evolution in a Man-Made World
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Francis’ non-fictional exploration behind the biological, evolutionary and anthropological precedence of domestication is built primarily upon one premise: that domestication is the process of perpetuating tameness in a species. Tameness, Francis asserts, has been continually demonstrated in both studies and animal industry to be something that necessitates a genetic predisposition. Most wild animals are predisposed to fear and dislike heavy contact with one another and with humans, contrasting with the such domesticated creatures as attention-loving Golden Retrievers and tightly-quartered cows. Perpetuating tameness comes down to two, non-exclusive processes: commensalism and breeding. Both occurred on the journey from wolf and dog.
Commensalism – a relationship between individuals of two species in which one species obtains food or other benefits from the other without either harming or benefiting the latter – is often the first step of domestication. This was the origins of dogs when thousands of years ago, wolves stood as our most formidable competitors to be top of the food chain. Much like humans, wolves are social, hierarchical, and strategic. This pack-animal intelligence led to the more human-tolerant wolves to realize that they could scavenge humans’ scraps if they stayed near human settlements. Several generations later, the human-tolerant wolves survived more easily and passed along their tolerant genes, while the intolerant ones died more often and reproduced less.
Fast forward many more generations, and humans tentatively befriended the beasts that we once so feared. “If you can’t beat them”, said nature to the wolves, “join them,” and so they became our tentative hunting companions. It was not until humans began to breed them – to control wolf reproduction, allowing only the friendliest of wolves to mate – that true tameness became genetically ingrained. The perpetuation of human tolerance came with its own genetic package that can be found in almost every domesticated animal: one which includes things such as baby-like facial features, increased empathy, and quickened sexual maturity. This essentially meant the perpetuation of youthful characteristics into adulthood.
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But how curious this all is! Let us take a moment to really, truly, consider the journey from wolf to dog. So many of the Western world’s fairy tales and legends include some sort of wolf as a villain. Little Red Riding Hood and her Grandmother get eaten by one, the Three Little Pigs’ property is invaded and damaged by one, and a professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcrft and Wizardry is cursed to become one at the full moon. Wolves are, so it seems, devious and terrible creatures intent on the worst. This is not to praise or criticize with this common Western view, but rather to contrast it with the view of dogs impressed on us now. Dogs are, so they say, intelligent beyond expectation and loyal to a fault. Dogs are, in a way, a testament to the power that humans have to shape nature.
Once more, this is not to praise or criticize the fact. It is rather that I find it so terribly curious how Cinnamon Buns Flores Wolfert and I are so happy to see one another, despite the fact that, were I to come home to a wolf, I would be terrified (and so might the wolf). I love her because long ago, my ancestors bred love into her ancestors’ very blood, and her ancestors were brought to their knees. All this, after all that time, when they said
I feel like, at times, people can easily get caught up in the blatant grandeur of the words ‘adventure’, ‘journey’, or ‘expedition’. Don’t get me wrong, these words are fantastic and I’m inspired by them just as much as the next person. But often, when we consider the weight of these words and allow them to govern our dreams and aspirations, in comparison to our actual lives, we can quickly become powerfully discouraged. It’s as if, in one moment, those words are lifting us up, challenging us to pursue the unknown, but in the next, we feel guilty for not doing so nearly as often as we want to. We’re left, rather stuck, in a difficult limbo between our goals and our realities.
The obligatory photographer foot shot; post-bike-ride and pre-hike.
For the longest time I was plagued by this condition, until I realized something that’s shaped the way I think about those aforementioned words. It goes like this: even though those terms do have dictionary definitions, that doesn’t have to be how you choose to define them. Let me give you an example of what I mean.
A beautiful example of the Northwestern rainforest climate; a tree completely engulfed in undisturbed and lavish green moss.
The famous ‘Five Mile Drive’ that provides drivers, bikers, and hikers access to Owen Beach, Fort Nisqually, and the rest of Point Defiance Park.
Tacoma’s surrounding locales are legitimately insane. On the west side you have the Pacific Ocean and the Olympics; on the north you have British Columbia; on the east you have Rainier, Baker, and the Cascades; and on the south you have Hood. Honestly, even thinking about it makes me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. So, when I get the itch to venture outside, that’s often where my mind goes. However, that poses a problem because it’s a little harder to get to Rainier or the ocean than one might expect; all you Tacoma natives know this.
A staircase at Owen Beach.
So, a guy like me has got to get his fix somehow, right? That’s where Point Defiance Park comes in. At a modest five miles from campus, Point Defiance Park is easily accessible by bike, bus, or, if you’re really in dire straights, you could get on some hiking boots and walk it out. Point Defiance, or as most call it ‘Point D.’, is actually a city park, but it comes off as a state park when all of its amenities are taken into consideration. Not only does it provide beautiful vistas as well as exhibit some of the native flora and fauna, but it also has hiking trails, a beach, a marina, a ferry dock, a zoo and aquarium, a preserved fur trading post called ‘Fort Nisqually’, a pagoda, a zen garden, boat rentals, a restaurant… the list goes on. In all, Point Defiance has consistently allowed me to enjoy the Pacific Northwest outdoors in very attainable and practical ways.
A large freighter floats through the Sound, into a wall of rain, en route to the Tacoma docks.
All of this being said, Point Defiance is definitely not Rainier, nor Hood, nor the Pacific Ocean, but it does provide me with enough adventure for a weeknight and it has helped me to realize that there’s not only beauty in the big, bountiful, and boisterous, but also in the small, nuanced, and quiet. Point D. has helped me come to know that it’s not the destination that defines an adventure, but rather the adventurer. Being able to find glory in the minutiae is, in my mind, a key characteristic of a great outdoorsman or woman.
The inside of a small garage in the marina that I occupied for some much needed rain coverage.
A small boat moored in the marina.
A receding cloud line played backdrop to a group of gulls circling the marina.
Keep this in mind when you are feeling a little down about not climbing Rainier over fall break or kayaking to Portland for spring break, and consider checking out Point Defiance, or even Todd Field. Like I said, you define your adventure.
The color-changing coastline amidst heavy rainfall.
Two fisherman defy the tempest in order to procure baitfish off the dock.
In which Daniel is possibly brave or possibly foolish, or both, or neither.
To my dear reader,
The first time I realized that I liked a boy was in 4th grade. I was an awkward, unsociable child, and my 4th grade teacher was aware of this. When a boy from another school transferred into my homeroom class, she took the opportunity to force me to play with him.
Begrudgingly, we went out to the soccer field together during recess and, against both our wills, began to play with a Frisbee. My first throw went wildly amiss, forcing him to run across the field to catch it, and this is the moment that became burned in my mind – the boy sprinting, the sun turning the field into an ocean of precious light around him.
Of course, it was not like this, but this is the truth I created. I watched, transfixed, as he leapt to catch the Frisbee, and I childishly thought something like this:
How lovely you are.
I love you.
I did not, of course, love him. The boy made other friends, and I have long since forgotten those feelings. But what matters is that this was when I was suddenly, horribly aware of how he could never feel this way about me; how this fact would come crushing down upon me forever. This was, I think, when I began to become clinically depressed.
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“How terribly young you were!” some exclaim. “How can you know that you were clinically depressed at such an age?”
I can never know for certain. But for those that wish to apportion blame for my inaction, give it to my love of fantasy. I assumed that the shuddering nausea with me from morning to night was simply the symptom of a hero waiting to be chosen for adventure. Surely, I thought, a giant will knock on my door or a witch will appear on my windowsill. If only I wait, my story will begin and I will not feel as if I am drowning every moment of every day.
But I confess that I was wrong. No giants knocked or witches appeared and every moment of every day was like drowning. I remember waking up on a school day 15 minutes past my alarm, and bursting into panicked tears. Surely I will be late, I thought, and then I shall be punished and I shall do poorly in school because that is what happens to children who are late. And then once I no longer have academic success I will have nothing but my books and this terrible feeling of drowning that never leaves me.
My mother did her best to console me, but we both knew perfectly well that I could arrive at school on time. Still, I cried.
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I recently learned from the video linked below that a curious effect of depression is that it shrinks the hippocampus, the part of the brain responsible for memory and emotions. This effectively causes many depressed people to lose both clear memory and clear emotions. Everything, effectively, becomes a gray fog – and this is exactly what I felt.
I researched depression ravenously, but despite this knowledge, was certain that, somehow, my depression would simply fade. If not in elementary school, then in middle school. If not in middle school, then in high school, college, when I learned to play piano, when I did well on my SAT or ACT or something else inane and trivial. Practice does not make perfect – practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over again and they become who you are.
I distanced myself from it. Every time I would cry for no reason or wake up in the middle of the night in inexplicable panic, I thought, this is simply chemical imbalance in your brain, not who you are. But so much of me went into separating who I thought I was from what I thought I wasn’t that it didn’t matter; I became it anyway.
Coming into my final year at college, I had become aware of how much time I had squandered. I could not bear to let this last year go to waste. My appointment at the university’s Counseling, Health and Wellness Services on Thursday, October 1st, 2015 marked the first time that I sought professional help. This, then, was the story I had been waiting for, and there was no one to choose me but myself.
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I often feel guilty, given my fortune. I have a loving family, a plump dog, a good education, and more tea than I could possibly drink. I am a gay, multi-ethnic Jew with opportunity – in most other times and places I would be ostracized or persecuted. Others have faced much worse than I and fared better. But this is the nature of depression; no matter my fortune, it is always there – the most dependable thing in my life.
But I am not here to be sad or angry or guilty. I am here to say that this is a real part of me that has existed since that day in 4th grade. To deny it would be foolish and wrong. Surely, there will be readers who cry out that my words are untrue or dangerous, that I exaggerate my sadness or simply seek attention. For those people, I have no words. My time is too precious to waste on them.
For everyone else, I will say this: my experience is one of many, so I claim no universality. I simply claim that I find truth preferable to lies. I simply claim that those who listen are few and far between, and if you are one, know that you are as precious as light. I have chosen this story for you.
Every semester the InterFraternal Council (IFC) and Panhellenic Council (Panhell) Programmers plan Greek Week. It’s basically the homecoming equivalent for Greek Life here at Puget Sound. We have a theme, we go to a volleyball game, host study hours, have a guest speaker, have a knowledge bowl competition, fundraising component and last but definitely not least Greek Olympics. Its a full week for each of the houses to spend time within the whole Greek community cheering our volleyball team on at their rival game versus PLU, get those studying on for midterms, test our general knowledge for a fun night hosted by Order of Omega, the academic society within Greek Life and get a little athletic with tug-o-war, three-legged race, and more events at Greek Olympics.
This year’s event was themed medieval with members of Greek Life encouraged to dress as knights, peasants, princes and princesses, dragons, wizards and witches and more for activities.
In my sorority, Kappa Alpha Theta, shorthand known as theta, Greek Week is an opportunity for our chapter to come together and have fun! (Because a little friendly competition always is fun 🙂 And I definitely had fun this semester because our chapter got really into it, decorating outfits for the medieval themed dress up together, crafted props for our logger outfits with axes and supporting each other through the events, cheering our team on at knowledge bowl and participating or fanatically cheering at greek olympics! it was also cool and always fun to see how spirited the other sororities and fraternities were, it really was a week full of greek love and support reminding us about the bonds in greek life and the values we uphold. #thinkgreek #upstheta
I live in an on-campus house, in a cul-de-sac off of Theme Row. The house is small and painted yellow and I always enter it through the backdoor. Next to the house is a lamp, and bolted to the base of the lamp is a payphone.
Every night when I walk back to the house, I see the payphone in the halo of light cast by the lamp. The phone is black and there are cobwebs stretched across the dial pad from 1 to 9. The receiver is attached to the phone by a silver ribbed cord that sways whenever a breeze passes.
I walk to the phone every night and contemplate it under the light. I never touch the phone. Instead, I watch it like a child on a hill away from the city watches the stars. It’s like a nightlight. A soft, contained light in the middle of our cul-de-sac. It watches over us while we sleep or lay awake dreaming.
I like walking back to the house at night and seeing the light of the payphone. I tell myself I’ll use it one day to call someone at home. I pull a rusty quarter out of my pocket and place it on top of the box. It slides onto the metal with a soft clank.
A car passes on Alder Street. Its tires emit a soft hum as they roll over the gravel of the road. Its headlights brush the tips of grass on the side of the street.
It’s dark and my roommate is sleeping. I walk quietly into the room and close the door behind me. I put on my pajamas and set my alarm. Before I crawl into bed, I look out the window and glance the lighted payphone. Someone is standing in front of it, smoking a cigarette. He removes the paper from his lips and breathes out a cloud of smoke, which, as it rises, clings like fog to the leaves of a tree. He picks up the quarter that I left on the box and slides it into the coin slot. Then he waits a moment, puts the receiver to his ear and waits for the tone to sound.
After arriving on campus for my junior year, I had thought I would be in a very different place than I am currently, roughly a week before Fall Break. Like, not physically, obviously, but mentally. “eye”* had thought I would be more prepared for both Nanowrimo and for my semester abroad in Prague this spring. Alas, I am still in the throes of the visa process, and in the planning process for my novel.**
I had (foolishly) thought that I would be finished with my visa right now; however, the most challenging part of the study abroad process is, well, challenging me. However, I comfort myself with the knowledge that as difficult as the process is, in roughly four and a half months I will be sitting in my dorm in Prague, plotting out where I am going to explore in the city next, along with people who I will be exploring with. It will be sad to leave my friends here for a semester, but I will meet new people and have so many new experiences. At least, that is what I tell myself to keep from panicking.
All this goes to show that the future? Is something that everyone occasionally struggles with. The future is made up of our perceptions until it becomes the present, as corny as that sounds, and therefore it will literally never be how we think it will be. In other words, the future is a process, and is what we make of it.
Haha, this sounds a lot more serious than I normally am. I guess midterms and heavy thoughts about the future will do that to a post! But seriously (like, even more seriously than this seriousness? Which is pretty serious, tbh), for people who are going to have their midterms, or their own semesters abroad, or are on their semesters abroad, or are deciding what they’re going to do after college, whatever– don’t despair! You will do absolutely fine, and things will go well. Study hard, don’t forget to relax, and definitely make time for friends and other things! Good luck! 🙂
Geez, reading over that last paragraph, I feel like I should be handing out popcorn or something, there is just SO MUCH corniness there. Perhaps even candy corn, given that it is seasonally appropriate right now. Oh well.
*This is the first of many bad puns you will be hearing from me. I would say more and better right now, but my brain is still in the Midterm Head Space, so. Sorry about that.
** By planning process, I mean that I have one character thought out and the vaguest semblance of a plot, which, if I were smart***about it, I would be working on developing more.
*** Actually, if I were smart about this, I wouldn’t be doing Nanowrimo this year in light of all the other things I have to do. But, writing is fun, and I feel really good about this November, so not only will I do it, but I will also update you with my progress, because I can.
(Equally, I’m a “Not you! You’re driving! I’ll tell you what the moon looks like!” type of person.)
I am also a “Look at that sunset!” type of person, a “Look at Cassiopeia!” type of person, and a “That’s an interesting cloud formation,” type of person. Instead of feeling small or insignificant when I look at the stars or the skies, I always feel more present—not necessarily important, but more like—
I, too, exist.
On September 28, when the lunar eclipse + supermoon + harvest moon + blue moon + werewolf moon occurred, I decided that there was no way I could avoid making that moon an experience. And, luckily, I had that most useful of college resources: a friend with a car.
Because it was a Sunday night, and, like most students, we had neglected our homework until the aligned stars and sheer panic coincided appropriately, we did not have much time to go out and experience this once in a lifetime lunar event. This took driving to the middle of nowhere off the table.
Instead, we drove down to the Chinese Garden and Reconciliation Park, which is right on the water. The road lights cast a faint glow over the path, but the darkness that emanated from the water created the sense of being in an area with much less human habitation
The moon did not shine at all—instead, it just hovered in the sky over the warship (name and technical class of ship unknown) by the Park. It was a deep dark red, not the orange fire I was expecting but a color that looked much more like dried blood.
The smudge* that you think is on your computer is actually the moon. *my camera is so so so bad it’s horrible
We watched the moon for about half an hour; the normal glow of the moon slowly began to crawl across its surface, breaking through the dark shadow. The wind came off the Sound, cutting through the seams on my jeans and chilling my feet. The stars glittered faintly overhead.
The moon, in all honesty, was smaller and somehow less grand than I had expected. A once in a lifetime lunar event should feel like a once in a lifetime lunar event.
A friend sent me this photo later. This is what the moon looked like in person, instead of a minuscule blackish dot.
This felt more like a nice evening by the sea, watching the moon rise and the stars come out and the lights of the warship twinkle. That was all that mattered to me.
Then we returned to campus to continue our homework.
In the process of writing my thesis, I got a ten page literary analysis, a one-hundred and thirty page novella, and a ton of cookies. My thesis presentation was today and I had a small group so there were a lot of cookies left over. They were good cookies too, dark chocolate with white chocolate chips. More importantly, however, my thesis helped me become a better writer.
I started searching for a director for it almost exactly one year ago. I had just found out that my adviser wasn’t willing to do it. (Tip, before you choose an adviser ask if they are willing to help you with your thesis, if you need to do one). I had to keep telling myself take deep breaths and not panic. Eventually though, I found two great professors, Denise Despres and Laura Krugoff, who were willing to shepherd me through the process. Together we tackled issues like: “Is Mara (one of my antagonists) evil enough to murder William (the protagonist’s husband)? It was a pretty dark novella.
While I was writing it, my novella changed in all sorts of ways that I didn’t anticipate. Mara’s murdering William had been a catalyst for the rest of the plot and now I was learning that Mara wouldn’t do that. As an author my thought on that was “um, now what?” I thought I was in control; I wasn’t. My characters dictated the story, not me. If a character decided that she didn’t want do the action that starts the plot, I was just going to have to live with it.
The novella started out as a diabology based project and mutated into a police procedural, killing twenty pages of my research in the process. The original page count for it was supposed to be sixty to ninety pages but after I finished the first draft I realized that the story actually wanted to be 130 pages. So 130 pages it was.
In those 130 pages I learned a lot of things. I learned how to sit still and write (harder than it sounds), that every story needs a good villain (otherwise the hero is just sitting there), and how to give a story a life of its own. Stories are like children, sooner or later they start wanting to grow up and be independent. And as a parent/author, you’re bound to love them anyway.
I used to see home as a stationary object — a house situated between the ocean and the bay in rural Northern California. Where redwood trees grew in saltwater clogged air and I knew everything, I grew up with it traced on the back of my hand. There was an ode of familiarity: our old parlor stove that spit up flames as we tossed in wood; the drawing I made in kindergarten that my mother refused to take down; my cat, who would be content sitting next to you until you tried to pet her; and the treadle sewing machine my dad brought home when I was eight.
I always knew college marked a time of limbo. We are in-between the stages of angsty rebellious teens and adults who know where their lives will take them. Everything is suspended in the current unknown, wherein we’re convinced that anything could happen. (Because anything can.)
I expected that for nine months out of the year we’d branch out. Explore a new place, learn things, gather all of these experiences which we’re told will define our life and then we go back home. Back to our roots, back to everything we knew from before. I forgot that our perspectives would shift.
On a cork-board in my childhood house, there is a pinned up flyer with a picture of campus that says, “HOME.” My mom put it there when it first came in the mail nearly two years ago and it has stayed there since then. When I went to Orientation and sat in the stands along with everyone else, students were counting how many times Ron Thom repeated the word. (I think it was 67, if memory serves correctly.)
Although I could tell you countless numbers of facts that I learned in my first year here, none of them are the most valuable thing I could say. Instead it’s that I’ve discovered home isn’t a stationary object: it is the way people make you feel. It’s the way I feel here.
It’s falling asleep at three a.m. with your friends talking and laughing around you. The morning the fountain froze, when we all gathered around it, taking pictures of the icicles hanging down. Making cookies on Pi Day and setting an alarm so you are eating them right at 3/14/15 9:26:53. Running in the rain. Being sung to by a barber shop quartet on a friendaversry. Racing to the bus stop and managing to get there right as it pulls up. Going to Oppenheimer Cafe in the rain, right before closing, when the lights shine just so. Spending hours helping a friend with an essay, for a class that you’re not even in. Tight hugs, long, slow smiles. Playing Justin Bieber’s acoustic album and Nickelback, just because we could. Sitting and starring at the stars. Grabbing a cardboard box filled with packing peanuts and commandeering it. Bringing it into your room. Convincing people to come and sit in The Box. Seeing someone on campus and taking a “SPOTTED” picture. Walking to the Met late at night for The Cookie, just for them all to be gone. Curling up in a blanket, drinking tea, while watching a movie. Hanging a stray sock on a command hook, to see how long it’ll take people to notice. (Sixteen hours.) Waking up early to meet people for breakfast, hours before your first class. And staying up with your friends, even though it’s three a.m. and laughing.
The fountain, the morning after it froze.
Gaea sitting in The Box, before she brought it back to our room.
Going out to dinner for our last meal together before summer. From front to back, left to right: Maddy, Me, Gaea, Maggie, Emily, and Claire.
Home is all of the memories I’ve made here and all the memories to come.
Next on the list? Beverages. An easy choice too, since no normal human can resist chocolate milk. (Unless you hate chocolate milk, which is totally fine ’cause that’s your opinion. I mean, you’re wrong, but y’know. It’s fine.)
Taking a little break amidst the tests and essays was well deserved and necessary, and now we’re free, with a lovely first day of fall break before the second half of the semester picks up! Here’s to that lovely turn of phrase, treat yo’self!
