Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Submission: Two Female Protagonists Reexamine Familiar Heteronormative Power Dynamics

Two contemporary short stories, "Cat Person" by Kristen Roupenian and "The Husband Stitch" by Carmen Maria Machado, examine how a woman's authentic identity can be compromised by the men around them. Both stories depict men as an obstacle in each narrator's road to building and maintaining an authentic identity, due to predetermined notions of self-definition that ultimately lead to a prioritization of a man's desires over one's own.

Both stories demonstrate a conscious decision on the part of the female protagonists to comply with, and perpetuate, stereotypical power dynamics. In "Cat Person," Margot constantly switches focus between herself and Robert. For instance, she mentions she is starting to understand Robert, "…how sensitive he was, how easily he could be wounded—and that made her feel closer to him, and also powerful, because once she knew how to hurt him she also knew how he could be soothed"(12).

Margot acquires this particular sense of power by nurturing; she feels superior knowing that even though Robert is older, he is still vulnerable, and Margot, despite being younger, caters to his sensitivities by refraining from subjects that could make him seem emotionally weak. Furthermore, Margot switches the power dynamics sexually. When intimate, she observes how Robert "looked stunned and stupid with pleasure, like a milk-drunk baby," and reevaluate her motives, thinking that, "maybe this was what she loved most about sex—a guy revealed like that" (16).

Margot relishes Robert showing her his need—his desire for a girl so young and with a body so flawless empowers her. However, despite the fact that she achieves superiority in certain instances, Margot ultimately diminishes part of her identity by working to please Robert. This becomes clear when Margot shows any sign of vulnerability, such as crying. After being denied entry to a bar due to her young age, Margot feels as though she ruined their night out. She can feel tears sting her eyes, but "when Robert saw her face crumpling, a kind of magic happened. All the tension drained out of his posture; he stood up straight and wrapped his bearlike arms around her" (10). Robert jumps at the opportunity to show strength—his posture suddenly straightens, a sign of stability and confidence. Describing his arms as "bearlike" further underscores the power differential, and helps the reader visualize the comparison between Robert as a big, strong person encompassing Margot, a delicate, precious thing in his arms. She even goes on to say that Robert "became much more relaxed" that night probably because she had cried. In other words, Margot has found what puts him at ease, and what brings out his best mood: when she displays vulnerability.

Margot asks Robert many questions about the movies he likes, and speaks self-deprecatingly about the movies at the artsy theatre that she found boring or incomprehensible; she told him about how much her older co-workers intimidated her, and how she sometimes worried that she wasn't smart enough to form her own opinions on anything. "The effect of this on him was palpable and immediate, and she felt as if she were petting a large, skittish animal, like a horse or a bear, skillfully coaxing it to eat from her hand." (12)

Eventually, Margot learns that degrading herself is the way to winning Robert's heart. The narrator employs words like "self deprecatingly,""incomprehensible," and "intimidated" to describe Margot's efforts to seem inferior to Robert. Whether this self-degradation is artifice or not, Margot consciously chooses it in pursuit of a man's acceptance and affection, thus placing her own identity in jeopardy.

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Similarly in Machado's "The Husband Stitch," the narrator initially appears confident in her sexual desires, which in turn gives her a sense of power. She acknowledges that "it is not normal that a girl teaches her boy, but I am only showing him what I want, what plays on the insides of my eyelids as I fall asleep. He comes to know the flicker of my expression as a desire passes through me, and I hold nothing back from him"(9). She understands well that she has shifted the expected power dynamics; she is now teaching her man what she desires.

However, the language used to describe her other sexual encounters calls her powerful identity into question. One specific example describes the position she is in when performing a sexual act: "…on my hands and knees offer[ing] myself up to him" (7). In several other instances: "He becomes hard, and I tell him that I want him to use my body as he sees fit" (11). The narrator is handing over her authority, and her awareness of what she might want within a sexual encounter, sacrificing the power she has over her body. This happens quite often: "When he comes home each day, my husband has made a list in his mind of things he desires from me, and I am willing to provide them and more…" (14). Submissiveness from a woman is seen as attractive, and desired—rather than maintaining an authentic identity that is not guided by stereotypes, the narrator gives in to once customary expectations. According to the Journal of Sex Research, "Sexual script theory suggests that the majority of sexual behaviors in heterosexual relationships tend to follow a prescribed social script that reflects the cultural norm… [in which] heterosexual women are expected to take on the 'complementary' submissive role during sexual activity, which entails submitting to their partner's desires and waiting for their partner to initiate and direct" (Sanchez 169). The narrator might feel that deviation from gender-role scripts will lead to disapproval and rejection from her husband and thus feels subconsciously pressured to adhere to these stereotypes. Nonetheless, complying with these submissive roles relinquishes her agency, control, and ultimately her identity.

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Both protagonists compromise their sense of identity by prioritizing a man's needs over their own. Margot is moments away from having sex with Robert when she begins to reconsider her decision, "Looking at him like that, so awkwardly bent, his belly thick and soft and covered with hair, Margot recoiled. But the thought of what it would take to stop what she had set in motion was overwhelming; it would require an amount of tact and gentleness that she felt was impossible to summon. It wasn't that she was scared he would try to force her to do something against her will but that insisting that they stop now, after everything she'd done to push this forward, would make her seem spoiled and capricious, as if she'd ordered something at a restaurant and then, once the food arrived, and changed her mind and sent it back" (15).

Rather than stopping, Margot pauses to consider how "spoiled and capricious" it would make her appear to not carry on with it. She pushes herself to have sex with Robert though she is no longer in the mood, because she prioritizes his feelings, and her image. Likewise, the narrator in "The Husband Stitch" she gives up the only part of herself she has left, the only thing that she can call her own: the tied ribbon around her neck. Throughout the story, her husband angles to get a hold of the green ribbon around her neck, despite the countless times she denies his request. He manipulates her by saying a wife should not have any secrets from her husband, to which she replies: "The ribbon is not a secret; its just mine… I've given you everything you have ever asked for…Am I not allowed this one thing?" (20-21). The mere fact that she has to ask her husband to keep something, which belongs to her, illustrates the strength of the husband's hold on her. Unfortunately, his influence prove stronger, and she allows him to take her ribbon off, knowing this will lead to her death. These women exemplify a sad truth—many women internalize the notion that they must think of a man's needs before their own, regardless of how it impacts their identity.

"Cat Person" and "The Husband Stitch" help create an understanding of why a society geared toward a man's benefit hinders a woman's ability to safeguard her inherently powerful self. The authors suggest that a woman should not let any man hold any authority over her body or her actions, because once that authority is handed over to someone else, a woman can ultimately lose herself.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Comparing Machado and Roupenian to Consider the Role of Self-Delusion in Traditional Romantic Relationships

Feminist tales "The Husband Stitch" by Carmen Machado and "Cat Person" by Kristen Roupenian grapple with issues of consent, gender roles, and the male ego. "The Husband Stitch" consists of a blend of horror stories and urban legends that lead to the grandest horror story of all. The narrator weaves together old folklore about wives, brides, mothers, and daughters to connect the reader to her own story. "Cat Person" tells the story of a young twenty-year-old's short relationship with an older man. Both stories show women working to appease men in their romantic relationships at their own expense. Machado and Roupenian both focus on the women's thought processes as they negotiate intimacy; in both stories, women idealize their partners and, in turn, repress their reality to fulfill their perceived obligations to misogynistic men.

Each of these women express a sense of unspoken obligation to the male ego. When the narrator in "The Husband Stitch" comes across another woman with a ribbon like her own knotted around her ankle during an art class, she is astounded. The ribbons on these women's bodies represent thoughts and feelings a woman might keep protected, for the sake of her own autonomy. The ribbons serve, symbolically, as a way of protecting thoughts and feeling that they choose to keep self contained. She learns other women also have ribbons which vary in color and are tied in different places on their bodies. 

The narrator shares an intimate conversation with the woman over coffee, suggesting their friendship may flourish. This short-lived relationship is ruined, however, as the narrator becomes certain her husband senses her anxiety about the woman, and she comes to believe she has betrayed him, and so she believes she needs to tell him about it. She explains, "I do not want to tell my husband about her, but he can see some untapped desire" (Machado 23). The reader soon learns that the narrator never returns to the art class where they met, because she is avoiding the woman (Machado 22-23).

Interestingly, the narrator's husband does not seem at all inquisitive about her new friendship. He seems more concerned with having sex as she explains her meeting, yet she believes, "He is so glad of this development that he begins to mutter a long and exhaustive fantasy as he removes his pants and enters me…I imagine that within its parameters she and I are together, or perhaps both of us are with him" (Machado 23). This describes a moment of disillusionment, or delusion, where the narrator decides that her husband is so overjoyed about her meeting that he cannot contain his sexual arousal. She even suggests that the three of them are now intertwined in a very intimate way; the narrator is attracted to the woman, and would like for them all to be connected. There is no clear indication that the husband is forcing his wife to share their exchange, but nonetheless she feels obligated, and convinces herself that he is entitled to every part of her. This moment subtly reflects her unwavering obligation to tend to the male ego.

Such awareness of the male ego is also clear in Margot's interpretation of her romantic interest, Robert in "Cat Person." When Margot comes to terms with the fact that she is no longer interested in Robert, she struggles to express this rejection to him. She feels obligated to provide a sufficient explanation as to why she is no longer interested in him, and her struggle to compose a sufficient explanation suggests that she feels the need to be careful not to hurt his ego. She deludes herself into believing she needs to appear polite, all the while actively feeding into a version of male entitlement. When her roommate suggests she simply tell Robert she is no longer interested in pursuing any sort of relation, Margot explains "I have to say more than that. We had sex" (24). Margot believes she owes him a long and drawn out explanation when, realistically, the extent of their relationship does not warrant such. Margot reveals that she is concerned with not coming across as a mean girl. Not only is she beholden to Robert's ego, her sense of self is not strong enough for her to simply walk away from the situation.

Both female protagonists avoid their apparent discomfort by refashioning their perceptions in new terms, despite being fully aware of their pain. The narrator in "The Husband Stitch" takes this approach several times; she constantly reiterates her love for her husband to excuse his aggressive and entitled behavior. For instance, when she is giving birth to their son, she requests to have a natural birth. The doctor looks to her husband, winks and says that a C-section would be best for everyone (Machado 15). Although she details this unsettling moment quite clearly, she questions whether it happened, convincing herself that she has not witnessed this exchange. She intentionally does this because she does not want to acknowledge that her husband would disregard her wishes for a traditional birth. She especially does not want to consider that he would do so on account of his own sexual pleasure. However, she does have a moment towards the end of the story in which she acknowledges that she feels pain that stems from their relationship. She no longer fervently denies that she is pained when he fondles her ribbon. She explains, "He is not a bad man, and that, I realize suddenly, is the root of my hurt. He is not a bad man at all" (Machado 30). Yet, as she is considering allowing her husband to untie her ribbon. It is in this key moment that she realizes that she can no longer justify his need to dominate in every aspect of her life. Her reiteration of the fact that he is a good man and husband does not change the fact that she feels afraid when he touches her ribbon against her will. Those things he does for her as her husband suddenly do not mask the pain and fear of him touching her ribbon. Still, she does not completely delve into these feelings. She stops at 'and yet,' indicating that she does not wish to explore any sort of negative feelings towards her husband; she is deluding herself in this moment.

Margot finds herself in a similar situation of reassessing and fabricating reality when she and Robert are having sex for the first time. Sensory details make it clear that Margot does not want to have sex with Robert, for example when she sees "his belly thick and soft and covered with hair" (Roupenian 15) and that his penis is "only half visible beneath the hairy shelf of his belly" (Roupenian 18). She then envisions herself "naked and spread eagled with this fat old man's finger inside of her, and her revulsion [turns] into self-disgust and humiliation that was a kind of perverse cousin to arousal" (Roupenian 18). Although Margot is disgusted by Robert's body, she does not stop his advances. She ignores her intuition several times, in the hopes that Robert will prove that he is the person she has created in her mind. Margot tries to construct an image of Robert based on a fantastical impression of him, which is why her opinion of him throughout the story is never quite solidified. She struggles between her idealization of Robert and the reality of him. For instance, when she and Robert are having sex for the first time, she thinks back to moments between the two that seemed soft and intimate. She uses these idealizations of Robert to endure having sex with him. Margot describes "Wiggling out from under the weight of him and straddling him, as did closing her eyes and remembering him kissing her forehead at the 7-Eleven" (Roupenian 15) Since she cannot get pleasure from sex, she is bringing this intimate moment to the forefront of her mind while Robert is getting his pleasure from his body. She uses this moment to convince herself into believing, even if just for the moment, that their relationship is deeper and more meaningful than either of them lets on.

The narrator and Margot comply with their partner's respective wishes because they have convinced themselves that these men deserve access to their bodies. In "The Husband Stitch," the narrator allows her husband to undo her ribbon. The untying of the ribbon signifies loss—the narrator loses the last bit of herself that no one had access to. Untying it represents the ultimate loss of self. Prior to untying her ribbon, the narrator's husband demonizes her because she wants to keep her ribbon private. The more the husband is rebuked, the more vehement he becomes. He explains, "A wife should have no secrets," suggesting that because he has given her materialistic things, she should not be allowed to keep anything private (Machado 20). Regardless of how well she fulfills her role as a wife and mother, he continues to pester her about her ribbon. The ribbon is very clearly a metaphor for those things which women choose to keep private. The narrator tells her husband to do what he wants, as she has convinced herself his appropriation of the ribbon is the next proper course of action. The narrator does not know the effects of untying the ribbon. Still, she complies with her husband's wishes.

Margot exhibits this same belief when she allows Robert to have sex with her. Despite changing her mind, she feels obligated, given the schedule of their evening together. It would be too difficult to shift course, she decides, requiring "an amount of tact and gentleness that she felt was impossible to summon" (Roupenian 15). She does not want to seem demanding. She says, "After everything she'd done to push this forward, it would make her seem spoiled and capricious, as if she'd ordered something at a restaurant and then, once the food arrived, had changed her mind and sent it back" (Roupenian 15). Margot takes responsibility for the night's events, convincing herself that Robert is entitled to having sex with her. She is, ultimately, too concerned with his opinion of her to abruptly end their exchange. 

Machado and Roupenian highlight nuances in heterosexual relationships that are often overlooked. Women undoubtedly sacrifice themselves in relationships for men that may not even notice, because they instinctively expect women to fulfill their expectations. Roupenian's and Machado's female characters respond to the needs of their romantic partners—these men never verbalize their expectations, yet the women, familiar with these expectations regardless, meet them. Regardless of the narrator in "The Husband Stitch" seeing her husband's misogynistic side, his entitlement, as well as his overall imperfection, she still accommodates his desires. Margot acknowledges her discomfort with Robert in several instances, but does not actively try to escape these situations. Both women feel a strong sense of obligation to these entitled men, and become willing to sacrifice their physical and emotional well-being. Their reality as women in normative romantic relationships calls for a level of self-delusion. While self-delusion is harmful, it is also a protective barrier. Recognizing and articulating their realities, in each story, would have shifted the alpha to beta dynamic the male protagonists rely upon. While changing the dynamic risks the romantic relationship entirely, recognizing disproportionate sacrifice would allow women to cultivate a healthier relationship with themselves. 

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

A Year and a Day

Throughout my childhood, my older brother never failed to command the spotlight. He did not hesitate to express himself, and attracted attention from his peers through sheer confidence alone. With his self esteem inflated, he did not require technical skill, or even talent, in order to succeed and strive in any field. While I grew up spending hours on end studying and perfecting my work to maintain average grades, my brother achieved straight A's with hardly any effort. He also easily won over his audience whilst trying his hand at my own hobbies, often outshining my content with his own. I can clearly recall a scenario in which, upon observing my habit of doodling on the daily, he took it upon himself to follow pursuit, and composed sketches of our favorite cartoon characters, only to claim that he was the "better artist," between the two of us.

Art held a particular value for my brother and I, due to the fact that our mother's partner was an astonishingly skilled, self-taught artist. He commonly composed illustrations of characters from our favorite series' for us, quickly earning our utmost admiration. Unfortunately, he passed away at a relatively young age, leaving behind only our memories with him and the drawings that he created. To this day, I have a particular drawing of TinkerBell that he orchestrated for me framed upon the wall in my bedroom. I remember sitting beside him as he drew it, watching in awe as he perfectly depicted TinkerBell from looking at my TinkerBell-themed book-bag. Looking back, I can speculate that perhaps his passing contributed to my brother's subconscious desire to undermine my artwork.

Because of this fraught family dynamic, Jandy Nelson's I'll Give You The Sun resonates with me, and, ultimately, inspired me. The novel revolves around two twin siblings with completely contradictory personalities. After the beloved mother of these siblings is killed in a fatal car accident, their personalities interchange, as a result of their remorse. Noah forces himself to conform to social normalcy, while Jude completely shelters herself, blaming and punishing herself for her mother's death, as well as the tarnished relationship with her brother. Ultimately, the siblings search for their distinct identities, encounter their interdependence, and come to terms with the severity of mental illness. Similarly, my brother experienced a period of depression during his high school years; he periodically attended an infamous technical school, where he felt that his outgoing personality and work had gone neglected by his peers, due to their competitive nature and fixation upon their own success. We were both forced to experience loss at a relatively young age, and, like Noah and Jude, we similarly lost ourselves—and our bond—for some time, before finding it again.

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Noah and Jude are at first inseparable. At the time of their closest bond, they are young, and rely upon one another for a sense of mutual understanding. Growing up, I was close with my brother, who was born exactly a year and a day before me. Similar to Noah and Jude, my brother and I possessed an understanding for each other's thoughts and feelings without the need for conversation. I immediately associated our relationship with that of Noah and Jude, who once did everything together; my brother and I were the same. I recall sitting on countertops in the kitchen, invested in random, prolonged conversations that lasted for hours.

Up until high school, my brother and I attended the same schools. We bonded during our walks home, killing time along the way by buying snacks from the corner store and visiting our mutual friends on the block. However, similar to Noah and Jude, we became emotionally distant with age, until eventually we had developed our own distinct, contrasting personalities. Jude, unlike Noah, developed into a social butterfly, someone who inhibited the ability to strike up a conversation with anyone about anything. But despite her confidence socially, Jude created magnificent sculptures, yet kept her identity as the artist of these works masked from the world, fearful of being outshined by her brother. Noah, however, never once considered masking his art from those around him. Like my brother, Noah took pride in his creations, and exhibited defiant confidence toward achieving his future goals. I related to Jude as creating art had always been my most favorable pastime, although I was never confident enough to express it. Unlike my brother, who would not hesitate to present his accomplishments, I had always been more concerned with the perception of others. I was never particularly confident in myself, or my creations, perhaps due to the fact that I had always been a slow learner. Even now, although producing artwork brings me joy, I find that expressing my work typically results in distress.

Particularly after the death of her mother, Jude expresses an ongoing, depressive struggle with coming to terms with her identity, both as an artist and as an individual. The impact of Jude's mother's passing is similar to that of my mother's partner's. "Maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people…Maybe we're accumulating these new selves all the time," Jude concludes, highlighting the fact that her personality often wavers depending on who is in her company. For example, while Jude remained isolated and unengaged when with her classmates, her emotions were easily apparent in the presence of her educators.

I have struggled with identity similarly, and in certain circumstances, I have experienced detachment, or distance, from my own sense of self. People often advise others to "be themselves," but I had never desired to "be myself," as I had never quite liked myself. If anything, I wanted to be someone different– someone with a more flattering appearance, better communication skills, and artistically technical skill. I made a habit of adjusting my interests, mannerisms, and values to find compatibility with whomever I encountered. During high school, for example, I surrounded myself with a specific circle of "friends," solely due to the fact that they appeared normal. They typically used the word "cringey" to describe my interests, which further encouraged me to conform to their standards, and conceal my true self. As a result of my social neutrality, I became uncertain toward the attributes that define me as an individual, as well as to how to "be myself." I lost my self-worth and my personality. I failed to realize this as a problem until I analyzed Nelson's novel, and noticed that Jude's problematic behavior—hiding, and retreating—reflected my own.

While I had assumed that I had outgrown most of the conflicts portrayed by Noah and Jude, I now realize that some conflicts are still part of my present. For example, once Jude begins attending art school, she quickly learns that she lacks personal satisfaction with her work, and her creations often fall apart before she finishes the project. Whilst attending art school, I have often compared my artwork to the quality of others, and questioned my potential, as well as my decision to pursue art. I habitually compare my work to that of my peers, and I shame myself for failing to progress as quickly as my classmates. Presumably, this tendency derives from my experience with competing against my brother during my childhood. I struggle to designate my assigned work as my own, which takes from the jubilance of the creative process. At art school, one often feels compelled to prioritize creating for the sake of others, rather than for their own sake—students abide their professor's definition of "art," rather than their own. In the novel, Jude attempts to resolve this by seeking out a personal mentor, who provides her the time, space, and materials to construct any composition that she desires. In doing so, she ultimately constructs a sculpture that symbolizes her relationship with her brother, distilling the merits of their bond, and its positive place in her heart. The sculpture not only diminishes Jude's self-consciousness as an artist, but additionally supports her in rediscovering her own identity.

In my current position as an art student, I feel compelled and inspired to follow in Jude's stead, and search for an outlet in which I can freely take pride in producing work for my own pleasure, and based upon my personal standards. Concerning my brother: we are slowly but surely reforming our bond, and opening ourselves up to each other once more. As Jude states, "We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story." My brother and I, despite our differences, have always been and always will be part of the same story. We share the same experiences, despite being on opposite ends of the experience, and that in itself allows room for us to understand each other better than anyone else can.

In conclusion, the realistically flawed characters in I'll Give You The Sun revealed my own self-deprecating tendencies, and urged me to improve upon myself for the better. Jude Sweetwine's personal uncertainty, dissociation from her identity, and insecurity toward her artwork are all conflicts that I understand—But seeing them in a literary character allowed me to realize I am not alienated by my insecurities. Despite the fact that the novel is labeled under the "young adult" genre, the reality that I can still relate to the characters in various aspects, years after reading the piece, earns my utmost appreciation. Additionally, further analysis upon the novel enabled me to better understand my the motives of my brother, as well as his own insecurities and vulnerability.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

A Place to Call Home

I was born on February 15, 2000 on the small island of Trinidad and Tobago. On December 25, 2004 my family officially moved to the United States, with one suitcase and $100 in hand. We stayed with my grandmother, in a small Brooklyn apartment for the first few months. Eventually, we moved into an apartment of our own, and then to a house.

My parents didn't have any connections in the U.S., and they took it as their responsibility to pave the way for my little brother and me. That said, I had my own paving to do. It was hard for me to be the first and only child in my family attending school in America right out of a small Caribbean country. Even though I wasn't ashamed of my accent, it was difficult, at times, for me to communicate with my teachers and peers. I often felt misunderstood—literally. As I got older I taught myself how to speak like an American: I paid close attention to how sentences and questions were phrased, imitated my friends during lunch, and repeated what I'd picked up from listening to teachers and at home. I practiced any chance I got.

But my speech wasn't the only thing that was evolving. Eventually, I learned what American foods were acceptable to eat in a public setting, what styles were considered "cool," and how a typical American kid acts. I was learning the ropes.

Little did I know, this was only the beginning of a long road of separation from my Trinidadian culture. It's a cultural given that when you're born Trinidadian, you're born with an unbreakable belief in your religion, primarily Christian, and you live by Trinidadian customs and, of course, have a strong measure of pride in being Trinidadian. But somewhere along the way my pride, religion, and overall faith in who I was, was challenged. I grew up seeing America as my home, and, deep down, there was no honest connection to the traits that made a Trinidadian, a Trinidadian. As the years went on, my detachment grew, and it became harder and harder for me to relate to old friends and family. We were unable to grow together. However, coming to terms with my incapability to identify with my own background is something that I have learned I don't have to deal with alone.

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During my senior year of high school, in AP Lit, my class was assigned The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. Previously, I had had a reputation of leaving books unfinished due to procrastination or a loss of interest, but I was determined to get through it all this time. I fell in love instantly with Oscar's journey, and read the book every chance I got. Oscar, a Dominican male who grew up in New Jersey, narrates much of the book; I strongly related to his disconnection from his cultural background, and his feeling of not having a place in the world. For example, it was difficult for me to choose between the person I was becoming, my own personal melting pot of American and Caribbean culture, and the Trinidadian woman I was born as, the woman almost everyone expected me to be.

Like Oscar, ​I feel I will always be an immigrant in both the country I live in, and my home country. Coming to this realization was hard, as I felt like there was no place for me on this earth. It was easy for me to feel isolated when my place of belonging was unclear to me, as in Oscar's situation. But accepting this fact was even harder, as I had to be okay with the idea that there will always be things about my own culture that I will have to learn and relearn. There are even moments in my own house when I'm unable to connect with my parents on Trinidadian history, politics, and geography. My family doesn't usually have dinner together, but when we do I love sticking around a little longer and chatting with my mom and dad. We call this "old talking," as the topic is mainly about their lives growing up in Trinidad, places they used to hang out as teenagers, things they used to do, and people they once knew. I participate as much as possible, but each time it's like I'm hearing it for the first time. ​But no matter how entranced I became in American culture and language, like Oscar, I still never felt fully American.

After his initial homecoming week, after he'd been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he'd gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huáscar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he'd forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong…

This quote serves as a reminder that just because I have to relearn what it is to be a Trinidadian in Trinidad, I do not have to give in to the whispers. For almost sixteen years I've heard this whisper in the back of my head. Caving into its negative powers gave me the impression that I will never find my "place." I removed myself from important relationships, such as the one I had with my best friend, because I felt as if my identity no longer aligned with hers. Even though my parents are very rooted in their Trinidadian ways, as they have spent most of their lives in their home country, I am more than blessed to have parents who are open and supportive of the person I've become and the woman I will grow into. Similar to Hypatia Belicia, Oscar's mom, my parents truly want nothing more than for me to be content with whom I choose to identify as. While Oscar's confusion about where he stood in his culture was discussed more at the beginning of his life, the fact that he was unable to fully deal with the situation fed into his life later on and affected how he saw himself compared to everyone he was surrounded by, physically, mentally, and emotionally. My parents have always understood that identity has always been a struggle for me, but not once have I felt as if anything was in my way of exploring my personal interests and values. Leaving behind a life that would have been and coming to America wasn't a change I was afraid of, because I knew my family was with me every step of the way. I'm glad I learned that at a young age.

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The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao gave me a new perspective on cultural identity. Like Oscar, I didn't know how to accept my "immigrant" status—I too was afraid of being who I am, because I knew that people of my own background would judge me.

I'm still on my journey. But as of now, I'm surer than ever that I am a combination of my Trinidadian heritage and my American childhood. I am the epitome of the American melting pot. However, being a Caribbean-American does not mean I have to choose sides. Oscar's journey made me feel less alone as I tried to negotiate my emotions. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao opened my eyes to the fact that neglecting part of who I am to try and fit into the person I think I should be, is neglecting all of myself.

Credit: Emma Baynes 20

A Seat at the Table

I am not an artist, and I don't think I even really understand art enough to write about it, but here I am, officially leaving my comfort zone. I'm a music major, why should I even have to take a writing course? …And how am I supposed to write about portraits? I scroll past photos by Garry Winogrand, unenthused, then past the work of Walker Evans, which piques my interest. But what do I have to say about it? Not enough, I decide.

I continue browsing the collection of suggested photographs. There's something so familiar about a photo of a little girl and her mother putting on makeup at the kitchen table. I stare, and their faces begin to morph: I see myself, and my mother. I keep staring, and the entire photo seems to melt away, transforming entirely into my family portrait—until I blink, and I'm looking at Carrie Mae Weems' "Woman and Daughter with Makeup" once again. I see so much of myself, and my mother, father, sisters—my whole family. So, this is the "Wilderness of Mirrors" that Neil Gaiman experienced as he strolled through the London Portrait Gallery, connecting so deeply that he could see his own reflection in the visages on the walls? As I look through Weems' collection, I connect to the exact medium that has, in the past, alienated me. I am riveted, I am curious. I am here—writing about art.

*

In a world where we are constantly alternating between trying to fit in and stand out, art can anchor us to our identities. Until this point, all of the visual art I've been exposed to was created for and curated by consumers that I sense I have nothing in common with. I've spent my life avoiding all visual art; the elitism and forced exclusivity that traditional visual arts are typically surrounded by felt insurmountable, as if there was always a correct answer that I was not privy to. But being able to relate—to truly see myself in a piece of art—has opened my mind, allowing me to explore a side of myself that I didn't know existed and forge a deeper connection with the medium as a whole.

In Kitchen Table Series (1990), with a single room, a table, an unchanging light source, and black and white still images of herself and various companions, Weems embodies and incarnates the universal: platonic love, familial love, romantic love, love both mutual and unrequited, all portrayed within the series, along with the trust, admiration, respect, and companionship that we, as humans, seek out. Weems' work evokes emotions that everyone has experienced; her photos conjure a viewer's own memories of their home and leave them inadvertently feeling connected to strangers in a picture.

Credit: Untitled: Woman Brushing Hair. 1990, silver print, Museum of Modern Art, New York.
In "Woman Brushing Hair," a woman stands behind Weems, who is seated at the head of the table, in a dark slip with thin straps. Her collarbones, jutting out, cast shallow pools of shadow, and the tendons in her neck strain against the pull of the brush in her hair. It makes me think of waking up early in the morning in elementary school, sitting on the soft carpet at my mother's feet, and resisting the force of the brush (or her fingers) in my hair as she readied me for another day of classes. I can smell the pink oil lotion, feel the prick of bristles against my scalp, feel the heat buzzing beneath the skin from the simulation. Weems' expression is ambiguous—there's both tension and ease in her body. Her eyes are closed gently, her expression unstrained and even lax, yet her lips are ever so slightly pursed. I'm transfixed by the beauty of the faint darkness under her eyes, the hollowness below her cheekbones, the strength of her arms, the openness of her chest, and the bright reflection of the light across her breast just above the neckline of her slip. In one hand, she holds a cigarette, in the other, a glass of liquor; the face of her companion is almost completely obscured by shadows, while Weems rests with her eyes closed, brightly lit by the solitary, overhead light. This is the first photo in the series where the main wall isn't empty—a dark, woven, rectangular tapestry hangs behind the women, the subject indeterminable, yet stark against the white wall. The table is nearly bare, save an ashtray, a matchbook, the pack of cigarettes, their glasses, and a candle.

Is this what my life will look like in 10 years? Or what my grandmother's life looked like over 50 years ago? Every aspect of the photo conjures thoughts and memories—moments so seemingly insignificant that I didn't even realize I'd forgotten them. The longer I look, I see more of my life in the image, relationships captured within the photo; while I can't say for sure what their relationship is, their bond emanates from the image. It conjures feelings of being cared for—a feeling that, arguably, everyone desires—and makes me nostalgic for old friends and distant family, and for being a child. Engaging with these photos has opened the flood gates; suddenly, I have so much to say about what I'm seeing, a far cry from the apathy and avoidance I felt when I first began. I'm almost overwhelmed by the instantaneous rush of thoughts and emotions, and an unfamiliar eagerness to continue looking through these photos.

In "Eating Lobster," that same table is now full. Three cans of beer sit at a man's elbow, a glass and a full plate of food in front of each of them, an ashtray for them to share. A deck of cards sits forgotten and slightly out of focus in the foreground. The man, seated at the head of the table, is holding a morsel to his mouth; he indulges in the meal before him as Weems, to his left, caresses his head, eyes closed again. His expression borders on hedonistic; he is enraptured, utterly ignorant to his surroundings, as she cups his head and coos. While the couple in this image are the picture of domesticity, something about their pose is imbalanced and unrequited: she is taken with him—the only part of her body that isn't straining, leaning, desperate to be with him is her left hand, occupied with keeping the burning cherry of the cigarette from scarring her skin. And though he leans into her touch, he still is disconnected, trapped within himself–– fixed upon his own pleasure. The bird perched inside the hung cage is the first set decoration that isn't on the wall in this series, it casts a wide shadow that stretches into the corner of the room; its presence in a kitchen is peculiar to say the least. On the main wall hangs a still life portrait of flowers, hidden by darkness.

This image doesn't remind me of my parents' relationship at all–– my mom never doted on my father like Weems does with the man in the photo. Looking at the two adults as individual subjects, however, I do see some similarities. The man's expression makes me think of my dad and how he loves food. When my mom makes dinner, he fills a trough and retreats to the recesses of our apartment to gobble–– to indulge like the man in this photo. Weems' expression reminds me of how my mom cared for my sister and I when we were young: eyes gently closed, lips curled around an affectionate murmuring; the saccharine countenance is wholly loving, almost maternal. At our table, Mom would feed us dinner, or just sit across from us, smiling and watching us eat.

In "Man Smoking," cigarette smoke fills the frame, the air hazy and thick around the bright hanging light. The whole scene is reminiscent of the way my mother, our upstairs neighbor, Ms. Bernie, and their friends would all sit around Ms. Bernie's rectangular, green-glass kitchen table and talk for hours while I sat on the couch, playing games with my sister, a few feet away. A man sits on Weems' left, head turned too far away from the lens for any distinguishing features to have been captured. His hair, thick and soft atop his head, is cut into a short fro with gentle angles. He's sporting a knit sweater that looks heavy against the smooth, dark skin of his arms. He holds a cigarette to his mouth, taking a drag. His hand is partially exposed to the camera, as he gazes intently at his opponent. An empty glass, once filled with liquor, rests at his elbow, a pile of peanut shells lays blurred, front and center. There's a glass in front of Weems as well, a splash of dark alcohol swirls at the bottom, the half-full bottle is set down within reach, next to the large bowl of peanuts and the sleeve of cards. The camera cannot see her hand, but Weems is winning. Her stare is fierce, heated, and confident: the arch of her eyebrow, the set of her eyes, the small, deadly smirk covered by the fingers curled in front of her mouth all give her an air of dominance.

Weems' simper reminds me of the expression my mom wears in photos taken of her during college—youthfully confident, nearly smug, and challenging the lens, or maybe the photographer. Weems sits with her head high and her shoulders rolled back, relaxed, yet postured; her hair is tucked away in a scarf. A large photo of Malcolm X hangs right behind her head, it's the only discernible photo on the wall; the other, smaller images sit in columns, mysteries in shadow. X's power emanates out of the photo and into Weems, his presence only serving to make her seem sharper. Her certainty and poise reminds me so much of my mother. As a child, I believed my mother knew everything—she had an aura of omniscience. I trusted her implicitly because she never, ever looked doubtful—always calm, collected, and ready to take anything my sister and I threw at her. I imagine that back in the late seventies and early eighties, a similar photo would've been taken of my mother on any given Friday night.

And that's what makes Carrie Mae Weems' work so powerful. It's not fully about feeling represented by the photos: it isn't only because all of the women in my family are black, but rather that the photos she so carefully posed and framed were able to capture something unquestionably universal, something anyone— regardless of sexuality, gender, race, or religion—can connect with: the human experience. Our connection to others is among the most fundamental parts of life, and in The Kitchen Table Series, Weems recalls so many different bonds: between parent and child, between siblings, partners, and friends—even with one's self. There are a number of images of Weems alone in that same room with that same light; from superficial smiles to raw and vulnerable moments, I don't believe it's possible to not see yourself in these photos. The mood of these images is like an outsider's view of our private lives, the parts—both mundane and traumatic—we all inaccurately believe are so unique to ourselves.

As influential artist, photograph author, and Chair of the Department of Photography at NYU's Tisch, Deborah Willis writes, "Weems, who serves as her own model, reenacts scenes and photographs them with such precision that viewers feel as if they have joined the table." Which was exactly her intention: Weems says "The Kitchen Table Series started as a response, to my own sense of what needed to happen […] and would not simply be a voice for African-American women, but would more generally, be a voice for all women." She sought to represent and humanize people like herself, and by making herself the foremost subject of a series so incredibly relatable and human, she does exactly that. With this series, and almost all of her other work, she dismantles the current narrative about beauty, including the exclusion of black women from said narrative–– the concept is subtly present in the images, but powerful nonetheless.

Weems sought to use her art as a way to represent the black community, specifically black women. By creating images that stir sentimentality and nostalgia in any viewer, she is able to make people who look nothing like the subjects of the photos see their own reflections in the images before them.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Cruise Control

Skateboarding is a lot of things. It's a way to challenge yourself. It's a way to meet people. It's a hobby. It's big ollies, kickflips, and Tony Hawk. To the non-skater, however, skateboarding isn't any of that. It's riding around on a piece of wood with wheels—a skill a cool kid possesses. But for me, it's everything.

***

The day after my middle school graduation, I dug up my old skateboard from the basement. After seeing skateboarders ride around Venice Beach Skatepark in California (on a family vacation in the spring), I was convinced I needed to start skateboarding. Their style was effortless, clean and fun to watch. Plus, the teenage girls that stopped to watch seemed really into skateboarders. It had been around 6 years since I used the board. It was covered in cobwebs and coated with dust. I left my house, walked six blocks to the skatepark behind my former middle school, and, though it was unplanned, started a new chapter in my life. The chapter began with me, a 13-year-old kid in torn jeans and a Yankees shirt, falling off a skateboard over and over in the high heat of June. The first session consisted mainly of me rolling around, reacquainting myself with the board. I put the board down and rolled, learning to find stability on the board again. I rolled up and down the small, two-foot ramp in the middle of the park. I felt really embarrassed. I was sweating profusely; I wasn't doing anything cool and I was struggling just to ride ten feet. It didn't help that I was alone. All the skaters were inside because a heat warning had been issued in all five boroughs—so my first skate session was only twenty minutes long.

Each session got better and better, though. I kept going back to the skatepark every day, trying to copy the teenagers doing flips and spins. Copying didn't work, but I could roll up and down the ramp perfectly. I was sort of a lost sheep. I wanted to ask for help, but I was afraid of being laughed at because I didn't even know how to do an ollie. After two months, two friendly teenagers, Corey and Mahadi, took me under their wings and taught me what skaters wear, how to spot a poser (a person that pretends to skate, but can't actually skate), how to deal with authority figures (be respectful, and let them kick you out, it's not worth it to argue) and a lot more. How to ollie was the most important lesson—an ollie is the most basic trick you can learn. We'd spend hours repeating the same steps until, finally, I got it. This was my first taste of the skateboarding community—the best community, but with the worst reputation.

Why is it the best community? If you can't kickflip, the skateboard community pats you on the back, demonstrates how to do one, and explodes into applause when you finally land it. If you can't catch the football, the coach might take you out of the next play; why do skateboarders offer support in your times of need while other athletes don't?

The answer is simply that you can't win in skateboarding. There is no "best skateboarder in the world." There isn't some trick combo that'll make everyone recognize you as a winner once you land it. There's no objective in skateboarding. In football, the objective is to score more points than the other team. In speed-skating, the objective is to get around the rink as fast as you can. In golf, the objective is to use the fewest swings. Skateboarding has no winners or losers. It's a community of people working to improve very specific skills. If you can do a kickflip, but the kid down the street can barely stand on the board, you won't think, I'm a better skater than that kid." You'll say "I'm at a different experience level. I'm happy that they're still trying.

Around the time I started skateboarding, I became less interested in competition, which I believe is stressful. You're convinced you need to be the very best, and the prize is a dominant feeling over others. After learning how to kickflip, I realized that competition is non-existent in skateboarding. The first time I landed a kickflip, I asked my friend, Felix, to film another attempt so I could show the other skaters. His, and others reaction to my success taught me that that competition in skateboarding is a non-issue. 

To kickflip, you have to find the right place to position your feet in order to get the proper flick and pop. Then, you have to jump high enough so that you don't land improperly, and catch the board with your back foot and get your front foot back onto the board. Mid-air, plenty can go wrong. In fact, plenty will go wrong. You'll hurt your ankle trying to make the board flip, or you'll land on an upside-down board or, even worse, a board in "primo," lying on its side, balancing on the sides of the skateboard, shoot pain through your legs. Or, you might catch the board with your back foot, but your front foot will give up and hit the ground, meaning you failed the trick. The worst scenario is a combination of all of these, which may result in something called "getting popsicled" (the board is the stick, and you as the ice cream…).

When Felix filmed my first "real" trick, he was as excited as I was, which pumped me up. I still have the video on my phone—it's a horrendous looking kickflip, but I'm still proud of it. Showing the other skaters created similar feelings of joy, which was the greatest feeling. Other skaters go further in sharing feelings of joy by creating programs designed to help those moments become real.

Ryan Lay, a professional skateboarder who rides for Welcome Skateboards, is the co-founder of Skate After School. Based in Phoenix, Arizona, it's a full-fledged non-profit that brings skateboarding to eight schools in low-income neighborhoods. It's a perfect example of the skateboarding community's belief in going out of your way and helping those in need. Not only does it provide children access to skateboarding, it promotes Lay's core values of skateboarding. Those values are: generosity, respect, innovation, and persistence. These values are critical to teach to young kids, making the organization especially important. Who would've thought that skateboarding, perceived as a rebellious practice would do that?

Sure, a lot of sports impart similar values, but generosity in skateboarding can be achieved in a variety of ways, from helping someone land their first ollie to recommending the best skate shoes for $40 or less. You respect skaters that are struggling. You respect skaters that are getting professional board models and traveling the world. Everyone's on their own path. If a football coach calls a play that requires three or more players than the rules allowed, the referees would call a penalty. If a skater positions a flatbar so that it allows him to skate a different way, well, nobody's telling the skater he can't do that.

Once I started skateboarding, I hoped my parents and brother would join me, that we'd ride together, and become a "rad" family; I never talked enthusiastically about flag football or baseball, but I wanted to talk about nothing besides skateboarding. I needed to share which skaters make the best videos, where the best skateparks are, what the best board and shoe brands are, and about Mark Gonzales, a 50-year-old skateboarder originally from South Gate, California. Gonzales is regarded as one of the most influential skateboarders due to his pioneering feats, such as riding handrails for the first time. He started Krooked Skateboards in 2002. He once remarked, "If you skateboard, you can't be afraid to have people laugh at you." Groups of basketball players used to laugh at us for trying the same trick over and over. Pretty girls would giggle when we tried to do cool tricks in hopes they'd notice (we failed a lot more in their presence, I promise). One time, a middle-aged man pushing a stroller past our skate-park shouted, "Get jobs, losers!" I learned to block out the voices of the worst critics.

Landing tricks is frustrating. Skating the same shoes for six months is annoying. Finding a place to skateboard is difficult. Getting stopped by cops is scary. Looking out the window on a skateboarding day, just to see that a monsoon has rolled in, is soul-crushing. Most skaters, myself included, have dealt with every one of those scenarios. But without skateboarding, I'd be a completely different person. Whoever that is, I'm not sure—I am pleased that I'll never find out.