rumor

[in descending order]

Will You Be My Friendster, by Shamus Brady

Tragedy in Film, by Neil Anderson

Paltrow Shines in Sylvia, by Alex Matthews

tooting their own horns: the inaccessibility of classical music, by Cath Kiwala

Fair & Balanced: Another Look at the Matrix, by Neil Anderson

My Matrix Fetish: Why Freud Agrees That the Matrix Revolutions Sucks, by Colby Chamberlain

Again, Straw Men, By Ben Roth
[the back-and-forth continues. Care to jump into the fray?]

On Satire, Hate Mail, Republicans, and Porn, by Alexandra Grashkina
[a response to the article "Straw Men"]

Kill Bill, Volume I, by Neil Anderson

Straw Men, by Ben Roth
[a response to the article “10 Things to Do If You Get a Homophobic Email”]

Staying in the Closet on Campus, by 05Kid

Slashing Compulsory Heterosexuality: Slash Fanfiction and Subversion of Sexual Norms (in a Nutshell!), by Alix Banham

More than Bjork: My Year in Iceland , by Cath Kiwala

The 72-Hour Window : The Health Center and Emergency Contraception, by Nora Kenworthy

Landgrabbing Americans and Me, by Mike Eros

When Will We Stop Trying to Look So Smart and Actually Be So?, by Ben Roth

10 Things To Do If You Get a Homophobic Email, by Alexandra Grashkina

[send articles to rumor@wso]

By Shamus Brady

The night starts off innocently enough, going to local bars and tracking down people we went to High School with, just to see who got ugly. Next thing I know I’m home in my room, joining Friendster after a couple months of resisting. I go to sleep, wake up the next day, and it’s a whole new world.

Well not really. I have affirmation from people I didn’t need it from that they are in fact my friends...but it is kinda nice having electronic proof.

But then it starts to take over. I need more friends. It isn’t a contest, no one is counting, it seems like bragging about having a big buddy-list on Instant Messenger. But of course I track down every person I remotely know and ask them to be my friend. And once I’ve accomplished this, I need to better myself. I replace my good old trusty facebook picture with a nice little black and white one that makes me look like Whitey Buldger. And now it has me. I need more pictures, because well I’d never do this, but just in case the love of my life sees my mug shot, and reads the brilliance in my profile and decides that this is it, I want to show my best side. So I scan the best I got, I hone my profile to be witty and charming, rebel and artist...anything but desperate.

Then I sit back and wait...and wait. Nothing happens, no one batters down my internet door. I try to think why, then it comes to me...everyone else is just as afraid as I am of just sending that random message to someone we don’t know. The horrible fear of rejection, remembering the girl or boy you’d never talked to in your life and haven’t since when you asked them out in 7th grade, because, well, people you never talked to always seemed the best people to ask out then...and maybe since it didn’t work then it will work now, no not at all. The sad thing is I can’t even get to that point.

I send someone a little witty message, after combing the site for hours. Can’t pick someone too pretty, or too plain, either could be disastrous. Must have the perfect victim...why did I just say victim? Finally, we’ve located the target captain, calling all cars, fire the photon torpedoes. Composing the message is even more challenging than writing that “yeah we hooked up last night email,” that a select few fools like myself always feel the need to right on Sunday afternoons or nights. So I do it, finally, and pop in a movie to prevent myself from checking my email every fricking hour. The next day you have to check, to see if they signed in and they just ignored you. You realize they probably haven’t, that you wouldn’t have responded yet either, that anyone that does must be desperate, but we’ve all seen Swingers...and I’ll be damned if I ever follow that shit. So I check, and low and behold...she is no longer in my personal network, the Friendster gods have someone cut us off, the link has been broken, we now officially do not exist to each other any longer.

Then I wonder, is it my fault, did she plead for her life, begging people to slash certain connections, to cut herself off from this maniac who dared to send her a personal message? You feel guilty, you’ve damaged the web for others, you were selfish, they didn’t get greedy like you, they just wanted to look, they didn’t need any words back from the shooting galleries of photos.

And then you realize you’ll never know. She might message you someday, she might not. You get over it, you go on a little less, a little love lost for this machine of amicability. But you know it isn’t over, you’ll get bored, you’ll want to procrastinate. You too will wonder at that slightest hint of possibility. “Let me tell you how we met kids...back in the day of the first internet, there was a little thing called Friendster.”

Editor’s note: If you’ve been abroad or in a coma for the past few months and have no idea what this article is talking about, go to www.friendster.com.

BACK TO TOP

By Neil Anderson

Tragedy in film, true tragedy, is such a rare thing. Some comedies tend to leave tragedy out of their universe altogether to keep their atmosphere light, while big-budget action films gloss over what would otherwise be tragic occurrences so as not to detract from the entertainment provided through their violence. Romantic films and dramas, on the other hand, often use a tragedy as a vehicle for change, an injection of or jolt back to reality that allows the characters to change themselves for the better. In such films the tragedy is still tragic, to be sure, but it is ultimately overcome or overwhelmed. Mystic River falls into none of these categories. It is no Shakespearian tragedy where the fatal flaw of the hero dooms him from the start, nor is it a drama where tragedy causes everyone to come closer together and count their blessings. Instead, Mystic River is all about tragedy itself, and about how people react to that tragedy, the horrible reality of the murder of Katie, a nineteen-year-old girl.

Jimmy (Sean Penn), Katie’s ex-con father, vows to find and kill his daughter’s murderer, and with the help of some local tough guys, proceeds to conduct his own investigation. Jimmy struggles to respond the only way he knows how—through violence—and Penn’s performance shines through in all of Jimmy’s anger and sadness. Jimmy’s childhood friend Dave (Tim Robbins) returns home the night of Katie’s murder with blood all over him, a wound on his hand, and a slice across his stomach. Dave quickly becomes the police’s prime suspect, and Robbins radiates the constant confusion and torment that haunt a man forever scarred by childhood trauma (the tragedy that starts off the film and segues into the present-day murder of Katie). Completing the circle, Sean (Kevin Bacon), childhood friend of Jimmy and Dave, is a homicide detective assigned to Katie’s case, with Laurence Fishburne playing his partner. Sean’s wife left him six months ago, and she periodically calls him but never says a word, as he tries to talk her into coming back. Bacon gives the performance of his life as Sean struggles to talk to his wife, to piece together Katie’s final night, and to follow the right information to the murderer.

Clint Eastwood’s direction and superb casting choices are right on the money in a film that reveals information not in the instant revelation of a villain’s retelling his master plot, but in the steady peeling away of the layers of an onion. Mystic River delivers no instant gratification or easy answers; each layer brings with it more complexity, and more tortured memories. In an unusual move for its genre, Mystic River is set almost entirely during daylight, with only a few scenes taking place at night. Katie may have been murdered under the cover of night, but her body is discovered in broad daylight, with precious few shadows to dim the horror, just as the film ultimately leaves precious few shadows to dim the past. A rare night scene, then, when Dave tells his son the story of a boy escaping from wolves, is that much more powerful, as the camera shifts until only the edge of Dave’s face is illuminated by the moonlight from the bedroom window. Is Dave a monster or just a broken shell of a man? The camera remains ambivalent, refusing to choose one side or the other, merely watching as Dave’s face is enveloped in shadow.

BACK TO TOP

By Alex Matthews

Fame cannot be avoided. And when it comes
You will have paid for it with your happiness,
Your husband and your life.'

Ted Hughes wrote these words in his final work, Birthday Letters, in which he broke a 35 year silence about his relationship with fellow poet Sylvia Plath. Based on his and her works, the new bio-flick Sylvia portrays Plath’s relationship with Hughes during the tragic final years of her life. Both poets have had a tremendous impact on the literary world. Sylvia is both a look at the life and work of Sylvia Plath and a commentary on the marriage of two competing artists.

“Sylvia” begins in Cambridge, England during the spring of 1960. Plath and Hughes first meet at a college party where they interact playfully, and they passionately kiss one another as only poets can do. Hughes steals her earring and Plath bites his cheek so hard that she draws blood. The following sequence is marked by beautiful steady cam-shots of the English countryside, including a scene where the two float blissfully down a river in a Venetian style boat. The sexual tension culminates in the bedroom where they hurl poetic quotations at one another, which unlike in Dawson’s Creek, is actually plausible given the nature of the two characters. The two poets are married, and they travel to America together where Sylvia introduces Hughes to her mother. Foreshadowing is a central component of this scene when Plath’s mother warns Hughes that Sylvia loves him only because she fears him. They move back to England, and Plath becomes instantly jealous of Hughes’ widely acclaimed success and charm. The tone of the movie takes a frantic turn here when darkness engulfs most of the scenery. The score becomes feverish. Plath’s rage is fueled by long absences from home that Hughes takes to promote his work. While away on one of these trips, Hughes falls into an extramarital relationship with another woman. This love triangle drives the film to its unfortunate ending where (I am not spoiling anything here) Plath commits suicide alone as her children sleep.

Say what you will about Sylvia Plath, but she was never average. As a result, an attempt to maintain a neutral stance is often unsatisfying to the audience and even somewhat insulting to its subject. Was Sylvia Plath a woman driven into mental illness by the infidelity of her husband, or was Hughes a faithful man who stood by her as long as he could bear her insanity? The question has been the subject of rumination for nearly half a century by countless novelists, biographers, and poets. The film adequately portrays Plath’s spiral into insanity but never tells us why she does so. By refusing to stir up controversy, director Christine Jeffs kills her main character long before she can commit suicide herself.

For the most part, the dialogue is flat, the characters are underdeveloped, and the epic score sends a wave of drama through otherwise ordinary scenes. Fortunately, however, Gwenyth Paltrow’s portrayal of Plath is Oscar-worthy (Perhaps even better than her award winning performance in Shakespeare in Love). Her brilliant acting all but redeems an otherwise mediocre film. It would be easy enough to overact a part about such a conflict-ridden character, but Paltrow instead burrows herself into Plath’s psyche where she remains faithful to the character even as her beautiful blue eyes gloss over with depressed madness.

If you want to see a first-class depiction of depression, then you have it here thanks to Paltrow. Just don’t expect much of a film to go along with it. I recommend this movie for serious Paltrow fans or for those who already have an interest in Plath and her story. As for the rest of us, take it or leave it. I know I was glad to cleanse myself of Paltrow’s last performance in Shallow Hal.

BACK TO TOP

by Cath Kiwala

Any student who’s been to a concert hosted in Chapin Hall doubtlessly notices something quite unnverving: The average concert-goer age is well over 50. It doesn’t matter who it is, if it’s a student ensemble, or if it’s a big name, like Branford Marsalis; the vast majority of the heads in the hall sport grey hair. As a composer and performer of classical and contemporary music, I find the inaccesibility of music to the general public quite unnerving. Whether it’s the audience, or the performers, or the composers, classical music seems to be an elitist bourgeois institution. In fact, having these three so closely linked means that unless drastic changes are made to the manner in which classical music is created, presented, and enjoyed, then this society will self-perpetuate for generations to come.

Audiences, in my experience, consist of mainly older people who may or may not go to concerts for their personal enjoyment. Honestly, it’s not my position to judge. But what I do know is that the concerts endorsed by corporations give away tickets to its members as a "favor" and that the concert hall is yet another one of those places for socialites to see and be seen. Here, in the United States, little government funding exists for the arts and music, which automatically shifts our view that art is not so important. The actual cost of production is shouldered by corporations who place their logo in the program and send their associates to the concert. The idea of individuals supporting and patronizing the arts becomes relatively insignificant in the real world. Although that doesn’t exactly apply here at Williams, students here simply don’t take advantage of events happening here because of prejudices that this sort of music does not appeal to them. Saturday’s Symphonic Winds concert presented an ambitious program basically geared towards students, but most probably people’s misconceptions about the music kept the hall from filling. That’s crap. Music like this exists in films and is praised to high acclaim - don’t tell me that you don’t like it.

On to the instrumentalists. Next time you watch a classical music group like the Symphonic Winds perform, make a point of counting the number of "students of color" on stage. I’m willing to bet money that you could count them on one hand. It’s not the fault of the respective ensembles; it’s more the fault of the institution of music. The very nature of being a performer requires the ability to meet a financial burden, which is unrealistic to expect of people from low-income areas. How many youth orchestras exist in the middle of low-income urban areas? How many exist in high-income suburban areas? The fact of the matter is that upper-middle-class (and upper-class) children, usually white or Asian, end up as the instrumentalists because they have parents who both value music as a constructive art form, and are willing to shell out sizable sums of money to pay for instruments. As someone who’s bought a few, some with help and some not, let me tell you: The lowest-end good instruments cost a hell of a lot.

One other thing I’ve noticed about instrumentalists: The performers from "disadvantaged" or non-bourgeois backgrounds have a link into music through a family member or close friend who has received musical training somewhere. Without that personal connection, few people from those backgrounds see the value in classical music, let alone the idea of becoming a performer.

What worries me the most is the discrepancy between the composer and the audience in terms of what constitutes "good" art. Having been on both sides of the issue, I understand the concerns of each camp, but in my eyes neither tries hard enough to bridge the divide between itself and the other. Composers consider themselves artists, and as a result believe they have full license to write whatever music they want, regardless of whether it sounds good or not. Audiences, on the other hand, believe that most anything composed after 1890 sounds like crap. Both camps reach opposite sides of the same impasse and refuse to reconcile.

Composers do have a duty to write music that will be performed, not music that will exist as manuscript paper yellowing in a drawer. My experience, especially around young composers, is that the temptation to write overly dissonant or ugly music wins over. To the student or newly graduated composer, all of the rules of tonality provide little or no guidance or worth. What is ironic about this whole situation is that students don’t realize that, in their quest to be at the forefront of avant-garde music, the push to create utter chaos and call it music is reactionary. It happened in the 1960’s and again in the 1970’s. Creating discord for the hell of it, to be "new" and "fresh" and "complex" through creating noise doesn’t take us anywhere new - it’s a step back, to the tune of forty years old. Hindemith may have been seen as reactionary when he promoted a system of tonality that required a resolution to a major chord at the end (i.e., a comforting tonal arrival point is the release of tension built up by discord). But, damn it, he was right. His music works because it’s both tense and relaxed, because it can be over our heads but refers to (and ends with) stuff we know and like. Creating new music isn’t a simple combination of the new and old. You can’t just take a symphony and put a rock band with it and automatically call it "art." Creating something new requires actual creativity and originality. We seem to have overlooked that in this day and age of blindly encouraging everyone to be an artist.

Audiences also have a duty to open their minds and stretch their ears. Programmers of classical music concerts have attempted to do just that by juxtaposing "new" music alongside old classics that the audience generally finds more palatable. To be fair, though, the presentation of music needs to be altered to attract a younger crowd. Instead of sitting down, stand up. Instead of standing idly, have room for dancing or personal movement. Instead of watching an orchestra saw away on their instruments, include some visual or video art to accompany the music and give the audience something concrete to connect to. We need to integrate electronics as a new instrument, and present it in a way that is not so exclusive. Performers need to break out of the staid traditions of their instrument and be willing to experiment with different styles of performing and presenting music. Basically, the classical music world needs to sell out to save itself, to follow the revolution created by popular music and offer an equally interesting alternative. Only when that shiny allure is there will people, ordinary people of all ages and backgrounds, be drawn to classical music either as creator or participant.

BACK TO TOP

by Neil Anderson

I suppose I should start by getting the bashing out of the way. The Matrix Revolutions is, by no stretch of the imagination, a good movie. Its plot is, by and large, predictable. Its philosophy is simplistic. Its acting and dialogue, with one shining exception, are forgettable. As for the screenwriting, let’s just say that the monkeys with typewriters who wrote The Matrix Reloaded are back in force. In all seriousness, though, you know you should fire your screenwriters when a characters last words in a tragic death sequence set off a wave of laughter. “Kiss me,” spoken by the lips of a dying woman should not be funny, but it was.

Originality is missing in this third installment, as it was in the previous two. Blind messiahs have been done before. We have all seen the good guy unite with the bad guy to take on the worse guy (X2, Blade II, Hulk, and Dick Tracy, to name a few). The kid too young for battle saving the day is nothing new. Perhaps the movie should have been named The Matrix Reincarnated. On the other hand, they did make the machine leader into a flying giant sea urchin. I definitely did not see that one coming.

Perhaps the worst of it all is that the Wachowski brothers seemed to miss learning so many lessons. The bending spoons of the first movie, brought back for a cameo in Reloaded, are gone, as are the interesting lines related to the spoon, but an otherwise useless kid is back. Despite the mass nausea caused by its longer sister sequence in Reloaded, there is yet another rave sequence in Revolutions, and it is less painful only due to its significantly shorter length. The few good actors in the film, with the exception of Hugo Weaving, are still being underused; Monica Bellucci’s Persephone may have returned, but she only has one line. Finally, the brothers still have yet to learn that the difference between one hundred and one thousand copies of a character on screen is largely academic; a line of thousands of Agent Smiths is no longer impressive. I so wanted them all to burst into a chorus of “The Ants Go Marching” as Neo approached, but no dice. Then again, there is something beautifully ironic in making Smith into the very thing, a virus, which he classified humanity as.

Ultimately, though, the brothers have clearly taken something from their first two installments. Good lines are once again put in the words of the most interesting character and best actor, Hugo Weaving’s Agent Smith; pay attention to everything he says during the final fight. Guns are back, en masse, unlike in Reloaded where they were sorely missed outside the freeway sequence. Consequential characters finally die without being resurrected. The special effects are still good, and the action is varied: one slick gunfight, one massive battle, and one incredible hand-to-hand duel. Melee weapons are thankfully missing from this installment. In addition to being varied, the action is never drawn out. Fight sequences in Revolutions, unlike in Reloaded, never overstay their welcome—they last as long as they should, not more. Some of the fights are very long, but they are never boring. I have to admit that seeing the sky rain Sentinels rocked my world. On the effects side, after a one-movie hiatus, water is back, and it takes no prisoners. Perhaps by accident, the brothers included water, provided by a sprinkler system, in one of the many gunfights in the original Matrix, and then failed to bring the effective technique for the sequel, Reloaded. Here, they use water for everything except swimming (which tends to be boring onscreen anyway), from rain, to puddles, to a rainbow. It is my firm belief that water can improve any fight sequence if used properly, and Revolutions confirms that belief.

The Matrix Revolutions is actually revolutionary for the series. It takes the risk of killing characters we are supposed to care about (no one was emotionally invested in Switch, Apoc, or Dozer—ok, so maybe you liked Mouse, but he was completely dispensable plot-wise). It ends the war between the humans and machines not with victory, but with armistice. It refuses to kill the film’s least likable character, Commander Locke, realizing it is far better to show him he was wrong by allowing him to see the peace.

Is the movie good? Its mostly bland characters, boring lines, and standard plot ensure that it will not win any Oscars for directing or acting. Its plot is inconsistent and its soundtrack is not even memorable (unlike Reloaded). On the other hand, its action is exciting, its special effects are nothing short of magnificent, and it still has cool lines for Hugo Weaving to deliver in anger. Revolutions is not “good,” but it is fun, and I suppose that is all I ask of Hollywood anymore.

BACK TO TOP

By Colby Chamberlain

[Dear Reader: No worries, this review will not reveal a single iota of plot, largely because there is little plot to reveal.]

The lobby scene. The first time I saw The Matrix, no scene was more exciting; nowadays, no scene is more troubling. Slain men in uniform and exploding elevator shafts mean much more in 2003 than they did in 1999. It makes you reflect on topics that run contrary to escapism.

But despite that pang of anxiety, the lobby scene still rocks. Because that's the Prodigy playing in the background. Because leather jackets and aerial kicks complement each other so well. Because, in slow motion, all that bursting granite looks like beautiful confetti. And let's not forget those bullet cartridges, the ones that sprinkled over Keanu's steel-toed boots, so delicately clinking, like champagne bubbles against crystal.

So here's the thing: I can't deal with bullets, and gun-shots make me cringe. But those cartridges, floating, gleaming, clinking, never fail to inspire an inappropriate shudder. Why is that?

Our good friend Sigmund Freud might have the answer. If you have the chance, I recommend you read "Notes on Fetishism" yourself, since it's damn interesting and even entertaining (in that "Oh, Sigmund, how's the cocaine?" sort of way). For now, though, I will hazard a rough summary. Overlooking confounding phrases like "the missing female phallus," we can understand fetishism as a way of denying a pleasure while also indulging it. When the real source of sexual pleasure isn't readily available, you displace it onto something else, like, say, shoes. So, in the case of my example, you get all hot and bothered over the clinking cartridges, but overlook the sex appeal of the bullets themselves.

I wouldn't deny that fetishism presents a moral dilemma: It lets us enjoy our illicit pleasures and deny any wrongdoing, an escape-hatch that is particularly troubling in the case of vicarious violence. But in an imperfect world, I would rather that people get their kicks from the weight of a gun in their hand than from pulling the trigger.

Plus, let's be honest, fetishism can make things a whole lot more interesting. In the case of sex, certainly, the aesthetic possibilities are more numerous than the biological ones -- and the same holds true in The Matrix. Inside the green-tinged digital world, gravity grows limber, the characters (and their outfits!) have style to burn, and the language of the Gospels meets the conundrums of Alice in Wonderland. It's the fetishized world, where everyone knows kung-fu. That spoon was so cool because it wasn't there.

By contrast, in the poorly named Zion, the characters exchange their Ray-Bans and snakeskin for the damaged goods from a J. Crew clothing-outlet. The dialogue grows wooden, exchanging Zen pseudo-references to "The One," for gruff interjections like "Jesus H. Christ!," and the action is a gummy mess of bazookas, blood, and flaccid bursts of machine-gun fire.

What's so wrong with The Matrix Revolutions? Too much time in Zion, too little in that vinyl-and-kung-fu splendor that made the first Matrix so great. Instead of the fetish, we get the phallus, a big, gleaming red drill (!) at the center of an overwrought fight-scene. The plodding masculine obviousness drains all pleasure out of the spectacle. For me, this season of promising sequels has gone terribly awry. My only hope is that Return of the King will play up the sexual tension between Legolas and Gimli.

BACK TO TOP

by Ben Roth

Satire allows—nay thrives—on exaggeration? Who knew?

My point was that good satire has to target specific and actually held views. Ms. Grashkina’s list targeted, I think, views that no one holds (or at least, that no one has publicly voiced) in our community. Again, let’s look at a specific example. Ms. Grashkina said:

“DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell other people who sent you the email: they might hate and ostracize the person who called you a faggot instead of patting him on the shoulder and giving him candy as they duly should.”

What’s the implied target here? Toning down all exaggeration, the target is the claim that we should somehow praise the hate emailers. But no one has said that as far as I know (and I would argue against anyone who did). The strongest thing that has been said, I think, is that the manner in which the worst email was written was despicable while we, both morally and pragmatically, have to allow the content. And you simply can’t exaggerate from this view to “patting him on the shoulder and giving him candy as they duly should.” That’s a slide that even satire doesn’t allow. Thus her piece dishonestly ploys at credibility by shooting down a fake and easily defeatable position, rather than engage anyone real.

What’s the implied alternative to the fake view attacked? Here’s where the unstable exaggeration of satire is dangerous (not bad, not unallowable, just dangerous). Clearly Ms. Grashkina thinks we should react negatively to the emails. So do I. But she articulates this response as “hate and ostracize.” If this is unexaggerated, then I vehemently disagree, mainly on pragmatic grounds. You can’t change someone’s mind by ostracizing him or her. The problem is that Ms. Grashkina doesn’t elaborate, and doesn’t make the form/content distinction, so we can’t tell how much she is exaggerating. The satirical list was a great idea; I just think it was used in a completely unfortunate way.

Her five new points completely step back from the positions implied by her original list, I think. And they go out of their way to misinterpret me. Let’s look at them closely (yes, I’m going to continue to do this to make sure I don’t talk past Ms. Grashkina’s points):

1. “Hate messages transmitted via email or any other means are not somet[h]ing we should welcome in our community. They are not merely another opinion that must be shared. They are expressions of hate that no one should be forced to put up with under the premise that "Well, some people harbor different opinions about gayness.”

Again, the form/content distinction is crucial (I’m going to continue harping on this too if people don’t pay attention to it). Threatening and hateful manners of speaking are unacceptable. But homophobic content is indeed another opinion that must be shared. People here think it, and if we don’t want them to voice their opinions violently, we have to allow them to voice them civilly without automatically being scapegoated.

2. “There is no reason why someone who sends a blatantly offensive email should be protected from people's reactions. I think it is not merely justifiable, but also necessary, that hate messages are not condoned by our community. The community should know about them.”

There’s no inherent moral reason, but there are reasons. Pragmatically, it’s self-defeating to the goal of the acceptance of homosexuality to scapegoat anyone and everyone that voices homophobic opinions. Tell people about it, just don’t distract everyone from the wider issues at hand by passing on the names. (And legally, are you allowed to publicly share emails?)

“In fact, I personally sent a very polite email to the sender of the homophobic message and engaged in a discussion with him without ostracizing, hating, or threatening him at all. He did, however, advise me to go to the "hell of a country" I am from.”

That’s really unfortunate, but I think it’s the right approach, and still the right approach even after being told off. I hope that was the approach meant to be implied in the example above.

3. “The fact that not everyone likes chalkings does not mean that chalkings should not be there. It might be sad to Mr.Roth, but no one is capable of liking everything around them. When they do not like something, though, they should not try to destroy it.”

Did I say only universally accepted speech should be allowed? I thought I was saying quite the opposite—that alternative opinions need to be heard and we need to make sure they can come out in non-threatening ways. With respect to the chalkings, I just pointed out, again pragmatically, that angering the people whose minds you’re trying to change is a bad idea, so it’s worth considering how they have reacted in the past and are likely to react in the future.

4. “In regards to the Garfield Republican Club: correct me if I am wrong about Williams reality, Mr.Roth, but don't you know that unlike gay people, Garfield Republicans do not get hate messages on their email and do not by any means represent a marginalized community that the majority often descriminates against? Fine, maybe most people on campus do not share Republican views. But they don't threaten Republicans with going to hell and do not call them "faggots.” I would go as far as to say that double standards in this case are necessary. They are necessary to protect the gay community and to make people more open-minded. Playing gay porn is part of educating and exposing the community to the fact that non-hetereosexual alternatives do exist, something many people choose to forget. Playing "Garfield Republican porn"? Hm, I don't know how that would be educational but maybe Republicans have some sort of alternative approach to sex that I remain unaware of.”

Um, this seems to just ignore what I said: “Should an exception be made? I think so. In the context of Queer Pride week, it can spark discussion about sexuality in a way it can’t when played at a “Pimps & Hos” party.” We agree. So I don’t know why she’s thrown that unnecessary shot at me.

5. “Finally, with regards to "The Record": Ben Roth accuses me of "targeting" my satire towards the Record.”

Actually, I accused her of targeting the Record over-generally, uselessly calling something bad without pointing out specifically what the problem is, which is different.

“I am, in fact, doing this. I am targeting the Record because I have no other choice: the Record is the only publication on campus that took any stand on the issue of homophobia.”

So we can only criticize publications? Lots of individual made their views public.

“The stand that it took, in my opinion, merits satire. Mr.Roth is free to think otherwise. But I am also free to be critical at the only Williams publication and the extent to which it (mis)represents the voice of our student body.”

I think parts of the Record’s coverage were problematic too. But you need to say what specifically was problematic instead of just pointing your finger at the whole thing. I even think satire would have been a good way to contribute to the debate. Just not misleading and dishonest satire.

Finally, if you disagree with what I say, then attack what I say. Don’t attribute things to me that I clearly never said or implied; don’t fall back on lame, junior-high, he-must-have-little-sense-of-humor attacks; and don’t put a word I didn’t even say in scare quotes and then misuse it.

BACK TO TOP

by Alexandra Grashkina

With regards to the recent response on my article in"Rumor,” I would like to point out that the genre of satire allows for sharpness and exagerration in order to emphasize certain flaws. Anyone who takes everything they read literally either cannot read satire, chooses to misinterpet it, or has little sense of humor.

I would like to also point out that I do stand firmly behind the following points:

1.Hate messages transmitted via email or any other means are not someting we should welcome in our community. They are not merely another opinion that must be shared. They are expressions of hate that no one should be forced to put up with under the premise that "Well, some people harbor different opinions about gayness."

2. There is no reason why someone who sends a blatantly offensive email should be protected from people's reactions. I think it is not merely justifiable, but also necessary, that hate messages are not condoned by our community. The community should know about them. In fact, I personally sent a very polite email to the sender of the homophobic message and engaged in a discussion with him without ostracizing, hating, or threatening him at all. He did, however, advise me to go to the "hell of a country" I am from.

3. The fact that not everyone likes chalkings does not mean that chalkings should not be there. It might be sad to Mr.Roth, but no one is capable of liking everything around them. When they do not like something, though, they should not try to destroy it.

4. In regards to the Garfield Republican Club: correct me if I am wrong about Williams reality, Mr.Roth, but don't you know that unlike gay people, Garfield Republicans do not get hate messages on their email and do not by any means represent a marginalized community that the majority often descriminates against? Fine, maybe most people on campus do not share Republican views. But they don't threaten Republicans with going to hell and do not call them "faggots.” I would go as far as to say that double standards in this case are necessary. They are necessary to protect the gay community and to make people more open-minded. Playing gay porn is part of educating and exposing the community to the fact that non-hetereosexual alternatives do exist, something many people choose to forget. Playing "Garfield Republican porn"? Hm, I don't know how that would be educational but maybe Republicans have some sort of alternative approach to sex that I remain unaware of.

4. Finally, with regards to "The Record": Ben Roth accuses me of "targeting" my satire towards the Record. I am, in fact, doing this. I am targeting the Record because I have no other choice: the Record is the only publication on campus that took any stand on the issue of homophobia. The stand that it took, in my opinion, merits satire. Mr.Roth is free to think otherwise. But I am also free to be critical at the only Williams publication and the extent to which it (mis)represents the voice of our student body.

BACK TO TOP

by Neil Anderson

Quentin Tarantino’s movies are infamous for their bloodbaths, and Kill Bill Vol. 1 is no exception. In fact, it is his bloodiest movie yet, from the gruesome anime retelling of the origins of Lucy Liu’s character, to a sword fight in a Tokyo restaurant in which the Bride (Uma Thurman) takes on eighty-eight men with katanas. Heads roll, stumps squirt, limbs fly, and the blood practically never stops flowing, from the film’s violent beginning to its gruesome end. It seems that Tarantino still fails to realize that increasing the quantity of blood spilled in a movie does not make that blood less real more comic, or more distant. He may be fascinated by blood spurting five feet up from a severed neck, but for the audience the whole ordeal verges on nauseating. The bloodletting may be excessive, but it is still dead serious. This excessiveness is probably the main reason that Quentin Tarantino has thus far remained only a cult, and not a mainstream, success.

That being said, Tarantino is still an extremely talented filmmaker who manages to weave a classic tale of revenge in creative new ways, and Kill Bill Vol. 1 shows that talent in every scene. What other director or screenwriter would give his heroine a bright yellow pickup truck labeled “Pussy Wagon”? The sometimes linear, always engaging story of the Bride’s quest for vengeance never fails to keep the audience’s attention or throw a nice little moment our way. As usual, it is the little touches that make this Tarantino film special. While much of the violence is horrifying, the old-fashioned shadowy fight against the blue screen after the power goes out is well worth the wait. During the climatic battle between the head of the Tokyo yakuza underworld (Liu) and the Bride, there is a long pause in the violence as both women recover their composure after being wounded. The motionless shot is disturbed only by the gently fall snow, and the silence is broken only by a small fountain that slowly fills, tips, and then fills again. And, of course, there is the obligatory trunk-shot, which, along with the enthralling stories, will always keep me coming back to Tarantino’s films (if you are one of his fans, you know what I mean). Through all the gore, Tarantino still knows how to successfully make a beautiful moment. But, as each of these moments comes to its end, the viewer cannot help feeling guilty at the pleasure derived between the film’s frequent violent outbursts.

This leads us, then, to the morality of the film. The Bride is seeking revenge on the five people who she believes killed her entire wedding party and unborn child, and put her into a coma for four years. She proceeds to hunt them down one by one (rest assured that several baddies remain for the next film, Kill Bill Vol. 2, due out early in 2004), and kills anyone who gets in her way. The law, children, and even an appeal to God himself by her own sword smith cannot stop her in quest. From the get go, we cannot help but sympathize with a woman who loses everyone she cares about, who is raped while in a coma, and who knows her baby is dead thanks to those she hunts. As the film goes on, and the body count rises, however, it becomes more difficult to sympathize with Tarantino’s violent heroine. Surprisingly, in what appears to be a major break with his standard glorification of violence, Tarantino gives us reason to believe that he, too, may believe that the Bride is going too far. At the end of the opening scene is the single image from the film that I will never be able to forget. As the Bride stands over the body of her second target and cleans her knife, the camera angle changes so as to reveal the doorway to the kitchen…and the four-year-old girl standing there. She takes in her mother’s corpse, and the bloodied image of the Bride, with complete aplomb. Not a single tear falls from her eyes, no look of surprise or horror fills her face, and not even a whimper escapes her lips. She just looks with wide eyes, and listens as the Bride explains that her mother “had it coming,” and then invites the girl to come after her, too, when she’s older. We, the viewers, are that little girl, watching on through the violence, through the vengeance, and through the beauty, and we do not really know what to make of it. All we can do, is watch, and wait for Vol. 2.

BACK TO TOP

by Ben Roth

Alexandra Grashkina’s irony-laden list seems to me to go out of its way to misinterpret just about everyone who has responded with anything more than “BAD! BAD! BAD!” to the recent homophobic emails, including, pretty obviously, Dan Ohnemus and my op-ed in the Record. I’d like to respond to her list, item by item:

1. “Homophobic opinions are part of our campus life…”

This is indeed true. Both the WSO forums incident and the recent emails clearly demonstrate there is homophobic sentiment on our campus.

“…and it is better that people speak them out rather than bottle them up inside their homophobic self.”

If “speak them” means threatening others, no. But if it means civilly stating your opinion, no matter how out of line it is with the rest of the community, then yes. This distinction is key, and we rarely make it. This leads directly to a dynamic that forces people who don’t agree with the rest of us on charged issues to suppress their beliefs, and, Dan and I think, this leads to occasional violent outburts.

“So, next time [you] are told that you will go to hell, take it as a friendly expression of different opinions.”

No one has made this ridiculous slide. Again, the distinction between content and manner of expression is ignored. “You’re going to hell” is not acceptable, and no one said it was. But expressing similar content in a civil way—saying, for example, “I was raised in a religious household and think that homosexuality is immoral”—should be allowed, no matter how much most of us disagree with its content.

2. “DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell other people who sent you the email…”

No one said you shouldn’t tell anyone. The point is that forwarding the emails to a bunch of listservs (and officially announcing the names in the Record) distracts us from the wider problems that need to be considered.

“…they might hate and ostracize the person who called you a faggot…”

Is this ever a useful way to react?

“…instead of patting him on the shoulder and giving him candy as they duly should.”

Again, no one has made this ridiculous slide.

“After all, if someone offends you via email, you are not supposed to tell other people at all.”

Again, of course you should tell other people, and no one has claimed you shouldn’t.

3. “Think about how you provoked the email.”

Not because we should censor ourselves, but because the goal is constructive discussion.

“I mean, you played porn at the Queer Bash. No other groups on campus do that. I mean, think about it: if the Garfield Republican Club had played porn, they would not get away with it.”

This is a legitimate question: does our community have double standards? I doubt anyone besides the QSU would be allowed to play porn on a big screen at an all campus party. Should an exception be made? I think so. In the context of Queer Pride week, it can spark discussion about sexuality in a way it can’t when played at a “Pimps & Hos” party.

4. “Remember that the person who sent you the email is not the problem. The problem is that homophobia does exist in all of American society and individuals are not to be punished.”

No one said these weren’t despicable actions; we said that if we just blame and move on the exact same thing will happen again in a few months. Our community is not absolved of all responsibility.

“It is kind of like global warming, it’s everybody’s problem.”

Credit where credit’s due: that’s a great line.

5. “Remember those chalkings you wrote all over campus? Well, not everybody likes them. Even some gay people do not.”

This is simply true. And if a major purpose of the chalkings is to spark debate (about sexuality, instead of just whether they should be allowed), then it’s worth considering whether they fulfill that role. I think they almost always stimulate positive debate. Others disagree, and they’re often the people who are targeted.

“And you are not supposed to write stuff people do not like (unless it’s a homophobic statement, of course)”

I agree with the non-parenthetical part of this sentence—our community doesn’t allow unpopular speech. But it’s simply ridiculous to suggest that anyone has said homophobic speech should be protected and the chalkings should not.

6. “Now that this person has sent you an offensive email instead of bottling up their feelings about homosexuality, you can try to change their opinion.”

Would it be better to simply banish all homophobes from our community? Not try to change their opinion?

“So when they say ‘You disgust me,’ you can say, ‘But I like you,’ for example.”

I’d suggest that “Why?” would be a more useful response.

7. “You should welcome people’s opinions about your sexuality. In fact, you should urge all of campus to send you one and tell you what they think.”

I’m not sure what this is directed out. But the QSU has clearly put sexuality out in the open, and indeed does seem to want to know what people think.

8. “You should apologize to the sender for making his name known to the community.”

Again, this isn’t the point people have made. And many think that the other emailer, despicable as his emails were, has been done a disservice in being so simply lumped in with the writer of the worst email. His comments were clearly rude and driven by homophobia, but they weren’t anything like the hate-speech of the most visible email.

9. “You should keep watching porn but only when you get together with the Garfield republicans.”

Ms. Grashkina seems to be running out of points.

10. “And if you write chalkings, next time put, ‘Excuse us if you don’t like it, but we, oh, well, we are gay.’”

As far as I know, no one has said the QSU should apologize for who they are or any of their actions. It has simply been suggested that their most extreme actions and Nate Winstanley’s decision to publicize the emailers’ names work against their own goals.

11. “For more tips, read the Record.”

Satire that doesn’t pick out specific targets (what did the Record do wrong?) or imply alternatives is one of the laziest and least constructive types of discourse imaginable.

BACK TO TOP

by 05Kid

Williams is a great place to live, better than any place I’ve ever lived I think. I know that when I graduate I will really miss this place, despite how I’ve been closeted here. I’m gay and I will not be telling people this in the course of my normal life, not for a while at least. Why am I am not as brave as some of the queer students writing in the Record, or as politically active as the QSU people? I guess it is because I don’t want to be openly part of a group currently vilified by our president, by most moderate to conservative religious groups in this country, and in most countries of this world. Maybe I’m too lazy to confront my suitemates, who call each other fags etc. all the time. Maybe I don’t want to live in fear.

Recent events at Williams have shown that it doesn’t pay to speak out on queer issues, or to be different. I think this goes for both sides of the argument. The kid who sends emails to the campus about Queer Bash immediately gets a strong negative reaction from two other students and is told to shut up. The campus soon hears about it and tells these students, in no uncertain terms, that they should shut up themselves (or be expelled -- something like that.) Then The Record takes the side of reason and admonishes the first student in an editorial for speaking up in the manner he did, which for its carelessness could do little but strike up controversy. (He was supposed to sit quietly, like a good queer kid at Williams, I guess.) Everyone is told to tone things down. We are supposed to live calmly and in equanimity here.

Well, Williams is missing the boat in one crucial sense -- this debate is far from over, and the basics are not agreed upon, not in this country, not in this world. Not on this campus. College Council and the administration are whitewashing the issue when they say that our community feels united in saying that we do not tolerate this kind of thing and don’t condone it. Where does that put Catholics on campus? Muslims? I don’t pretend to know what people who label themselves Catholic or Muslim believe, but from what little I know of their religions, they will be in a tight spot if they go around being pro-homosexual in their faith communities. Frankly, as one Williams professor’s recent letter to a local paper indicated, or the 90 or so signatories on the current House bill to define marriage as a union of a man and a woman indicate, many members of our local community and country do not agree that homosexuals should be given an equal place in our societies or that our societies should change to accept them. They are hardly alone in these sentiments. They are just the few brave ones to say something.

I think they believe what they believe for wrong reasons, maybe because they are ignorant of what it really is like to be gay, ignorant that gay families can and do exist -- and that gay people live and think much like straight people. And should the rest of the gay minority, whatever their disclosure status, be calm and content as our president launches a campaign denouncing us as a threat to American families everywhere? (Forget child and domestic abuse, divorce, and a culture that produces TV shows like Temptation Island).

I am speaking now to say that I did not choose this way of feeling -- although I did choose not to reject myself completely when I realized the way I was. I hope that people who disagree with me will voice their concerns in an open forum like Rumor so that we can talk. I think we owe it to each other as Williams students. (Will a straight, or a gay, Republican please stand up and explain Bush’s actions and why he is doing the right thing?)

It’s time for some straight talk on these queer issues, no pun intended. I want to hear why it’s unnatural that I feel the way I do, or what issues I’ve distorted. If you think I should come out, fine, that’s your opinion. I want to hear it. I think that despite it all, there can be real dialogue on this campus. As Pedro Almodovar says, you’ll never get anywhere censoring hate, or hiding what you really are. I am trying to live with that. Maybe you are too.

05kid can be reached at williamskid05 at hotmail.com.

by Alix Banham

Ever read a little too much into a glance, a kiss on the cheek, a hand on the shoulder? Ever wish Johnny Depp’s Jack Sparrow would bend Will Turner over and teach him a thing or two about piracy? Ever imagined a BDSM version of Tolkein’s classic called Lord of the Cock Ring ? Well, chances are someone else has, too, and has laid it out in gory detail in a work of fanfiction.

Fanfiction is a way for audiences to inhabit the universes they watch or read about, to manipulate the characters to their own ends, or to pen that episode they’ve always wanted to see. Sometimes, these ends involve Willow cheating on Tara with Buffy, or Mulder and Skinner on Cancer Man’s desk, and that’s where slash comes in. Slash is a genre of fanfiction depicting sexual and romantic relationships between characters of the same sex. Often, although not necessarily, these characters are presumed to be straight “in canon,” that is, in the original universe devised by their creator.

Protected from copyright laws by the thin veil of a disclaimer, slash writers take incredible liberties with characters. In doing so, they consciously or unconsciously do some very interesting work in terms of subverting gender and sexuality norms. First and foremost, slash flies in the face of compulsory heterosexuality. Pop-culture personae are rarely explicitly marked as heterosexual; they are assumed to be so. Slash makes the opposite assumption, assuming queerness as the status quo and making any type of relationship fair game with no explanation or justification needed. In universes like Tolkein’s, familiar discourses around queerness ostensibly do not exist, particularly in nonhuman societies. Slashers take particular delight in Tolkein’s Elves, whose complex history and androgynous appearance generate novel-length storylines.

The slash community, fostered by the internet and based around online archives, is overwhelmingly female. This kind of “by women, for women” atmosphere can operate on a similar level to indie porn, providing women with a space in which to depict desire on their own terms. However, it runs the risk of delving too deeply into the Chippendales school of female empowerment. As the saying goes, you can’t use the master’s tools to tear down his house, and slash deals nearly exclusively in the master’s tools: the lithe, well-muscled signs of the Western beauty myth. Also, men are still curiously able to dominate, as the amount of time and energy devoted to female/female pairings (“femmeslash”) in most fandoms is minimal. This may have more to do with poorly-written or developed female characters in the original universe than anything else, and if Harry Potter femmeslash is any indication, is not a hard-and-fast rule.

The value of slash as a subversive tool lies chiefly in its’ ability to deny heterosexual hegemony. On some level, slash claims to save the world for queer sex, whether that world is the O.C., Sunnydale, or Middle-Earth. Its limits lie in the simple question of whether or not these primarily white, patriarchal worlds are worth saving in the first place.

Links:

fanfiction.net (general fic archive)
Library of Moria (LOTR slash archive)
girlsdormitory.slachcity.net (Harry Potter femmeslash archive)

by Cath Kiwala

Forget about culture shock – it was ten times worse upon returning to America, where people smile at you on the street (very rare), strike up random conversations on the street (very rare), and smile and strike up random conversations with complete strangers on the street (unheard of). The Nordic “cold shoulder” had shrugged off on me, too.

Although it was easy to adopt the Icelandic habits and quirks that I happened to like, such as saying “ha?” instead of “excuse me?” or playing with the dozens of cats running free in my part of town, or knitting ridiculous numbers of scarves and other useless things in the winter darkness, or basking in the warmth of the outdoor thermal pools, some things I found intolerable. The guy who lived below me had the habit of using power tools at all hours of the night; his wife had the habit of giving birth to a child in late October, it had the habit of screaming constantly. The girl who lived above me had the habit of blasting her TV and talking on the phone so as to be heard above the TV. The TV had the habit of picking up only one channel, and only showing programs between four in the afternoon and midnight. The house had the habit of paper-thin floors. The radiator had the habit of not working too well. All of the Icelanders had the habit of expecting me to improve my Icelandic through talking with them, while expecting that I would simultaneously help them with their English. The sky had the habit of raining and never showing the sun; the rain, the habit of being half-frozen; the wind, of being debilitatingly strong.

People became unimportant after a certain point. Instead of noticing the beauty of the mountain across the bay, I noticed the ugliness of the small, squat, boxlike buildings. Instead of marveling at the vast open spaces, I held grudges against the people who placed considerable distances in between one another. The darkness wasn’t “a new experience” – it was the bane of my existence. I hardly noticed the gradual slipping into darkness; one day in late November I realized that the sun set quite early. The journey into daylight took much longer and met with great impatience. I marked time off with the passing of important days: my birthday (spent crying and alone in my flat), my concert (the culmination of hard work, mostly last-minute work), a trip to Scandinavia, the comings and goings of friends. Everything there seemed to be against me, and I valiantly struggled against the odds. I was too engrossed with my own troubles to realize that the very people there felt the same way. The place had become my home, although I was still too hurt from living it in the flesh to realize it. Now, I do; it is simply a matter of time before I return to visit the long summer days and the longer, miserable winter ones.

It took a year of waiting patiently before I left. The day before my departure from this funny, inside-out island, I spent the evening at my school’s recording studio and walked home at eleven at night, just as the sun set. For that moment when I walked, the clouds parted and I basked in the bright, if waning, sunlight and the red watercolor sky. I left in the light of a nondescript afternoon, into the days stretching longer and longer into a sunset that would never come.

by Nora Kenworthy

72 hours. What could all of us do with 72 hours? I could definitely finish that nasty paper I've been procrastinating on...and probably a significant portion of the reading I've ignored this semester as well, if I actually put my mind to it. One could go hiking, throw any number of parties. That's three days worth of dining hall lunches, many more Cold Spring coffee breaks. 72 hours is a lot of time to have fun, a lot of time to get yourself into trouble. But is it enough time to get yourself out of trouble?

Not if the Health Center has anything to do with it. Because 72 hours is also the time frame in which a woman has to get Emergency Contraception (the morning-after pill) in order for it to be effective. And some of the health center's policies have made this window seem like a very small amount of time.

Say you're a girl on this campus and you go out to the Log Thursday night. You have a couple drinks, and then go home early with your boyfriend. You have sex. The condom breaks. Shit, you think. But you're on the pill--you've done everything you could, it should be alright. You go to bed, wake up Friday morning, go to class...somewhere between bio and lunch you realize that you missed a pill earlier in the month and panic sets in. Suddenly all sorts of crazy thoughts about pregnancy are circling through your mind. You corner your best friend that afternoon and spill your worries, she says you should definitely go to the Health Center. You're a little worried. You messed up, you definitely don't want to be reprimanded by some nurse, and you probably don't even have anything to worry about at all. But she insists, and you plan to go that afternoon. But you don't actually make it in that afternoon, it's 6 or 7 pm by the time you get in. The nurse takes you into the office, you explain the situation, say you think you need the morning-after pill. She's been very nice up until now, but then the nurse says quite abrubtly that she can't give it to you for religious reasons. You're shocked. What are you going to do? Isn't there someone else who can give it to you? Should you even be getting the morning-after pill? Do you really need it? Is there something morally wrong about getting it?

The nurse tells you that you'll need to come back saturday night at 11 pm when another nurse is around to give you the medicine. You're shocked and angry and feeling really guilty now about having had to go in at all. Saturday night rolls around, and by now you're feeling totally apprehensive about going in, especially since it means ducking out on cocktail hour with your friends and inevitably having to explain to them why you're going to the Health Center at 11 pm. So you forgoe it. Sunday morning, maybe, you think. But why go in just to get turned away? And it's probably not that big a deal anyway. But what you don't know is that emergency contraception only works within 72 hours of unprotected sex, and by Sunday afternoon, you'll be nearing the end of that very small time frame, thanks (among other things) to the welcoming service of our campus Health Center.

Sound familiar? I sure hope not. But to a number of women on this campus, it probably is a familiar story. It's come to the attention of a few students (including Voice for Choice, the campus pro-choice group) that there is a nurse on Health Center staff who, for religious reasons, cannot or will not give out emergency contraception (EC). To make matters worse, she can only work weekends and works a large part of all weekend hours. As far as employment and religious tolerance laws go, this nurse has every right to work for the Health Center and to refuse treatment to students seeking the morning-after pill. For example, Seventh-day Adventists who work for hospitals can refuse to give blood transfusions because of religious beliefs, and have to get someone else to do it. But the key here is that there is someone else to do it. If not, then patients' access and rights to treatment are directly impaired. The problem is that there may not be someone else to give out EC here, especially on weekends when only one nurse is at the health center. Talks with Ruth Harrison and other staff in the past few weeks have revealed that Ruth Harrison is paged to come in and give out emergency contraception only if the student is in danger of missing that 72-hour window. Ruth Harrison, though, has admitted herself that she may not always be available to come in.

This situation brings up an extensive list of concerns for students on this campus and for those of us who believe that access is an essential element of reproductive choice. Primarily, it is frightening to think that women who need emergency contraception are being turned away and not coming back to get it, either because of embarrassment and feelings of guilt or because they've missed the 72-hour window. The Health Center has no empirical data on how many students seek emergency contraception, how many have been turned away, and how many do not return. When questioned about how many they thought had not returned for treatment, they said they could not think of any who hadn't, although I know personally of two women who have sought treatment, been turned away, and have not returned.

This is also a difficult ethical issue, as I'm sure is quite clear. We, as students who pay for the Health Center's services, have a direct and undeniable right to service and adequate treatment. We have a right to be treated without judgement and with sensitivity to our needs, especially in cases where sex (possibly non-consentual sex) is a key element. But the nurse who is turning students away also has a right to work in an environment that does not force her to choose between her religious beliefs and her job. So how far can we push for our rights to treatment? How much can we demand? Voice for Choice's opinion -- and my personal opinion as well -- is that we deserve direct, unfetterd access to the highest quality of care, care that is unjudgemental and uninhibited by someone else's religious beliefs. How the Health Center achieves that level of care is their responsibility, although we would of course be more than happy to help them brainstorm ideas.

So what can you do? First, know what your rights are when you enter the Health Center, and let your friends know as well: You have a right to EC and should not hesitate to come back if you are turned away. If you feel that your case is under the pressure of time or feel as if you need treatment immediately, ask the nurse on duty to page Ruth Harrison, who should come in to give you EC as soon as possible. Second, let us know your thoughts and opinions on this issue. Come to Voice for Choice meetings (Thursdays, 7pm, Brooks House, choice@wso.williams.edu), email 04njk or 04hkf, or contact the Health Center directly. Lastly, we are trying to gather information on how many students have been denied access to EC and if they have returned. If you are one of these people or have a friend who is, please let us know. You can email us, or, if you'd prefer to remain anonymous, drop a note in SU 1289. We are currently working on establishing an anonymous online forum for reporting issues of access to EC on this campus.

So help spread the word, send us your thoughts and comments, and help us fight for better treatment and access to EC at the Health Center. Thanks, and be well.

by mike eros

Recent voyages in the land of the fat Americans: Baja CA / Baja CA Sur, Mexico

Because I know you all live and die by the word of the New York Times, I won't be missing a beat in writing in response to their recent article about the "landgrab" in Baja. I may as well go off on this, it is a most curious phenomenon.

I have been to Baja twice, both times as part of a geological expedition. The first time was via "church van" (that's what our professor Markes Johnson told them we were using it for: the San Diego renters would not have let us have it if they had the slightest idea of where we would be taking it) to the Erendrira coast just south of Ensenada. The second time I spent performing the first portion of my thesis fieldwork on Carmen island, just off the coast of Loreto, which is about 2/3 of the way down the peninsula. Markes, professor of geosciences, has been schlepping students and gear down to Mexico for decades. We camp in the rocks, carry all trash out and do not take showers. We are good Americans. Now let me tell you about the bad Americans we come across.

Let me first say that you often can't help but love some of these bad Americans, at least the ones south of Ensenada (i.e. the non-beach front type.) Not only do you find dudes and dudettes meditating on top of their VW bugs on the cliff-tops above the deserted beaches, you come across gringos out in the sticks, living in makeshift houses in the canyons, on their own wells, with solar power. Many of these people (as the article intimates) come to escape the political climate (read Republicans) in the States. And of course the strength of the dollar in any of these little towns lets them live very comfortably.

The reality is that, as you know, American hippies retire to Mexico. For various reasons hippies do not age well, and whenever we saw them they looked as if they had been living in the Mexican outback (as the mainland Mexicans refer to Baja) for their entire lives. Whatever grief they get from the new York Times, these modern, liberal pioneers have begun to oddly fit into the landscape.

As a friend of mine recently remarked, it is not a good idea to criticize these USA Americans south of the border too much, as it may not be too long before we are among them, acting as they do. I bought a lot of ice cream the two days I was in Loreto -- mostly for the calories and the fat. The sun is very debilitating. (To quote Julia Child, without fat we'd all just be piles of dandruff). The funny thing was that only Americans were gorging themselves on ice cream that night, and probably most nights. The signs were of course in English.

The influx of Americans is constant, semi-friendly, and mostly by motor vehicle. The American effect on the landscape is unabashed and distinct, no matter where you go. Sitting in the best tortilla soup restaurant in Loreto, I began to notice the number of large white men in sports shirts carrying on. Even in Loreto, in the middle of nowhere with not a blade of natural grass, there is a brand new imported American golf course with imported American clients. Soon enough I saw the ginormous motor-homes on the trek down to La Paz from the US border -- the new American pilgrimage, to the other California. Still, this is not an enterprise without risks. The roads in Baja are tiny. Fat Americans are liable to fall off into the canyons, and do, as you can see in some of the high passes where assorted white jumble can be traced in the valley floor.

There is an unwritten rule that if you are lucky enough to own a fluorescent green jeep, by all means possible, you must take it to Baja Mexico and careen around the arroyos and dirt roads with it. Especially if you are over 50 years old. This is a rough character sketch of one fellow we encountered on a 6 mile death march (that is, tour of a paleoisland) near Erendira. Markes has been coming to Baja for so many years -- leaving hardly a trace of himself each time, so that he was more legend than man -- that locals know of him but have hardly actually seen him. This guy was going to make the most of the encounter. Soon enough we students were abandoned as this wily American seized our professor and took off for the hills, their heads bobbing in an electric lime- green haze. As it turned out, he was an amateur paleontologist who had recently found what turned out to be a legbone of a hadrosaur. Eventually we all took pictures with the big man and his little dinosaur bone. Harmless, probably. Of course, Markes had to beg him to go donate the bone to the Universidad Autonoma De Mexico / Ensenada, because he was liable to have the thing seized by the government if he sold it as he proposed, or tried to take it back stateside.

I rationalize that when I'm done in Loreto I will have created something useful to the people there, a topographic and geologic map of Carmen Island, for which none currently exist. (Come on, you know that's highly useful.) I will refrain from buying up the beach front property, being loud in the street, or hiding out and becoming that most nefarious thing, the illegal American immigrant in Mexico. The solutions to Baja's ills, which are so far more environmental(think of all the raw sewage coming exclusively from campers and motor homes, and the trash that Americans cart around) than social -- thanks to the dollar -- will not emerge quickly.

The hillbillys of Baja (as a West Virginian I use this term sympathetically) are of little interest to the Mexican government or mainland Mexicans, who view them as outlandish, backward, and Americanized. Thus, there will probably be few attempts to meaningfully stop the influx and take-over of the peninsula when so much cash is coming in. Some people have been promoting the preservation of the land for eco-tourist schemes, with the government's help, and this seems viable. If they keep the roads small, things will stay semi-sane. Not everyone will return year after year, looking down into some of those canyons -- so beautifully cactus-choked and glittering with tiny shards of broken glass.

by ben roth

It’s often lamented that there is no political discussion at Williams. It’s been chalked up to apathy, to our over-committed lives, to the “Purple Bubble.” About a month ago, Bob Hemm asserted in the Record that the problem is a lack of proper forums for organized and public debate (“Political Discourse”, Sept. 16). I offer a different hypothesis: political discourse is lacking on this campus because of the way we self-proclaimed smart people talk.

Political discourse is lacking on this campus for the same reason that any sort of meaningful discourse is. Dialogue, debate, constructive disagreement—these things rarely occur in the Williams community. There’s merely a lot of talk here, a bunch of people making proclamations without listening or really responding to each other.

Think about your classes: classes aren’t a place for a group of people with disparate opinions to work together towards something better. Classes are a place for a bunch of people to come together and show how smart they are. The professor starts the “discussion” with a question. Someone says something he thinks is smart, whether it relates or not. Someone else then says the smart thing that she is thinking, which isn’t related to the original question or previous comment. And so on for 50 minutes, or 75 minutes, or (god help you) a three-hour block. Forget working together—we don’t even try to figure our why we might disagree. That would involve looking too stupid for “us Williams students” to try it.

Professors that are good at leading discussions try to connect these disparate comments and shape them into a directioned and coherent whole. Too bad they don’t get any help from us, who take their comments only as a brief interruption of our time to talk past one another. Professors that are bad at leading discussions just insert their own smart things along the way to make sure we don’t mistakenly think they’re stupid.

Think about how the vast majority of comments are prefaced: by real or feigned insecurity (“I just wanted to say…” or “I was just thinking…”) or not at all. Rarely do we hear anything like a logical transition from the previous comment: “I think that’s right in so far as…but goes astray…” or “If we accept that, though, then….” The most we usually hear is “I disagree” or its opposite. But “I disagree” is just used as a synonym for “You’re stupid.” “I agree” just means “I’m trying to make you think I’m smart by telling you that you are,” or “You’re cute.”

We do the exact same thing on the organizational and community level. Each controversy on our campus is answered by proclamations and statements, but never questions or debate. The administration is no better. They simply level “reforms” on us from on high, never attempting to stimulate real community discussion first (unless it’s about sports; they’ll let us argue against the turf field, but not the housing-pick size or drinking games or the smoking ban). They count on our apathy and busy schedules to keep protest to a minimum, and that’s exactly what happens. What a great example they’re setting.

And our personal conversations are no better. Before all my friends graduated, I counted among them a few conservative republicans. And we talked about politics all the time—but we rarely discussed anything. I said things I thought were smart, witty, and liberal; they said things they thought were smart, witty, and conservative. We scoffed at each other, we yelled at each other, we got pissed off, but we rarely understood or really engaged each other.

Until we learn to do this, until we stop worrying so much about looking smart and start actually acting as such, more time for discussion won’t help—we’ll just have more time to dismiss each other. A sudden surge of political energy won’t help—we’ll just proclaim our opinions in an even more polemical manner. More organized debates and more Gaudino forums won’t help—they’ll just give us bigger and more public places to show how smart we are and to talk past one another.

by alexandra grashkina

1. Homophobic opinions are part of our campus life and it is better that people speak them out rather than bottle them up inside their homophobic self. So, next time are told that you will go to hell, take it as a friendly expression of different opinions.

2.DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell other people who sent you the email: they might hate and ostracize the person who called you a faggot instead of patting him on the shoulder and giving him candy as they duly should. After all, if someone offends you via email, you are not supposed to tell other people at all.

3. Think about how you provoked the email. I mean, you played porn at the Queer Bash. No other groups on campus do that. I mean, think about it: if the Garfield Republican Club had played porn, they would not get away with it.

4. Remember that the person who sent you the email is not the problem. The problem is that homophobia does exist in all of American society and individuals are not to be punished. It is kind of like global warming, it’s everybody’s problem.

5. Remember those chalkings you wrote all over campus? Well, not everybody likes them. Even some gay people do not. And you are not supposed to write stuff people do not like (unless it’s a homophobic statement, of course)

6. Now that this person has sent you an offensive email instead of bottling up their feelings about homosexuality, you can try to change their opinion. So when they say “You disgust me,” you can say, “But I like you,” for example.

7. You should welcome people’s opinions about your sexuality. In fact, you should urge all of campus to send you one and tell you what they think.

8. You should apologize to the sender for making his name known to the community.

9. You should keep watching porn but only when you get together with the Garfield republicans.

10. And if you write chalkings, next time put, “Excuse us if you don’t like it, but we, oh, well, we are gay.”

11. For more tips, read the Record.