I did not know what to expect when I decided to go to New York on Saturday to check out Occupy Wall Street. In fact, I had only opted to go after seeing the now famous footage of police brutality, courtesy of inspector Anthony Bologna aka “Tony Baloney”(video). I had originally planned to go with a couple of friends, but that did not pan out. For a moment I was hesitant to go by myself because I rarely travel to New York City, let alone get involved in a protest in which people have been beaten, pepper sprayed, and arrested. But I decided to go anyway. After walking out of the PATH Station at the World Trade Center I was immediately taken aback by the number of police officers stationed in the area. Apparently the police have occupied their own portions of Lower Manhattan where they are keeping vans, buses, equipment and personnel at the ready just in case the word comes in to start making mass arrests.

I wandered a bit until finally making it to Liberty Plaza Park (formerly known as Zucotti Park), where I continued to wander aimlessly, snapping a few pictures until I happened upon fellow Rutgers University students, Kristin Clark, Matt Cordeiro, and Joel Salvino, who were looking for a bathroom. Joel pointed out a ninety-five year old Marxist-Leninist who had been yelling at a few Ron Paul supporters. I wanted to know why this man was so insistent on being a Leninist as well as a Marxist, so I decided to have a chat with him while I waited for them to come back. Here I learned a valuable lesson: ninety-five year old men do not take shit from anyone. He formed his political beliefs in the 1930s and they seem to have not changed since.What made him a Marxist-Leninist was the idea that radical social change was only possible through a tightly structured organization with ideological cohesion,  a specific set of goals, a powerful leadership and the willingness to achieve their ends by any means necessary. Occupy Wall Street does not follow this model at all.

It is usually difficult to categorize or try to make sense of mass movements and protests that emerge seemingly out of nowhere. Occupy Wall Street is marked partially by a strange alliance of both Ron Paul supporters on the far right (Anarcho-Capitalists) and socialists, Marxists, and Anarcho-Syndicalists on the far left. Barring their consensus on the full expansion of civil liberties, the only agreement among the two sides is that greed and, to borrow a quip from the historian Thomas Bailey, the “international gangsterism” of the global finance industry and powerful states has crippled the global economy and propped up the power of a handful of elites at the expense of the majority.

Liberty Park is not only Occupy Wall Street’s staging ground, but has also become a temporary, indefinite home for the movement’s core group of organizers, including Zu, a former Rutgers student and resident of New Brunswick, who after getting laid off decided to sublet her apartment and move into the park. Most of the youth living in the park seem to be in a similar situation.  In order to accommodate themselves they have set up sleeping spaces, a kitchen of sorts, a medical station, and even a library.

As we began preparing for the 3:00pm march, there were whispers that we would be marching over the Brooklyn Bridge. At the time—and even now—I did not know whether this meant that we would be marching over the walkway or one of the traffic lanes. In any case, the march got underway without incident. We were positioned in the back because Zu had taken up the task of setting the pace from the back of the march. The senior citizens were to take up the vanguard. Ironically enough, there is a much higher chance of getting arrested in the rear of any given protest march, because from there it is much easier for the police to use the “kettling technique” to trap demonstrators. However, being positioned there actually prevented us from joining those on the traffic lanes and subsequent arrest.

The group of marchers was increasing in size as we moved north along Broadway towards the Brooklyn Bridge. This was easy to notice because in order to continue setting the pace from the back we had to keep moving behind all of the new people joining the march. People were getting really excited. There was a very energetic young woman (one of the organizers), who was running around starting up chants and trying to get everyone to close off the gaps between marchers. She accidentally stepped on the back of my shoe, causing my foot to fall out. She quickly said “Sorry, baby!” with real sincerity, and ran ahead to energize the rest of the group.

As we were approaching the bridge, I was still not sure if we were going to cross into the traffic lanes. The police had blocked traffic from travelling eastbound into Brooklyn, but had also formed a line to prevent protesters from entering. We were still at the very back of the march. The police were patrolling up and down the lane parallel to the walkway. It was not until we had travelled a few hundred yards up the bridge that we realized protesters had somehow made it down into the street. I had assumed that the police formed that line blocking protesters from entering the entire time; apparently that was not the case. A large number of protesters had stopped on the walkway to look, take pictures, and express solidarity with those who were fenced in on the street below. The police had already started making arrests, singling out specific individuals and grabbing them as the opportunity presented itself. After making our way a bit further up the bridge, past the penned in group, I heard a familiar shout. I squeezed over to the side to get a look and saw that energetic young woman, struggling and yelling as two police officers were dragging her away.

Those who were not trapped on the street or standing on the walkway to provide moral support made their way across the bridge into Brooklyn, where we rallied at Cadman Plaza Park, surrounding the William Jay Gaynor monument. Here the organizers passed along information regarding our fellow protesters on the bridge as well as advice on what to do next: who to call if a friend has been arrested, etc. Because Occupy Wall Street demonstrators are not permitted to use loudspeakers or megaphones, communication is done through a massive game of telephone. One person shouts the original message, and the surrounding crowd shouts it along to those standing out of earshot of the speaker.  I noticed that the same person never spoke twice. A different person conveyed each message.

While all this was happening, the police were slowly surrounding the park and making their way inside. According to them, we would not be arrested so long as we “did not break park regulations.” They conveniently failed to enumerate these regulations.

I would have loved to stay at Cadman Park, but I had a few obligations that night in New Brunswick. Joel and I decided to walk back across the bridge to get to the PATH station. As we started up the walkway, two police officers warned us that “protesters were blocking the path up ahead and not letting people through.” We snickered to ourselves, musing at how we could assume different identities by not walking with a large group of people.

The police were stationed throughout walkway, telling people that they had to keep moving to the other side of the bridge. Now there were buses (some of which were from MTA) lined up in the street below, outside of which arrested protesters were waiting to be loaded up and taken down to the station. Joel and I shouted down to one of the protesters asking, “how did you get down there!?” The response was “I don’t know, I was just following the group!” We then came upon the group of alledgedly obstructive protesters who, roughly twenty strong, were standing on one side of walkway in solidarity with those below. A few police officers were standing around them, telling them that they had to get off of the bridge. One man questioned the legality of forcing people off of a public walkway, to which an officer in a white shirt responded by grabbing the protester and threatening arrest. They said that we were allowed to be on the bridge, but that we “had to keep moving.” One of the officers began approaching me as I was trying to take a picture, so I quickly put down my camera and walked away.

As Joel and I walked to the train station, I could not help but mull over the greater significance of what happened and what my role was within these events. It was a shared role, of course. I am grateful to have had support from Matt, Kristen, Zu, and Joel. I feel like we are a part of what could become the largest social movement of our generation, but I do not yet know how to classify it.

Part II

History certainly verifies the power of protest, but despite this common technique, Occupy Wall Street is decidedly different from its predecessors in its organization and goals.

Solidarity, which with roughly ten million members would become the largest trade union in history, emerged  from a strike at the Lenin Shipyards in Gdansk, Poland, in 1980.  Solidarity used civil disobedience and nationwide strikes to demand workers’ rights and social change from a government whose legitimacy was founded upon notions of workers’ rights and social change. Though this movement was violently suppressed by the Communist government in 1981, they would remain underground throughout 1980s until finally reemerging in 1988-89 to successfully negotiate for democratic elections. This set into motion a chain of events leading to the Revolutions of 1989 in the Eastern Bloc and arguably the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.

Similarly, the Civil Rights movement demonstrates the efficacy of non-violent protest and civil disobedience in an American context. This movement exposed the inherent contradictions in a supposedly liberal, democratic state, which emphasized human equality in theory while in practice systematically marginalized the political power of a select group. In this case, the legal basis of the state itself had provided the means for its own criticism. The Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution could be used as effective tools to compel the U.S. government to concretely meet its theoretical obligation to guarantee political freedom for all citizens of the United States.

When compared to Solidarity and the Civil Rights movement, Occupy Wall Street lacks the means to make very specific demands because the enemy is not so clearly defined. For those living in the Eastern Bloc, information came from the Politburo and one could either accept it as fact or, as most did, reject it entirely. The goals of the Civil Rights movement were legitimized by the state itself.

Today’s issue is far more nuanced: the enemy is amorphous, and mainstream sources of information provide no basis from which this systematic oppression can be criticized.

Wall Street has become an institution fundamentally embedded within the political and economic structure in not only the US, but the entire world. So much so that its sudden failure carries with it the threat of global collapse through a process that practically nobody–let alone Wall Street bankers– truly understands. By creating specific demands that fit into the typical logic of American politics, the Occupy Wall Street movement would compromise its essence and surrender its claim to representing “the 99%.”

For example, demanding a specific tax increase on large corporations or a clearly defined fiscal policy on Wall Street–within the framework of mainstream economics–would do little curb their power over society.Wall Street and other corporate interests have gained such influence over the political and economic sphere that any such maneuver would require the support of these institutions to succeed. Having the power to convert and move its capital anywhere in the world in an instant, Wall Street could easily adapt to new economic circumstances. Large corporations, using the money they have already accumulated, could likewise send their productive potential outside of the country. In short, operating within the mainstream political, economic, and social paradigm would be self-defeating.

The failure of this paradigm  is apparent in its inability to predict the economic crisis of 2008, while Libertarians like Ron Paul and Marxists such as David Harvey had a sense that the system was untenable.

More importantly, creating narrow demands would undoubtedly alienate individuals who, although they support the revolutionary spirit of Occupy Wall Street, may see certain demands as being counterproductive to the overall intent of this movement. If the group’s demands do not receive something like unanimous consent, leaders would have to take the charge and set the agenda. Such an organization has certainly worked for movements in the past, but conditions in the present seem to belie this kind of structure.

Solidarity was lead by the personality of Lech Walesa and individuals such as Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks were specific figures of inspiration within the Civil Rights Movement. These were all charismatic figures around whom personality cults formed and served as a source of inspiration and ideological cohesion.

Despite their effectiveness, Solidarity and the Civil Rights movement often did not represent “the 99%.” They represented certain classes of people who were clearly being oppressed within the legal framework of society. So they applied pragmatic political means, within the structure of their society, to achieve their ends. After taking power, Solidarity itself, as a political organization, succumbed to infighting among the leadership, causing its decline (Paradox of Change). Even Dr. King had to refrain from openly opposing the Vietnam War until after 1965, as doing so would have undermined support for the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts.

Occupy Wall Street has no definitive leaders, just familiar faces.

This movement is not about playing politics with actors in a broken system. It has emerged as a result of the inability of so-called “leaders” to deliver on their promises and fix these errors. The masses of unemployed, underpaid, or indebted are sick of these political games and are seeking to build a new system in which they are free to use their vast creative potential and are not subject to all of the crap being shoveled by our political institutions. The only option is to try to create a movement that stands outside of this paradigm.

Occupy Wall Street should be seen as continuation of the Arab Spring, like the protests in Wisconsin, the demonstrations against austerity measures in London, and the protests in Greece and Spain in May. This is a global protest against the current organization of power: one that is suppressing the power of most individuals through exceedingly complicated mechanisms which are run by only a few. But this movement may be even more than just a reaction to thirty years of lying by global elites that is to be considered only within the context of recent history. Perhaps it is the enduring idea that those in power, whether they are political, bureaucratic, financial, or industrial elites, must be held accountable for their actions. An expansion of democracy beyond polls and voting booths, following through with principles established during the Enlightenment. In this regard, it may be more appropriate to consider this movement as a part of a tradition that dates back to the revolutions of 1688, 1776 and 1789.

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Photos by Mr. Matthew D’Elia. All rights reserved by the artist.

The Alamo has all the typical college basement trimmings – washing machines, water pipes dangling from the ceiling, spray painted mattresses leaning against the walls – but the small space brings the band and audience closer together. Erin, the singer/drummer/guitarist in Sun Puddles catches the eye of someone two feet in front of her and beams a smile as she digs into a 70s punk beat at hyperspeed. When the reverb-soaked wall-of-sound guitars start chugging, the smiles become contagious and the crowd instantly turns into a collection of life-sized bobble head dolls.

Given the poor quality of the PA systems at most DIY shows, singing is usually left by the wayside. But for Sun Puddles, Erin’s voice is their trump card. Songs like “Coffee Cup” make me think of indie pop bands like Velocity Girl or Best Coast where the vocals are pretty and melodious but with an emotional perspective that’s hard to place. At other times, her atonal howling brings to mind the raw emotive power of the Screaming Females, making you feel the frustration of unrequited love rather than think about what it means. When she trades places with the guitar player, the lyrics become sparser to make room for more intricate song structure and a heavier hitting drum sound. Even when she does very little singing on songs like “Congratulations . . . Sorry”, Erin’s stage presence is such that when the mic stand starts to collapse mid-song, people rush the stage to fix it in fear of missing a single word.

When the next band, Real Good, is ready to start all the lights go out except for a single red bulb in the corner shining on the drummer. As he sparks a cigarette and nods toward the emaciated shirtless bass player, I make some earplugs out of pieces of a paper towel in anticipation of demonic hard rock. What I get instead is closer to a mix between the twisted pop hooks of the Velvet Underground and Pavement’s artfully dissonant vocal style.

Though the bass player jumps around like Flea at an early 90s Chili Peppers concert, Real Good makes you feel like singing along more than headbanging. At the end of the song “Three Points”, front man John Terry repeats the chorus line “there is no wisdom without risk” but it’s done with the appropriate amount of Lo-Fi shamble to come off as playfully ironic instead of pretentiously nagging. Other songs like “May 21st” show the band’s strength at manipulating tension-and-release. The familiar feeling you get hearing dreamy psychedelic guitar tones at the beginning of the song is later betrayed when the beat gets turned around and the vocals strain to belt out a daft, unsettling sense of helplessness.

Toward the end of Real Good’s set, someone trips on an extension cord somewhere and the whole basement goes pitch black. Suddenly, people in the front row start shining their cell phones on the hands of the guitarist and bass player like pilgrims who bring candles to a vigil. It’s moments like these that make basement shows feel more like a spiritual community than a concert. But with bands like Sun Puddles and Real Good residing at the pulpit, the only Good News anyone is trying to lay on you is a flyer telling you about the next show.

My birthday happened to coincide with the first night of Labor Day weekend, after the weekend before was foiled by Hurricane Irene. Herds of freshmen roamed the streets: females wobbling in shoes too high and skirts too short and too tight and males just trying to look cool. They were drunk and excited, trying to find a party in unfamiliar territory– “Hey man, where’s Ray Street?” I took part in that ritual during my freshman year, around the time of my nineteenth birthday, though it made me uncomfortable. The idea of ratios revolted me, and the parties my friends and I were able to get into weren’t very fun. A lot has changed since then. I have retreated inward, into a smaller circle of friends who have my same values. I have found a place where my jokes are funny and where my opinions are valuable– a place to be myself. This place, this circle, has given me little reason to interact with Friday night on Easton Ave, and consequently I forgot about its existence. I have no real use for my freshman year memories now, but they all came flooding back in the minutes leading to my twenty first.

It was deja vu- surrounded by the people I didn’t understand, participating in rituals that confused me, situations that rattled me to my core. Two of my best friends and I walked the New Brunswick streets, overhearing conversations of little substance, forced to interact with the black out drunk as they demanded directions. I felt the situation and consequently felt myself slipping further and further out of control.

Earlier in the evening, the waitress at Stuff Yer Face showed me humanity when she smuggled me an orange wristband. After a beer that tasted exactly like pumpkin pie and a flat Blue Moon on tap, we left to pursue other options. We had no such luck. When a bouncer at the Ale n Witch let me in, I thought I had found the same humanity, but my hopes were dashed. I felt ashamed and humiliated as he ushered me out, especially as I was in the midst of embracing an acquaintance. In the bouncer’s eyes and in the eyes of the law, I was one hour and five minutes too young to drink. The absurdity of the situation was too much to handle. I had a conversation with the bouncer at Kelly’s when I was a half an hour older:

“Here’s my ID. I turn 21 at midnight, and I’m just wondering if you’ll let me in.”

“Well, if you come back in twenty minutes, I can let you in a few minutes early, but really there is nothing I can do.”

“I’m going to spend those twenty minutes wisely, I assure you. I’m going to spend the next twenty minutes growing as a human being to make me deserving of that legal sip of alcohol, don’t you worry. And when I come back, it will be as a changed human being. Someone worthy of a beer.”

“It sucks, I know, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I never did go back to Kellys or any other bar. I spent the last twenty minutes underage in an existential crisis. I began to feel an intense claustrophobia, though at the same time I felt lost and confused. As the drunk conversations grew louder around me — “I was, like, going to dye my hair red….” “Oh my god! My sister dyed her hair red!” — and stupider by the second, I completely lost it. I dissolved into a puddle, a mess I couldn’t clean up by myself. I felt the absurdity of a law that I disagree with and have been spending the past few years of my life trying to get around at all costs. I felt the pointlessness of trying to celebrate my birthday in the midst of these crowds of people I try my best to avoid.

In the end, I turned twenty one at home, surrounded by those two best friends, who helped me piece myself back together again. I didn’t have a drink until the next evening, when I invited the people I care about most to my house for a party, which wasn’t too much different than my last birthday party. And that night, with my crisis behind me, I celebrated my twenty first birthday and had the most fun I’ve had in a long, long time.

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Photo courtesy of www.whicheb5.com/blog

(http://www.whicheb5.com/blog/2010/03/18/why-it-is-important-to-apply-for-the-eb-5-visa-before-children-turn-21/)

Original songs like “Summer Vacation” are what the band does best – a mixture of compelling chords and grungy breakdowns that’s reminiscent of garage rock revival bands like Cage the Elephant. But despite Harpoon Forever’s tendency to keep songs under 3 minutes, the quartet also has enough classic rock influence to dig into longer jams. Case in point: the epic show closer, “Paddle to the Sea”, which starts out with bouncy alt-country strumming but then dissolves into building repetitions of krautrock drumbeats structuring Sonic Youth-style guitar mayhem. Sure, you can’t hear the lyrics over the P.A. but the sweaty exuberance of the singer and his hipster cowboy style say enough.

After the show, I walk a few blocks to another house, Titan’s Rest, where southern Connecticut band Fugue is making a stop on their 2-week tour. Outside, people are sitting on the driveway peering into the basement windows like stray cats. It’s not a packed house but it’s so hot inside that the girl drummer Alexa remarks, “I’m gonna pass out” with a look like she means it.

After a short break and some water, Alexa nods her head and kicks off the next song with an aggressive prog rock beat that sounds like early The Mars Volta. When the three guitars begin to fade in with lyrical melodies and the singer triggers a sample of birdcalls, it’s only to lure the audience into a false sense of security. Songs like “What the Tortoise Said to Achilles” prove that this band is all about contrast: clean tones are juxtaposed with distorted ones, soft sections suddenly burst into raucous thrashing, and the lead lines play tug-of-war with the rhythm section. With a name like Fugue it’s no surprise that most of the band’s catalogue is instrumental, but some songs feature vocals that provide emotional context and sound like tribal yells laced with Portishead-style effects.

When the band finishes their set and I walk back out into the sultry night of late July, it feels like air conditioning compared to the sauna I was just in. Summer basement shows in New Brunswick are not for the faint hearted, but with bands like Fugue and Harpoon Forever on the scene it seems like things are only going to get hotter.

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To listen to these bands, check out the links below:

Last period, fourth quarter physics, junior year. Mr. Strauss was jumping around the room assigning everybody to new seats.

“A new quarter means a fresh start, which means…you’ve guessed it: a whole different seating chart! Aren’t you all excited?” Mr. Strauss said in his higher-pitched voice, his chunky brown glasses off-kilter in all his animation.

I inwardly cringed. Hated seat changes. I always got paired with idiots who only cared about hooking up with “chicks,” getting high, or cheating off my tests. Sometimes I really freaking hated being smart. Everyone liked taking advantage.

Mr. Strauss assigned me to sit next to this girl Eliza, who I didn’t know but had seen before in the halls. She was the tall twiggy type, so skinny you wanted to force feed her sticks of butter. You could tell Eliza wasn’t comfortable with her height by the way she slouched. Eliza smiled shyly at me; I said hi. Then we learned about torque. Physics sucked.

After about a month or so, she started talking.

“I hate physics. I’m so bad at science. I wish I could skip this class and go to my sculpture class now,” Eliza said with a long sigh.

She reminded me of a live flamingo in a shopping mall who was unsuccessfully trying to blend in. Her slouching, her shyness, her soft voice; everything Eliza did, was, and said was in an effort to be overlooked. But she was too vibrant. Her secret liveliness was what would make me love her.

We talked about anything but physics during physics. I found out Eliza loved creating things with her hands because her dad had been an artist. She didn’t remember him; he had died of liver cancer when she was three. Her mom was a busy nurse, so Eliza had grown up in daycare.

“After my mom decided I didn’t need daycare, I would have the house to myself after school. I would go into the basement—which had been my dad’s studio—and feel connected to him. Every time I go down there, it’s like I’m visiting a museum, a museum which he watches over. It’s like I can almost touch him; I guess I do touch him—through his works. So I decided I wanted to be like him.”

I told her my dad was a chemist and my mom was a math teacher. I said I wanted to be an architect. She asked me to tell her about the building sketches I made, and I had Eliza tell me about her pottery.

Architectural design, AP American history, AP English, AP calculus, computer graphics, culinary skills, lunch, and gym all dragged. I always waited in aching anticipation for physics. Lab-days were the best. A whole ninety minutes of Eliza.

We had the most fun during the interactive labs. During our optics unit, we had an especially engaging lab on diffraction in which we had to use triangular prisms to see how light was refracted.

“Look, Eko!” She said, holding both prisms up to her eyes. “Now I have glasses as cool as Mr. Strauss’s,” Eliza joked.

I laughed a little too loudly.

“You’ve alerted him to our unproductiveness,” She scolded, giving me a playful flick.

We hurriedly went back to work, filling out the tedious lab packet. Every time our teacher walked toward our table, Eliza would warn me.

“Quick, the Straussinator is approaching! Fake work, fake work!” She giggled.

It was in this manner that we often wasted our first lab periods and had to rush to finish our twelve page packets in forty-five minutes. But it was worth it.

I actually ended up getting a solid B that quarter because I paid more attention to what she said than anything physics-related. My parents weren’t too pleased; it wasn’t up to my usual “A or Above” standards. Still, I didn’t regret it.

During the summer we emailed because Eliza went on an art trip to Italy to see the sculptures made during the Renaissance. I wanted to say something before she left, but whatever I thought of sounded stupid or wimpy. Academics, I knew. Girls? I was clueless. I had never had a girlfriend.

While I was longing for her presence, and yelling at myself for my uselessness, Eliza emailed me infuriating details, like how she had a summer fling with some Italian jackass named Leo. I felt sick but didn’t say anything. How could Eliza not have sensed that I liked her? I felt neglected—weren’t we friends beyond physics? Still, I couldn’t stop emailing her.

Summer flew by, Eliza told me Leo screwed her over, and she came back. Senior year started. I switched into AP Art History, but it turned out Eliza wasn’t in any of my classes. She was “too busy” to hang out, so we only talked after school, through email. She wanted to go to college in the city. I also wanted to escape from the suburbia of Jersey, and I thought if I followed her to NYC, there could be an “us.”

I took rigorous notes and did more reading than was needed in AP Art History.

“The Italian Renaissance was arguably when the greatest artistic works of all time were created. The Sistine Chapel, Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus,” and Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” were made during this time period. But we will continue this lecture later, because first you have a pop quiz!” Mrs. Massy gleefully passed out the quizzes.

The class groaned. Mrs. Massy was a sour old prune who loved torturing us. But I was able to finish the ten-question quiz in three minutes. It had all of Eliza’s favorite pieces on it, including Michelangelo’s “Pieta.”

As the months began to blur by, we continued emailing everyday. Eliza told me she had started experimenting with photography. I replied, telling her I had switched my interest from architecture to art history. We applied to NYU, talking each other through our applications by email.

I wanted to tell her but couldn’t find the freaking words. This is for you, I wanted to say. Everything is for you.

My emails were filled with my attempt of a hint:

Miss you a lot, I would write.

Aw thanks. I miss you too, Eliza would reply, but I didn’t think she understood.

I can’t say how many times I started typing up an email which poured out all my mushy feelings. But I felt stupid and deleted the draft every time.

After AP exams, we got into and accepted NYU. Then I was certain I couldn’t take it any longer. It was a couple of months before prom, and I had carried it around for too damned long. I decided I would get the balls to just do it. I had seen other guys ask girls out, so why couldn’t I? They must have started somewhere, right?

I left my class twenty minutes early to practice asking in the bathroom; my calculus teacher didn’t mind because she was aware that I knew all that crap already anyway. So I stood in front of the mirror, trying to sound/look like the guy she’d go for, whoever that was.

“Want to go out with me and go to prom with me?” I slouched a bit and crossed my arms.

No, too nerdy. Needs more confidence.

“Yo, wanna be my girl and go to prom together?” I puffed out my chest and pointed at the mirror.

No, too “gangsta.”

“I like you. Let’s date and go to prom.” I propped one foot up against a bathroom stall’s door. And the door opened and I nearly fell in the damn toilet.

No, too girlie.

“Would you like to go out with me?” I’ll work on prom later. It was insignificant compared to the date.

I waited for Eliza by her car. When she walked over, my heart started pounding like crazy.

“Um. I like you, want to go out with me?” Crap, not what I practiced, but whatever.

Eliza looked stunned. Why wasn’t she saying anything? I thought that sounded fine.

“I…I think I am going to have to get back to you on that. Sorry Eko…can I email you?”

What kind of answer was that?!

“Yeah I guess. Could you call me?”

Eliza gave a jerk with her head that might, (if you were imaginative) have signified a nod. What, was it so hard for her to say something? I basically sky-dived without a parachute for her, and what did I get? A non-answer.

A week passed by. I constantly checked my email and cell phone. Finally she called.

“Hi,” Eliza said faintly.

“Hi,” I said after clearing my throat. Thankfully she couldn’t see that my hands were shaky and clammy.

“So. I just wanted to say that I’m really flattered and all but that I really have no time to think about anyone in a dating sense or anything and I’m really sorry but thank you for the offer anyway,” Eliza said.

It took me a while to process. But then I finally got what she was saying. Let me just say, rejection sucks ass. And it feels cold.

“Fine.”

“Um…okay? So I hope we can still be friends?”

I grunted.

“Bye,” I said shortly. And hung up.

How could Eliza say she had no time to think about dating? It wasn’t like (not that I needed the freaking reminding) Eliza had never had a boyfriend before (because of that I hated Italians in general). She had gotten into college. We were heading toward the end of senior year. When would be a less busy time? What a lame excuse.

I didn’t talk to Eliza for a while. But all I did was think about her. Since most of my classes were APs, I didn’t even have to put forth the pretense of paying attention. Instead I day-dreamed of Eliza; I talked to my more patient friends about her. She was all. And I couldn’t, no I wouldn’t, accept that Eliza didn’t feel any-freaking-thing for me.

So I stopped wallowing and decided to settle for something that might help her realize she liked me too: prom. I had to come up with something to get Eliza to go with me. And it had to be clever. But I wasn’t too creative of a guy. I looked on Google and stole an idea.

The plan was to give the doorbell a buzz and leave the package at Eliza’s front door. Then I thought that “ding-dong-ditching” would be cowardly. No, I was going to be manly about it. I stayed, wanting her to open the box in front of my face.

Eliza opened the door in a t-shirt and sweats, but I thought she looked glamorous. Surprise—and perhaps dismay—flicked across her face. I picked up the box and handed it to her.

“Open it.”

She began to, with the careful precision of someone dismantling a bomb.

“You made this?”

I nodded.

Eliza held up the barely discernable apple-sized clay cat, with the words “Pwease I can has pwom date?” engraved on its belly. It had taken me five hours to make, but no way in hell was I going to admit it.

“Umm. I’m already going with someone to prom,” she said slowly.

Part of me wanted to say something nasty to make Eliza feel like I did in that moment. But most of me just felt shitty. I turned and left, ignoring her “I’m so sorry, wait let me explain.” Maybe I would be better off gay. Because I was failing at girls.

The month before prom was the worst. Everyone at school was talking about it: who was going with whom, who wasn’t going, and what people were going to wear. I was really bitter. And I felt like I drank pickle juice when I went on Facebook to take my mind off of how Eliza was going to go without me and saw her dress. Eliza in her dress popped up in my stupid news feed. She was wearing a fitted gown which swept out at the bottom in my favorite color, off-white. It wasn’t a sparkly or gaudy dress; Eliza’s dress was true to her style. I wanted to dance with her in it, I wanted to spin her around and I wanted Eliza to laugh with her head thrown back. Disgusted, I got off the computer and tried to concentrate on playing Halo. But it was hard to concentrate and I ended up getting killed. Repeatedly.

I told my mom I wanted to do something to take my mind off of schoolwork (like I had any) because I hadn’t told her about Eliza. And now I wasn’t going to, since nothing was going to happen between us anyway. That was a mistake, because then my mom made me watch old dance movies with her. And Eliza loved old movies. Casablanca was bearable, though Ingrid Bergman’s dreamy-looking eyes (unfortunately) reminded me of Eliza, who always had that far-off look in her eyes. Top Hat was definitely the worst, since Ginger Rogers wore a dress that was stylistically the same as Eliza’s. And then I pictured Eliza dancing with some guy who looked like Fred Astaire. They would look perfect together. She would look perfect. Perfect without me. And this just made me think of how I had promised myself I wouldn’t go with anyone but Eliza, but now I wanted to go just to see her, if not to dance with Eliza at least once. But I couldn’t do it.

So I didn’t go to prom. If I couldn’t go to prom with Eliza, then I wasn’t going to go with anyone. I stayed home and watched Ghost with my mother. The whole movie I made fun of Whoopi Goldberg to gloss over the fact that all Demi Moore did was sculpt.

Students vow to continue fighting for educational accessibility

Today Rutgers University president Richard McCormick announced that he had not been swayed by the popular movement which seized Old Queens, the main administration building at RU, Wednesday and Thursday.

McCormick has characterized the event—which drew over one hundred protesters and more than a dozen media outlets—as being “unrepresentative” of the student body.  Though the rally organizers included more than fifteen members of the Rutgers University Student Assembly (RUSA), McCormick has expressed his repeated unwillingness to include student leaders in budgetary decisions.

In a public statement, University officials claimed that the demonstrators had been given access to food and medicine, a claim which student organizers label as “patently false.”  According to protest leader Molly Magier, the group occupying Old Queens was denied access to food for more than 20 hours, despite chants of “Let them eat!” by sympathizers on the lawn outside.

“The administration has repeatedly demonstrated that they care more about appeasing private donors and Trenton politicians than the needs of the RU community,” said RUSA representative Renee Coppola.

Student leaders have vowed to continue fighting for educational accessibility, and have announced plans for another day of action, to coincide with the University’s annual “Rutgers Day” festivities, an event that draws thousands to the New Brunswick/Piscataway campus each year.  They have planned a satirical “Millionares for McCormick” demonstration, which lampoons his elitist beliefs by praising policies which restrict access to higher education.

The demonstration is planned for 1:30pm at Old Queens today, April 30, 2011.

The downhill vomitorium is an effective analogy of what my relationship with the JVP was like when Alex was around: I’d make my way to Alex’s, tell him everything I’d thought about that week, he would give me his insights, I’d mull over his take, and a few days later I’d have my latest article.

While Alex might be in law school and no longer physically around to chat about my latest piece, his presence is always felt whether it be in his comments, guidance, or ever-growing legacy as a contributor. And while this Q and A isn’t the same as having Alex around full time, it’ll have to hold you over for now.

What brought you to Rutgers? The State of New Jersey. I didn’t put a whole lot of thought into where I would be going to college. Rutgers offered me a quick and cheap option with no fuss. I took it primarily out of convenience and now I’m glad I did.

In JV Press On, you said your high school guidance counselor said you were lucky to get into Rutgers. Why was that? Simply because I didn’t shop around for schools or put much effort into the admission process at all…

How’d you decide on your major(s)? My first semester classes were laid out for me upon arrival. One of them was Introduction to Ethics, taught by Professor Ruth Change. I loved the material as well as the professor, and I got really into the class. (I recommend to anybody taking a class with her if you can). It was such a good experience that I signed up for more philosophy classes and a major just followed from there.

I also undertook a history major later on in my undergrad career. Around junior year, I realized that I already had quite a few history credits under my belt simply as a result of taking classes I was interested in and that had been recommended to me, most notably among these Professor Phil Roth’s classes in Luso-Hispanic Dialogue and Colonial History. He’s an excellent professor who’s extremely knowledgeable in his field, and I’d definitely recommend taking his class if you can.

For the most part, my major selections were happy coincidences.

What about history and philosophy clicked with you? Argument. The two topics take slightly different approaches, but in the end, they are all about argument. Crafting arguments is something I’ve been naturally drawn to since I was a little kid. That, and the material is interesting. Of course, it’s easier to sit down and read something if you’re interested in the topic. Historical and philosophical writings can be very interesting.

What’s your relationship with writing? What’s my relationship with writing? That is a tough one…

Writing is just another means of communication. Objectively, there isn’t really anything special about writing that makes it any better or worse than any other form of expression or means of communication. What is important is that people are communicating, expressing themselves, because this is how we as humans learn and share, build societies, and get things done.

Personally, I prefer to express myself in writing as opposed to in person. I always feel more confident in an expression of my opinions and positions when I’ve had the chance to sit down and think about them first. Writing them out gives me the opportunity to do that. I also really enjoy the satisfaction I get from producing a quality piece of writing. And of course, it’s a nice feeling to know that my writing is improving all the time.

On the other hand, I have a tendency to labor over my writing. I invest a lot of time and emotional energy when I write, which is good for the final product, but it can also be very draining. In order to improve your writing you have to keep pushing the limits of your ability, which can really stress you out while you’re doing it. Having worked with a number of writers, I get the feeling that really good writing comes more naturally to some people: personally, I’m not one of them. I’ve had to put in quite a few hours to get anywhere. But in the end, it’s like anything: practice makes improvement.

What sort of aspirations did you have growing up and which of these, if any, are you putting the most effort into making a reality? When I was real little, I wanted to be a scientist, an archeologist or an engineer. Clearly, those aspirations ended when I took up philosophy, and especially when I committed to law school, although I sometimes regret giving them up…

Growing up, I always found different ways to make money. I always had a new scheme, some more effective than others. That ambition has stuck with me to this day. In the short term, I’m focused on establishing a comfortable living for myself and my family. In the long run, I’d like to be able to transition from a more lucrative but stressful lifestyle to a more peaceful, self sustaining lifestyle. I’d like to retire to a farm and grow produce for myself in the next thirty years. I’d love to be surrounded by a natural setting using my hands to produce real products. But that is more an ideal than a goal. We’ll see what happens….Right now, I’m focused on entering the world of productive adults. I get money, you know?

When do you find yourself regretting them and why? I like to build things, to work with my hands to a more tangibly productive end. With a humanities degree, the closest I ever get to that is by writing. Science, on the other hand, gives you more opportunities to build stuff. So I sometimes regret the choice. On the other hand, if I make enough money to pursue a few hobbies, like carpentry and farming, I think it’ll be worth it…

What sort of things do you like to build? I enjoy working with wood. I got into woodworking and carpentry in high school; I was something of a shop kid. On one occasion, me and some other students built a couple of 6 foot tall, functioning trebuchets, medieval catapults. But I’ll build anything, as the situation and circumstances necessitate.

What sort of schemes have you been involved in? I’ll give you an example. When I was in high school, I used to take breakfast orders from kids. Then I would wake up early, run down to Mcdonalds, BK and Dunkin Donuts with a wagon, and pick up the orders. I’d deliver the purchases in the morning for a nominal fee. Eventually, the school decided to put an end to that scheme, but I made a buck while it lasted…

What inspired you to go to Law School? I wasn’t so much inspired to go to law school; it was more like I fell into it. Law school is the natural next step after a humanities degree, specifically one in philosophy/history. Of course law school is the place to be if you want to make something of yourself. So many people are going off to law school now for just that reason, and I’m among them. I have high hopes that by the end of my 3 years at law school, I’ll have a good idea of how I can make a positive impact on the world while doing interesting and engaging work. And the skills I’m learning are invaluable. At this point, I couldn’t be happier about my decision to go.

What were some of the biggest surprises you found in Law School? It’s nice to be surrounded by a group of very intelligent people inside as well as outside the classroom. Also, nothing can really prepare you for the workload, or the style of learning and writing they seek to teach law students. But you pick up on it as you go.

What’s the work load like at law school and style of learning/writing like at law school? Basically, the work load is not so difficult that it’s beyond you, but you still gotta bust your ass to do well. Personally, I enjoy law school quite a bit, though so many of my peers think I’m crazy for that. Frankly, it’s not something anyone wants to read me talk about, so I wont.

You live in DC now. How would you compare New Brunswick and DC? It’s certainly not easy to compare a small town of 50,000 people to a major metropolis holding several million. For one, DC is less dirty; there is less trash in the roads, the sewers are well managed, and you wont see gas leaks spouting fire on any given day. On the other hand, both cities do have quite a few homeless people walking around. In both places you can find significant disparities between the well to do and the poorly off, though these discrepancies are, of course, much more stark in the major city. I enjoy[ed] living in both places for different reasons: in DC, there is always something to do; the charm of NB, however, is that if there isn’t really much to do, you can always do-it-yourself, so to speak.

How did you change over the course of your time at Rutgers? Unavoidably, I grew up. College is where you learn about yourself, and I certainly did a lot of that at Rutgers. More specifically, each year I had a new independent project, just to keep myself busy and engaged. The most recent of these, of course, was the founding of the Johnsonville Press. I suppose the best I can tell you is that I became who I am today while I was at Rutgers, and I have no regrets.

What do the three of these things have in common? They all start with the letter “B”. Also, they were all present with me in my doctor’s waiting room.

It would be best if I explained.

Right?

I think so.

You see, a few weeks ago I had a regular physical scheduled—well, I don’t know how ‘regular’ it was; I hadn’t had one of these in years. And if I knew that a conniving little assistant, a person determined to drag my pale body into the office, was on the other end of the phone, I never would have answered the bloody thing. But, que sera, sera. The fates conspire as they may.

To be honest, doctors creep me out. (I know, not the most original of predilections—amiright? It’s like saying that astronauts and fireman instill me with a sense of boyish wonder.) Something about them, though, unsettles me. Like a greasy salesman, trying to slip through the cracks of life. Part of me believes that they only took up the profession to evade the jinx of ill health, because who ever heard of a doctor getting sick? It’s the perfect charm to ward off bodily bad fortune.

But the Powers That Be want me to go to see my doctor? Fine, I guess I’ll go then.

On a rather overcast afternoon, I slipped into my Malibu and sped over to my physician’s. On the way I tried to keep myself occupied. This was accomplished by nibbling on an apple. (I didn’t smoke, as I wanted to appear presentable to those who would be examining me. Nothing says that less than by smelling like Chicago after the Great Fire).

Two blocks away from the building, I stopped at a light. As a cat plays with a mouse, so too did the light play with me—it batted my expectations this way and that—green, yellow, red, green, no turn on left, fuck!

Eventually I made the turn. During the final leg of my journey Stairway to Heaven played on the radio. This doesn’t bode well, I thought. I parked my car and approached the door. While doing this, I mentally parsed out my meager possessions, due to—or so I thought—my soon-to-be corpse-like state. Who am I going to leave with all my shitty writings?

On my way to the door I spotted a cat. It was most likely a stray. “Hello, cat,” I hailed. He—or she—looked at me with dead eyes, in an attempt to intimidate me. “Hey, fuck you cat!”

I entered. The stale artificial air hit me. Something else too struck me as odd. But I could not quite place what it was.

Sauntering up to the main desk, I made myself known to the receptionist. She was nice. I think I made her laugh about something or another. After confirming my appointment, I turned around and took stock of my surroundings. And that’s when it dawned on me: this was a pediatrician’s office!

The colorful assortment of effin’ cartoon characters on the walls confirmed this.

I walked back up to the same receptionist. This time I did my best to speak in a deep, adult, voice, while at the same time making emphasis to my old man blazer getup. I asked her “why in God’s name was I in a medical facility for children?” I felt like I was in that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, when Jason Segal gets his penis examined while on a toy fire truck.

Responding calmly, she told me that due to the current economic climate, the pediatrician in question and his brother—he ran the adult facility—combined resources. Oh, great. Lollipops for everyone! And I mean that in the most literal way—there were lollipops on hand.

So I sat on a tiny red chair and waited to be called.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take all that long.

I sat my ass down on the noisy meatpacking paper and did some more waiting. The door in my room was open a smidge and I noticed a patient exiting. He was in a suit. Suddenly it didn’t feel so weird being here.

It took about five minutes, but in walked my doctor. I soon noticed that she wasn’t one of the brothers—the primary clue being that she was a she. Large offices like this have many practicing MDs on staff, so I really wasn’t too taken aback. My mind definitely does wander, but it’s not like I thought she killed the fraternal duo and took over their practice.

Though, what a story that’d be—doctors are suppose to be comfortable around blood, right?

Anyway, we went through the laundry list of questions. She expressed concern at my low weight, but continued rattling off the standard enquiries. Then she asked, “Do you work out?”

Primarily due to boredom and that I like to get a rise out of people, I facetiously replied, “You tell me.”

“So…no.”

I smiled and said, “Actually, I have some fifteen pound free weights in my room.” I paused for a moment. “I call ‘em fifteen-pounders.”

She may have grinned at that; I can’t remember. But she wrote something down all the same. My guess is that she scribbled, “Lifts ‘weights’—maybe?”

Finally, wrapping up our little session she ordered some blood work done. As if remembering a long forgotten fact, she shuffled through my history. “What college do you go to again?”

“Rutgers.”

“I’ll add some STD tests then.”

I always am very proud of my university’s legacy. At least she didn’t ask me about the football team.

I left, happy I was still alive. For the time being, my skeletal shell of a body remains ticking.

When I returned to my car, I noticed the half-eaten apple from earlier. I picked it up and examined the variety of teeth marks on its surface—they were like acne, but on food. Does that mean it was blemished, unfit to be eaten, or more human-like and fit for praise? At the time I didn’t care. Riding high on my bill of good health, I threw it out the window, where it surprisingly landed in a trashcan.

Afterwards, I lit a cigarette.

What brought you to Rutgers?

What brought me to Rutgers? Well… to be honest, a random decision that I made during my sophomore year of high school is what brought me to Rutgers. Back in 2004 Myspace was all the rage. I got a Myspace account… you know, trying to fit in and all. After putting in a huge list of books I’d read in the “Books” section of my flashy new profile, I decided to see what would happen if I clicked on one. I clicked on the most recent book I’d read, which at the time was The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. I was taken to a page displaying seven Myspace profiles of people who had also read the book. I noticed there was only one person my age, a girl from Sayerville, New Jersey. Being the dork that I am, I sent her a message saying, “Hey, I read that too!”. She responded with: “I love random strangers who read!”. After that we had a correspondence that would last for a few years.

When it came time to apply for college, I only applied to one school: the University of Chicago (Early Decision). I waited and waited, until finally, on Christmas Eve I received my rejection letter with a little note at the bottom that said “Great essay”. That was nice, but I was devastated. I wrote to my New Jersey friend that day explaining my devastation: I had not only been rejected from the only school I wanted to go to, but it was also the only school I had applied to, so my seventeen-year-old self was convinced that I’d just screwed myself out of going to college. She wrote back to me a few hours later and suggested that I apply to Rutgers. She had told me how her boyfriend went there and that it was a good school. I considered her suggestion for a few moments, then stuck my head out of the computer room and shouted to my parents: “Hey, is Rutgers a good school?” My mother said: “Oh yea, that’s in New York. Great engineering school.” That didn’t seem like enough information so I went to the Rutgers website and did some research, which included discovering that Rutgers is the State University of New Jersey. Rutgers looks good on paper, let me tell you, so I decided to apply. I wrote the optional essay and submitted my application a day or two after Christmas. Not even two weeks later I got an email that exploded into confetti the moment I clicked on it: Rutgers wanted me.

However, I was still not convinced that Rutgers would be the best fit for me, even though I was elated that I had been accepted. My parents and I drove down to New Jersey for the Open House. The moment I stepped on campus I knew that Rutgers was where I was supposed to be, in spite of the fact that there were torrential downpours for the duration of our visit. If anything, the rain only made me fall in love with Rutgers and New Brunswick more. Walking around in the rain is one of my favorite outdoor activities. However, in the end, what brought me to Rutgers was a combination of my need to leave home and the desire to go to a school that wanted me for my brain.

How did you decide on your majors?

In choosing what to major in, I considered the practical route, which would have been studying in a field that would be useful in the future job market. I did not want to be practical. I have always considered college to be a time for personal enrichment; my choice of what to study most certainly fell under that category. I decided to study what I love: books. The English Major option was almost a given. In high school I took, almost exclusively, History, English, and French classes. I only fulfilled the bare minimum of requirements for Math and Science (for example, I didn’t even make it to Calculus, and I quit science before I got to Physics). Normally this sort of skipping around wouldn’t have been allowed at my high school, but being the dork that I am, I had more friends on staff than I did among the students. Of course, studying English, although mentally rigorous, was still within my comfort zone as a student, and would not contribute as much as say, a French major, to my goal of personal enrichment. I had been taking French since 7th grade. I decided to take a couple classes at the college level to see how I would do. It turns out I was a lot more prepared for college-level French classes than I expected. What’s more is I absolutely adored my classes, even though they were grammar courses. I got to know the French department better and started taking more in depth courses. By the time I was a sophomore I had chosen to do a double major and study French literature in addition to English literature. As a result, I am practically fluent in French, I’ve already lived in Paris, and I can read any French writers I want in their native language. That makes me happy.

What sort of aspirations did you have growing up and which of these, if any, are you putting the most effort into making a reality?

When I was growing up I wanted to be three things: an astronomer, a movie director, and a writer. Today I still aspire to be all of those things. I have made great efforts in my life so far to make all of them into reality. Out of the three, I have thus far only succeeded at becoming one of them: an astronomer, albeit a recreational astronomer. I have a telescope… a big one… which I lug outside on clear nights to study the sky, or just to gaze.

My aspirations to become a movie director and a writer have not wavered. I write all the time. I carry two moleskines, two legal pads, two pencils, one blue pen, one red pen, and at least one book everywhere I go. I’m serious about that. I carry those exact things with me everywhere I go, even when I know it’s highly unlikely I’ll need them. You never know when inspiration will strike. I like to be prepared.

As far as making those aspirations into reality… well, I’d say I’m off to a pretty good start. I am currently working on a screenplay with a friend and fellow writer. I have a few other ideas for screenplays in the works, but I prioritize my projects, so those are less pressing. As far as my other writing is concerned, I am working on my first collection of poetry. I am writing a science fiction novel, which is, at present, the most complete storyline I have yet constructed. In addition to those two big projects I am also working on a short fiction piece, which will probably become a novella, as well as a collection of short stories, and one play. I also have a writer’s exchange going on with my poet friend Stacey Balkun. We mail our work to each other for the purpose of critique and betterment. In a sense, we are doing our own Pound-Eliot Exchange. I also do editing with my good friend Starky Morillo; we edit and critique each other’s works of fiction. Starky and I have been exchanging work for almost three years now. And finally, I am the Editor-In-Chief of the Johnsonville Press, a paper which I’ve been contributing to and editing for since its inception. This position above all others has allowed me to become more comfortable with expressing myself as a writer and as an editor. I had never considered being an editor before the JVP, at least not outside of the editing I do on my own work. However, the Johnsonville has shown me that in the event I fail as a writer, I might just have a career in editing, and that’s not so bad because at least I’d get to hang out with writers.

How did you change over the course of your time at Rutgers?

How did I change? Well, physically I didn’t change much. I probably got smarter after reading as much as I did. I am definitely a better writer. I’m pretty much fluent in French now, which is awesome and incredibly useful for slipping out of awkward or uncomfortable situations, and for traveling around Europe. I am less shy than I was when I was eighteen years old. I have mostly overcome my fear/inability to share my work in front of a group of people. (I’d like to thank Susan Miller’s creative writing classes for that). I am a far more confident person. Rutgers challenged me intellectually and socially, and though I’m a little bruised, I’m no worse for the wear. Over the course of my time at Rutgers I’d say that I went from a timid and smart girl to a confident and intelligent young woman.

How did you fall in love with reading and writing?

How do any of us fall in love? It’s hard to say why or how I fell smitten over these common activities. When I was growing up I was not allowed to watch TV except for Mr. Rogers or a parent approved movie. I was never allowed to possess or to play video games. My mother said to me: “If you want to have fun, then go outside and play, or read a book.” As a result, many of my fun seeking habits revolve around going outside (i.e. star gazing with my telescope, nature walks, walking in the rain) or books. Reading a lot as a child most certainly had a direct affect on my writing. In fact, I have no doubt that my reading probably instigated a lot of my early writing. For example, the first screenplay I wrote was an adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. I suppose that when I got to a certain age where reading stories was no longer enough, I started writing my own.

No TV except for Mr. Rogers?! What was that like?

Oh it was fine! I found ways to entertain myself. My mother used to tell me that TV would fry my brain, so I shouldn’t watch a lot of it or else I’d become a couch potato, a vegetable, or a zombie. None of those things sounded appealing to me, so I just didn’t watch that much TV. My parents made sure that I watched films with them. It was almost like they had a schedule for my life about when to introduce me to certain things. For example, when I was seventeen, my Father told me that it was time for me to watch A Clockwork Orange, so we sat down and watched it together. I was appalled, so I went and read the book, and was about a thousand times more appalled afterwards, but still appreciative that I’d been told to wait until I was old enough to understand what I was watching.

Instead of TV, my parents wanted me to have a strong background in the arts. My Mother brought me to Shakespeare plays as a young girl, to the Boston Pops, and to nearly every museum in the Boston Area. And I loved it all. She taught me about the Impressionists, about Da Vinci, about baseball, about how to appreciate classical music, and all before the time I was in Junior High. My Father is a musician. He gave me my first piano lessons, taught me how to read music, how to maintain tempo, and how to play the blues. He turned my piano education over to his old piano teacher when I was in elementary school and from there I was jazz trained on the piano. My father was also the one who taught me how to play baseball, how to ice skate, and how to lace up my hockey skates (I couldn’t wear figure skates because I always tripped on the toe-pick.). I really can’t say enough about how well my parents raised me. They did a good job with my sister and I. I can only hope to be as competent a parent as mine are.

How is speaking French useful for slipping out of awkward or uncomfortable situations?

Have you ever been on an elevator or on a subway car when some people sitting near you are speaking in another language and you have no idea what they’re saying? Being able to slip in and out of French at my convenience gives me that sense of privacy those people on that train or that elevator might have. It’s also a safety net. And it’s also a fun tool for fucking with people.

Let me give you a few examples as to how and why my French is so useful, or rather, why speaking another language in general is so incredibly useful. Last summer after having lived in Paris for a few months, I got on a bus and traveled around Europe for a couple of weeks by myself. My first stop was Amsterdam, which is not exactly the easiest city to visit alone, especially for the first time. As a female traveling alone in an unknown foreign city, I knew I would have to take certain precautions and that I might have to adjust what time of day I went out. I decided to speak French for the duration of my stay in Amsterdam, knowing full well that not a soul would understand me, as the population speaks Dutch, English, and Flemish. In Amsterdam, speaking French acted as a safety barrier; I could pretend that I didn’t speak English, therefore avoiding unpleasant encounters or dealing with people I didn’t want to talk to in the first place… which proved more useful than you might think. Although I value modesty, for the sake of explaining my point, I will put modesty aside for a minute and tell you that as a pretty girl, I knew I’d be hassled a lot, especially because I was alone. Falling into French got me out of every sticky situation of that sort. My French made me feel a lot safer. It also gave me an opportunity to fuck with people. Whenever I would go into a store and ask a question I would start off in French, then break off into really bad English with a heavy French accent. It’s amazing to see what kind of reactions you get when the person you’re talking to thinks that you don’t understand them.

How is it that you got involved with the JVP and what have you learned from your experience thus far?

A few months before the JVP started up Alex and Mike showed up at my apartment with a clipboard. They were not soliciting random people. Alex and Mike are my friends and I had known them for a little while by the time the idea for the JVP came around. They explained that they were trying to start an independent paper for the New Brunswick and Rutgers communities and that they wanted to know if I was interested in writing for it. I said yes. A few months later the JVP launched and I was a resident poet. Before long the Creativity Section got going, and not long after that Mike moved to Colorado and Alex asked me to take over as Managing Editor. I was ME for a year and then when Alex left for law school, I inherited the paper. So in terms of my involvement with the JVP, I was there during the planning, the launch, and beyond.

There are many ways to approach the question: “What have you learned from your experience thus far?” Three big things come to mind when I consider this question. The first is that I’ve learned how to better accept criticism and withstand negative feedback on my work, even when it’s rude or just plain mean, or even if it’s so constructive that it hurts. Second, my grammar skills are at an all time high and I find that my eye for errors, redundancies, diction, syntax, etc., is getting sharper by the minute. I’ve learned not only how to identify these issues in the work of writers, but I can offer multiple solutions to fixing those issues as well. As a result, I’ve developed a distinct style of editing (the third big thing) and a distinct voice as an editor. Above all, my experience with the JVP thus far has been very rewarding for me. Mostly, I hope that the work I do for the writers’ work helps them to improve their own styles and voices, and that they become better writers.

How did you meet Mike and Alex?

I’m not sure I can answer this question without incriminating the three of us in nefarious activities. However, I met Alex and Mike through my friends. We three belong to the same group of friends and only realized that fact after attending a few parties and spotting each other over and over again. Luckily we came to that realization early enough in our college careers to have become good friends now. Alex and I are particularly close because we have been working side by side on the JVP for a long time.

As a final note, unrelated to this last question, I’d just like to say that if you want to know me, then just talk to me. I’m a people person. I’m a conversationalist. I’m all about the face-to-face.

_____________________

Photo provided by Mr. Brendan McInerney. All rights reserved.

He smirked, taking note of my ignorance.

“What?” I inquired. Suddenly, I was interested. Before I only spoke in order to break the silence of workplace monotony. But now we had the beginnings of a conversation brewing. Cooking with fire, if you will.

“Two things.”

“Yes? I’m all ears sweetheart.” The “bro-mantic” undertones were almost palpable.

“One—it’s ‘Doctober,’ not ‘Doctober-fest,’ or whatever the fuck you called it.”

“Oh…I wonder what I was thinking of?”

“Oktoberfest, you jackass.”

I paused,; my mind was momentarily lost in thought. “I can see where I confused the two. I had some wine last night. Imported stock. So, that train of thought makes sense.”

Shaking his head, bemused at my eccentric musings, my peer continued: “And secondly, he’s a baseball player. For the Phillies.”

That did it. Conversation over. Well, it was good while it lasted. Sports are by no means my area of expertise. And we both knew this.

Knowledge like that lies in the margins of my brain. And that got me thinking. What else is there in life’s little corners?

Historically, the outskirts of such things like manuscripts have been very fruitful entities. Take, for instance, Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum. Within, tucked away in the margins (see what I did there?), is the first surviving poem written in English. Quite the discovery, I’d say.

It’s certainly more interesting than what I write in the margins of my notebook. During one boring lecture, I jotted down this treasure in the sidelines of a piece of paper: “You sir, are just one dick, in a great big bag of dicks.”

Moving away from that oh-so interesting snippet of dialogue, I frequently find physical objects, those not of an artistic persuasion, to follow instep with this thought process. Take fast food and the obligatory order of French Fries that go along with it. Extra fries will always get lodged in the recesses of the bag. They will. It’s just a fact.

And these estranged pieces of potato will, without a doubt, taste better than the rest of the order. It’s one of life’s little boons.

What other great surprises remain hidden in the margins? (Fuck, I’m going to need a synonym for ‘margin’ before this article is done. What shall it be…? Brim, verge, side, etc?)

The shoreline of social interactions, too, is a veritable cornucopia—pretentious much?—of interesting occurrences. Take for instance, a rainy day in New Brunswick. Huddled in the library, reading whatever wrinkled paperback you can get your hands on to pass the time, you strike up a conversation with some random person who turns out to be really cool.

Isn’t that the best?

You’ll never talk to them again. You weren’t planning on conversing with anyone that afternoon. Hell, you don’t really even know who they are. Yet it happened. And it was fantastic.

What I’m trying to say is simple, folks. Just stop and fuckin’ smell the roses from time to time. Take a look around. No one’s stopping ya.

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[1] New Brunswick, much like Seattle, New York City, and Edinburgh, is one of those cities that get infinitely better with rain.

Photo courtesy of insideview.ie

(http://www.insideview.ie/irisheyes/2004/08/the_art_of_dood.html)