yellow fever

When people ask me about being half-Asian, two things happen. First I think of elementary school. Then I give the short answer: “It’s the best of both worlds. Most of the privilege, none of the guilt.”

Clever, right? I like that it steers away from melodrama, because I’ve played that game enough. Let’s stand around and admire our pain and forget about Darfur. But it’s also a defense mechanism, because deep down, the pain is there. The question almost always comes from a white person, and some part of me is remembering elementary school, when some kid would ask me if I was Chinese, I’d say no, I’m Japanese, and discover the whole thing was a setup for a really bad joke.

“Chinese, Japanese, American knees!"

In case you’ve never seen it performed: You pull the corners of your eyes up, and then down, and then you touch your knees. You laugh, and the kids around you laugh, and a little piece of Hannah’s soul slips out of place.

I grew up in an inner-ring Cleveland suburb called Lakewood. It’s remarkable for its socioeconomic diversity, but it is 93% white. In advanced and AP classes, I was almost always The Minority.

I got used to this, and over time, the questions people asked me got less and less offensive. “Do you speak Japanese?” became “Do your parents speak Japanese?”, and so on.

It would be nice to believe that all Carleton students know better. Once, someone asked my race before asking my name. But for the most part, people behave themselves. I really want to trust them. I don't want to have a violent visceral reaction to anime kids. I want to hear guys wax poetic about the beautiful women they met on study abroad trips and feel special and desirable instead of nauseated.

In the past, internalized racism was a simple problem with a simple solution. Detroit Red became Malcolm X and never looked back. But what do you do when your culture is exactly what The White Man wants? What do you do when your hard-fought identity is charming, adorable, and still not quite human?

Most people don’t seem to think about this. Some Asian girls have no problem dating guys who are “into Asian girls.” We can write lengthy papers on Orientalism and then go out and buy Japanese furniture for what it represents - something that is not familiar, not mainstream, not your parents, not your trashy cousins, and definitely not your third grade shame, whatever that may be.

When people ask me what it’s like to be half-Asian, I get the same feeling I got two years ago, when we moved out of Lakewood to a much rougher neighborhood in West Cleveland. Every time I walked the dog, I faced a string of catcalls. It made me angry for a while, but one day, I realized something much worse had happened. I’d stopped smiling. The more I smiled, the more attention I got. Exoticism does the same thing: It turns who you are into a source of fear.

Honest Student Bloggers

I'm sitting in a computer lab on the 4th floor of the Cleveland State library, looking at a seagull, getting more agitated by the second. The seagull is perched on a spire on a church across the street. Behind the church are treetops and more rooftops and a rusty water tower, and beyond them I can see the lake, which is gray today.

I don't care. I'm only staring out the window because there's a voice in my head saying, "Let's never go back," and I have to keep telling myself that it's just the view, Cleveland's East Side beats Limon Puddles. But it’s too late. This place is making me hate what I'm supposed to love about Carleton.

Five minutes ago, a random student came in and sat down at the computer next to me. We haven't acknowledged each other's presence, and we probably won't. It's glorious. How could I possibly explain to her what it's like not to be a number?

---

College waited two years to happen, nothing and then everything. A week into this – I'm giving it a pronoun already, see, because I'm looking at double comps and LSATs and summer internships – Dad had already done two by junior year but hell, everything moves slower away from the coasts, I want to explain, wondering why it sounds like an excuse.

He doesn't know. This is Carleton. Eight people asked me how I was doing today. How am I? Seriously? No one is that nice. You didn’t come here because you love people and snow. We filled out the same application, and chances are we both sold out somewhere along the line. The only difference between us and those pricks at Amherst who “think they’re better than everyone” - they have the balls to admit it.

You’re not nice, you’re terrified. Stop smiling at me. It’s making me retarded, and now I’m terrified too, because I feel like Algernon. Law school is two years away and we’re playing Quidditch.

---

I'm fifteen years old and trying to learn the second movement of the Moonlight Sonata. I haven't realized it's impossible.

The notes just won’t fall into place. They rush, and scatter, and land like bricks. It sounds decent, but anyone who’s heard it done right knows that it is not what Beethoven intended. My piano teacher Jackie, for example.

“You have to practice your arpeggios confidently. I mean, your forte is a mezzo piano.”
“Really?”

The Russians got it down to a science, Jackie is telling me. It’s all in the release – you have to let the weight of your entire hand find the bottom of the key, come off clean, and then transfer it to the next note in line.

Every pianist has struggled with it. It's our version of whatever blues legend Robert Johnson, as the story goes, sold his soul to the devil for.

Transference.

At this point, you might be wondering how this relates to my life at Carleton, and mentally suggesting that I go out and socialize instead of sitting here discussing piano technique. But it's the only way I can describe this crude improvisation I've called college for the past three months. Because when I talk to people – something is still soft, hesitant. It's hard, I want them to see, and I have been trying but straw just won’t spin into gold and my hands are getting tired.

unemployable

The day the aliens come,
the reckoning day, the day of last words,
I have something to say
just one thing,
if they’ll listen:

we know how bad it looks.

we know we’re ugly.
it's true, we sweat, we shit, some of us bleed,
we get old and wither,
we’re soft, we're not built to last,
we'd be so easy to squash,
but please don’t, because

we know we haven’t made it very far.
it's true, we’re still smashing electrons together,
drowning in melted continents,
baffled by consciousness,
but please,
just give us some more time, because

we know we’re deplorable,
it’s all true, we have
bombs pointed at our own planet, we have
children in factories making $500 jeans, we have
minstrel shows and frat house rapes and
ten thousand more reasons to kill us, but
please don’t, because

it’s all true,
everything we say
in our
songs.

Manifesto

"Fact of the matter is, I believe that our only curses are the ones that are self-imposed...We, all of us, dig our own holes."

-Coach Gaines, Friday Night Lights (2004)

For anyone who has ever read my column, thank you. But I want to make something really clear. I’m no wiser than anyone else here. I like giving advice to freshmen and sticking up for strippers on paper, but I’m only 22 years old. I have no idea what I’m doing.

In November, I went to a discussion called “Does Sexual Violence Affect Women of Color at Carleton?” I was hunting for a column idea, and I was expecting to hear sweeping social critiques. But toward the end, legendary history professor Harry Williams said something strange. How can we be happy as individuals? What can I, Hannah Watson, do to enjoy my own life?

This was very upsetting.

On one hand, it seemed to go against the entire ethos of what I’m going to call the WASP belt, the string of colleges (including Carleton) founded by Congregationalists with a core mission of service to humanity. Harvard was originally intended for creating “a learned clergy.” You got an education to give back to the world, maybe teach a savage or two about Jesus, but not to make yourself happy.

Modern academia has become its own kind of religious community. We’re driven by a common belief that nothing is what it seems. You might get this from looking at a microorganism or a nude model, but whenever it happens, it feels good for a simple reason: It makes you free. Learning emancipates us from our preconceptions about the universe.

So going deeper, education is indelibly personal. If a drop of pond water is not what it seems, perhaps you are not who you think you are.

My life used to revolve around sports. But for most of my Carleton career, it's revolved around body image.

I did soccer and track in high school, but in college I discovered I was built to row. They put me in stroke seat (look it up, proles), and within three months, I’d broken a 7:40 2k on the erg, which was a big deal for DIII women and damn near the school record.

I decided it was enough. I wanted to focus on challenging my mind. I transferred to an elite, frozen, land-locked school. But I held onto my pride, and forgot that one of the best things about crew was the respect it gave me for my body. At regattas, I’d look around and see all these tall women with thighs and shoulders and breasts and miraculously unapologetic postures, and I’d finally feel home.

I tried different activities at Carleton, but it was never the same. I couldn’t throw a frisbee for shit. What would I do with my body do in this godforsaken state? What else could it do?

It could drink. And it could look good. I started to live for these things, and my health slowly fell apart.

So this question of how to be happy – it haunted me. It threatened all of my precious regret, and all the anger I’d buried about our goddamn weather and our goddamn ectomorph infestation. It threatened the whole hero/victim complex I had with Carleton, which was a good excuse for neglecting things I cared about.

But I couldn’t dismiss it. Harry Williams has been here since 1989, and witnessed the struggles of thousands of students. What’s more, I’d heard the exact same thing a week earlier from someone who’s been here since 1979, legendary CAMS professor John Schott.

As we head into winter term, please remember their advice. Try to be kind to yourself. For me, this means eating regularly, sleeping, and forgiving the teenager inside me who sneers at non-competitive exercise. She’s never written a column, or made a film, or been in love. She was beautiful, but so am I.

College is about letting go of who you've been. Whether you have noblesse oblige guilt about being a studio art major, or working-class guilt about not being satisfied with a $52,000-a-year experience, you can make Carleton a better place by celebrating the fact that as a human being, you have a right to be unhappy as well as happy.

“… it doesn't matter to me at all whether you like the school. It seems like you like some things, and don't like others, and that's how it should be.”
- Becky Leichtling ‘08

Photo credit: Emma Giboney

College in three haikus

oh yeahhh
Batman comics stashed
inside a Coach bag, damn it
feels good to be me.

this year, I sold Babe Ruth
to the Yankees for
an old Daewoo, and used it
to invade Russia.

the smile means
I’ll remind you that
life is good if you remind
me that it’s easy.

Trust no one

"Washing one's hands of the conflict between the powerful and the powerless means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral."
-Paulo Freire, The Politics of Education

When I was in elementary school, my dad got involved in the movement to change the Cleveland Indians’ name and mascot. During baseball season, we attended demonstrations outside Jacobs Field.

I believed in the cause by default, but I hated the protests. They were cold and boring, and I had to watch thousands of fans disrespect us. Some laughed, some gave us the finger, and a few stopped to talk, but they often seemed inattentive (I now realize they might have been drunk).

In 1998, the Indians made it to the World Series. As a publicity stunt for the opening game, the activists burned an effigy of Chief Wahoo. I watched five of them, including my dad, arrested for “aggravated arson.” (They were detained overnight, but never prosecuted.) My brother videotaped the whole thing, and it made the news.

Inevitably, this came up at school. My fourth grade teacher wondered how many people had been arrested. I answered. She smiled, and asked how I knew this.

I was cornered, so I told the truth. The entire classroom gasped. I turned beet-red, and laughed, clinging to what I can only describe as the masochistic thrill of social martyrdom.

That year, my school established something called the Golden Rule Club.

This program was the brainchild of our assistant principal, who had become highly unpopular in her efforts to improve lunchtime discipline. She used to stalk the cafeteria looking for kids out of line. I guess one day she decided that there had to be a better way, consulted Stalin and Skinner, and came up with the GRC.

Any student could become a member of this club based on a points system. Points were earned through different activities, from putting a napkin on your lap during lunch (1 point) to various forms of menial labor (collecting trash from the playground, 15 points).

Every week, Vice Principal Stalin would announce the newest members and present them with blue and gold T-shirts. Every month, the entire club would wear these shirts to school, and receive a free meal catered by Taco Bell. You'd sit at a special table with a white tablecloth and "Golden Rule Club" signs, eat your taco, and be happy, because you won.

This is speculation. I was not in the GRC. From my perspective, it was just a wall of blue and smugness and Fire Sauce. At first I abstained out of laziness, but most kids will do anything for fast food. By Christmas, the majority of the fourth grade had joined, including the rest of the gifted program; some of my friends became high-ranking members, which was a recurring source of conflict ("Why don't you just join?" "Because it's retarded").

In the spring, Stalin finally pulled me aside. In retrospect, I don't blame her. It must have seemed odd that Hannah Watson, quiet kid, model student, would take issue with conformity.

"You know, you really should be wearing a napkin by now."

She had a point. It was the easiest thing in the GRC rulebook. But that's what I couldn't stand. It was so easy, and it didn't mean anything.

Dear Freshman

“Given Carleton’s high retention rate (97%), it’s pretty evident that Carls are satisfied with their school.”
-CollegeProwler.com

“35% of students have seriously considered leaving Carleton College.”
-Carleton Campus Climate Survey, 2008

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.”
-Henry David Thoreau, Walden

---

Hello, freshman. Welcome to Carleton. Unless you are a sociopath, you’re probably a little anxious.

I want to tell you what I wish someone had told me, because after four terms at Carleton, I got so frustrated that I essentially stopped doing work. When this manifested on my transcript, they gave me a two-term suspension.

As an applicant, you had impressive grades, extracurriculars and/or test scores. But you're a Carleton student because underneath that, you genuinely enjoy intellectual freedom.

In theory, this helps us keep each other, and the institution, as honest as possible. In practice, it doesn't always show. Class discussions are stagnant, circular or one-sided. Student government can't seem to change worthless school policy. Many of us do half-assed work. Worst of all, we feign happiness. We settle into cliques, and before long, the rest of Carleton starts to look nauseatingly homogenous, but we keep on smiling because this is the Midwest, where angst is for cowards.

If you ever encounter this, here are some things to remember.

1. Class discussions are up to you.

Even when you're unprepared, or chemically inconvenienced (tired, hungover, high, etc), your ideas matter.

Carleton does not hire faculty primarily for their people skills. I think our professors still deserve their #1 ranking – they’re brilliant, accessible, and caring – but they can’t really understand you.

This is not their fault. I don’t understand you. You were six years old when the Internet happened. You probably know what 'sexting' is. The important part is that you understand each other, and you can keep each other in check.

In class, someone will often dominate discussion. It will be tempting to hate this person, but do not be intimidated by his vocabulary (face it guys, it's usually you); your silence is the only reason he thinks it's cool to spend ten minutes on the latest idea NPR has given him license to abuse.

It’s not as easy as it sounds – most of us are awkward – but if you have a valid insight, another smart, awkward person will probably respond to it.

2. You are what you write.

This is why Carleton pesters us with writing requirements, but unfortunately, ugly hurdles like portfolios can obscure a much uglier truth: Every paper you bullshit is a tiny act of suicide.

If you're lazy (like me) or busy (like most people), it will often seem necessary to shut off your conscience the night before a deadline and defile "Politics and the English Language" for six hours straight. It's not. If you don't have enough time, swallow your pride and ask for an extension. Most professors would rather wait an extra day than read five pages of nonsense, and besides, this behavior will hurt you in the long run.

You can't pick a major without giving any subject real attention. One of my worst mistakes was majoring in science, and I did it partly because I hated the insincerity I was getting away with in social science and humanities.

3. The right major will feel the least like work.

I truly hope you don't get suspended, but it forced me to discover what my real passions were, and who my real friends were. One person gave me some of the best advice I can give you: Forget about your diploma and do what you love.

I had avoided CAMS entirely because a lot of people called it a joke; it's become the only department where I’m able to work shamelessly hard.

4. Carleton politics are more accessible than you think.

When school policies seem hypocritical, talk to CSA, or go straight to administration. If you don’t get answers, write a Viewpoint for the Carletonian, a blog post for the Daily Knight, or yes, a CLAP article. People read this shit. President Oden used to, and if Poskanzer wants our respect, he’ll be doing the same.

Finally, I invite you to participate in this column. If you have a gripe, a concern, or a joy to share about Carleton – or about my writing – I would love to publish it. Talk to me, email me, or drop a note anonymously in my mailbox (#122).

---

In 1975, my parents stepped onto campus. They had a storybook liberal arts experience, and still claim that Carleton taught them how to think.

For me, this was a massive personal inconvenience. By the time I was born, they'd become committed to social justice. My mom dragged me along to do community organizing in Chicago, live in a commune in New York, protest US weapons testing in Puerto Rico, and visit political prisoners across the country.

She worked for the United Church of Christ, which is a lot like Carleton – white, liberal, and flawed. In high school, I watched them fire her for speaking out against institutional racism.

Carleton tried to do something like this in 1974.

My parents heard about Professor Wellstone, but during their time here, they never bothered to meet him. My mom was invested in Chapel functions and studying; Dad was content with Biology/football/the bar.

You can do your best to enjoy the Northfield bubble. But the world is far messier than academia. No matter what classes you take, one of the biggest things you can learn here is to question authority.

If you see something wrong with Carleton, chances are you're not alone. Thirty years ago, 94% of the student body stood up for Paul Wellstone because the admissions office knew what it was doing.

This hasn't changed.

When I saw Carleton bragging about diversity and sustainability without being transparent about the economics behind them, I gave in to cynicism. No one seemed to care that the school was preaching intellectual curiosity while condoning intellectual laziness.

But in reality, Carleton students rarely reject an opportunity to think. That’s why our most fiercely beloved campus publication is the only one that never censors, and it's probably why our Quiz Bowl team beats Harvard.

Which brings me to my parting advice.

Never stop giving people chances to impress you. When they seem disingenuous – and at some point, they will – cut them a break. That Chinese kid who never talks to anyone is a long way from home. That hipster who won't shut up about his radio show just left behind a cherished music scene. That cocky freshman suspects that he only got in on football, and that angry CLAP writer might be a dirty legacy kid. It takes some effort, but I already sense that you can do it.

The truth is, you have everything in common with the person sitting next to you in class. If you were alive in Poland in 1940, or Pakistan in 1971, or Cambodia, 1976, you might have died together.

You’re an intellectual. Be proud. Don’t reduce yourself, or your peers, to what clothes you wear, what bands you hate, or what substances you ingest. You have too much to lose.