Concert Review: Vie Jester @ The Copper Door, Santa Ana 08/18

I first encountered Vie Jester a year ago, when I still worked for UCLA Radio. The drummer, Cliff Conway (and from here on out referred to simply as Cliff), had reached out to me on Facebook, asking if they could have a spot on my show. It went from there, and before I knew it, we were sitting together and going back and forth in the station, ragging on the two party system and Gene Simmons. It should go without saying that the music was pretty damn solid, although unfortunately they were not able to play live on-air as we had originally planned, instead playing the digital copies of the music they had sent me in advance. It would be a year before I not only saw them in person again but also finally saw them play their stuff live. And I got to tell you, having seen this high-minded, hard-rocking trio give their all and all in a far-from-packed bar after hours on a weeknight like they were playing in a stadium filled to the point of overcapacity on a weekend evening, boy was it worth it.

I've lived in Santa Ana all my life, but the day I went to see Vie Jester play was the first time I ever walked down the staircase that led to The Copper Door and set foot within. My apprehensions about being by myself in this loud venue several feet underground faded right away, as immediately upon entering I saw Cliff. I walked up to him and said hi, half-curious and half-worried about whether he would recognize me. He initially seemed to draw a blank: who is this fat dweeb in a Who shirt, he probably thought. But soon enough his face lit up, embracing me and exclaiming "What's up man!" He was stoked to see me, so much so that he offered to buy me a drink, and I, being the respectable barfly that I am, accepted, asking for a coke with no ice. As I sipped my soda, I caught up with the other members: Kyle Guerrero, the guitarist and lead vocalist, who was equally stoked to see me, and bassist Jaimie Salas, who promptly quipped that I "forgot my tie", in reference to the tie I habitually wore at UCLA Radio. I was impressed that both he and Kyle remembered me too, much less that he remembered I wore a tie when I did my show. But it would be my turn to be impressed soon enough - or rather, it would be in an hour or so, because two other bands were playing before they went on stage. As the other bands did their thing, I chatted with another Jester fan, a tall, lanky gentleman in a trucker cap, while they got ready. As it turned out, not only was he a friend of theirs, he was probably the only other person who had showed up specifically for them. A fact made all the more lamentable by how good they were, he added. It was up to us to support them, even as the other remaining audience members departed after the previous band finished and Vie Jester finally took the stage.

"You know the thing about chaos? It's fair." So said The Joker, as played by Heath Ledger and sampled by the band at the start of their performance. Although that particular incarnation of the Clown Prince of Crime has been bowdlerized and parodied well beyond oblivion, the sample still managed to effectively set the mood for the show. "I'm an agent of chaos," he continued, a phrase that neatly sums up Vie Jester, albeit one with an order underlying the chaos. Complex but not confusing. Hard but not harsh. Passionate but not pretentious. This is the essence of Vie Jester. Before long, the Joker quotes gave way to synthy syncopated blips, beeps, and snare roll, which in turn gave way to a powerful guitar lead and firm beat. They had elected to open up with "Saint", which was an appropriate name given the combination of anger and torment that Kyle's singing exuded. "Should I wait for you, like a saint? Should I pray for you, like a saint?" he pleaded before the audience. Pretty angsty stuff for such a kickback location as The Copper Door, but it was certainly more interesting than the slow, often bluesy pieces and dad-rock covers so common to the bar scene. In short, it was a strong opening number, with Jaimie superbly holding the fort as bass player and Cliff working himself up into a veritable flood of sweat by the song's end. The fact that this happened at the beginning of the show rather than the end shows how passionate Vie Jester is about their music.

In spite of this stunning performance, the crowd remained dispersed, but the band wasted no time, delving right into the bass, drums and synth of their next song, "Hollow Graffiti". Defined by quick guitar riffs and a multifaceted musical progression, "Graffiti" had a more adventurous sound to it than "Saint". From the steady verse sections to the strident chorus, and from the inaugural keyboard notes to the final fade out of the synth loops, it is a piece bursting with life. Kyle's guitar skills are particularly worthy of mention as he alternated between rowdy and reserved throughout the song, even carrying the song with gentle chords and mellow tones when it slowed down. Jaimie got a chance to shine too, kicking the song back into gear with a nicely-roving bass line, followed by Kyle's ascending guitar, and punctuated by a short, sharp drum breakdown from Cliff. It was around this point that the crowd, thought to be long gone, returned, their interest piqued by the band's high energy. They cheered and begged for more, to which Vie Jester gladly obliged. Kyle began plucking his guitar, with Jaimie shortly afterwards joining him on bass. Kyle softly vocalized before the tempo shifted and Cliff joined in, his percussion capably supporting the now fast melody of "Radioactive", of Imagine Dragons fame. The audience cheered upon recognizing the song, grooving along and egging the band on.

After this victory, the band moved on to "Dig It", a frustrated declaration of love draped in environmental metaphor and rung in by low-key bass and resonating guitar notes. Naturally, there was some overlap with "Saint" given the common theme of unrequited love, though there was a more pronounced ballad feel to "Dig It". Don't get too hung up on that ballad feel, however: it was just as hard as any of their other stuff. The guitar picked up pace after the first quarter, hitting some heavy-sounding notes in quick succession to the accompaniment of an animated bass line and lively drum section. I dug it very much, and the rest of the crowd must have too, because they remained glued to their seats (or the floor, as it was). Indeed, they remained until the very end, when the band broke into "Players of Paradox", the first song I heard by them and one I played on my show. Of course, playing it on a laptop and seeing the band actually play it are very different things, so it was a real treat to see it performed live. Another self-contained guitar melody served as an intro before Cliff's beat formally announced the start of the song. "Here is a challenge, for those who like to play," Kyle sang as he forcefully strummed his guitar. "I hardly have love," Cliff later joined in, reinforcing the undertones of love denied within their music. Love denied, but dignity maintained, as evidenced by the song's strong sound. With bold guitar, reliable bass, and percussion played with purpose, these players of paradox ended the show with a bang, not a whimper, something every rock band worth listening to - much less seeing - should do.

The Silence And The Fury: Why Are Americans More Outraged About A Dead Lion Than Dead Civilians?

American jets en route to Syria.

It's that time again, where I share an article I wrote for HonorSociety.org! This one addresses something that I've been wondering about this past month: the disparity between the attention paid to the killing of Cecil The Lion and recent reports that hundreds of civilians have been killed in American-led airstrikes in Syria and Iraq. I know it's hard for people to keep abreast of such things, but I hope that in some small way this article will bring them up to speed and maybe even moved to take action. The article can be accessed here, and is reproduced in it's entirety below.

                   The Silence And The Fury: Why Are Americans More Outraged About A Dead Lion Than Dead Civilians

If you have access to the internet (and since you're reading this, you probably do), chances are you've heard about the death of Cecil, a Zimbabwean lion who was shot and killed by Minnesota dentist and recreational big game hunter Walter Palmer. Although it reasonably could have been expected that there might be a fair level of upset at someone killing an animal for sport rather than self defense, reports that Cecil was illegally lured from the nature reserve he lived on by Palmer and his guides for the express purpose of being able to kill him compounded the subsequent outrage by several orders of magnitude. Thousands took, as they are wont to do nowadays, to Twitter to express their sorrow over the loss of Cecil and their fury towards Palmer, among them a number of celebrities. None other than MC Hammer tweeted "Can't believe this man counted it as valor to lure #CecilTheLion out of his protective home and killed him. #Cowardice," while former CNN talking head Piers Morgan, who used his show as a platform to vigorously promote gun control, was more than willing to temporarily suspend his professed distaste for gun violence in the wake of Cecil's death, saying "I'd love to go hunting for killer dentist Dr. Walter Palmer, so I can stuff & mount him for MY office wall."

Less malevolent but equally unhinged was Sharon Osbourne's reaction, who, in her infinite wisdom, declared, "#WalterPalmer is Satan. I don't know how anyone could go to this man for dental services after this. He is a killer. Beware!" Never mind that there is a big difference between hunting, legally or illegally, a lion, and killing another human being in cold blood. No, us foolish mortals should heed Mrs. Osbourne's warning: any dentist who engages in recreational hunting is the 21st Century-equivalent of Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man! It would be unfair to say that everyone who was upset by Cecil's killing reacted hysterically, however. Some simply left stuffed animals on the sign adjacent to his dental clinic, a clear-but-harmless act of protest against Palmer's hunt. Of course, there were also people who left signs of their own on the door to the clinic, bearing such heartwarming messages as "ROT IN HELL" (their caps, not mine) and "PALMER (again, their caps, not mine), there's a deep cavity waiting for you!", to say nothing of the dozens of protestors waving signs and voicing their disgust outside the building.

What's interesting though is that, for all their outrage about the needless killing of a lion, this writer has yet to see any of these individuals condemn a much greater occurrence of bloodshed happening as we speak, an occurrence that one could credibly argue they bear greater responsibility and thus greater chance to affect change for. This occurrence is succinctly summarized by the Associated Press: "U.S.-led airstrikes targeting the Islamic State group in Syria and Iraq have likely killed at least 459 civilians over the past year, a report by an independent monitoring group said Monday. The coalition had no comment." Apparently, neither did Cecil's newfound fans.

True, this number is not as shocking as the well over a million civilians killed in Iraq and Afghanistan within the past decade, but when you consider that the U.S. isn't officially at war with Syria or Iraq, you would think that it warrants many a raised eyebrow or at the very least a few sanctimonious celebrity tweets. For that matter, you would think that Americans would be incensed that the President can send the country's military into combat without getting a formal declaration of war from Congress (a power delegated expressly to them by Article One, Section Eight of the Constitution, mind you), but then again, they haven't passed one of those since World War II, so perhaps that's expecting too much. With this confidence-inspiring history in mind, it's no wonder that the Obama administration felt comfortable enough last August to begin pummeling Iraq and then Syria as part of it's improvised whack-a-mole strategy with the then-nascent Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (more commonly known as ISIS) and other assorted terrorist groups (Khorasan? Khorasan? Bueller?) This lovely state of affairs lasted for almost half a year before California Representative Adam Schiff finally introduced not a declaration of war but a resolution authorizing ongoing operations against ISIS (what passes for the second best thing) on behalf of the administration this past January. Predictably, however, the Republican-controlled Congress opposed the administration's proposed legislation, not because it was too open-ended but because it wasn't open-ended enough in their book, ultimately tabling the bill and leaving us where we started: bombing people far, far away while acting like we're not bombing people far, far away.

Perhaps the fact that this tragedy is happening so far from American shores would explain American's indifference or ignorance of it in times past, but in the digital age, where information travels around the world in seconds, this explanation doesn't hold water. Indeed, it would require that one not consider the fact that people who are not aware of civilian casualties of American air strikes somehow heard about Walter Palmer's hunt, an event as removed from the day-to-day life of the average American as overseas counter-terrorism operations are. Within a short period of time, they were able to both learn and form a strong (most likely negative) opinion about the killing of one of Zimbabwe's most famous lions whilst remaining in the dark about the Anbar marketplace struck by American aircraft, leaving 18 Iraqi civilians dead or the 7 women and children reportedly killed by a U.S. cruise missile in the Syrian province of Idlib. Given that these events happened separately over the course of a year, one might think there would have been more than enough time for Americans to learn and come out forcefully against these acts, and yet, any memory of these innocent Iraqis and Syrians was utterly eclipsed by the fury provoked by other unfortunate events, not least of which was the death of Cecil. What times we live in that we feel more sympathy for predatory felines than unarmed Muslims.

In fairness, it is difficult to feel for people killed by bombs dropped in your name when the people dropping the bombs refuse to acknowledge said people killed by said bombs. According to U.S. Central Command, there is "no operational reporting or intelligence" confirming civilian fatalities caused by American forces, anextraordinary claim to make when one considers that over 1,000 air strikes have been launched in Iraq and Syria by this point. One is reminded of the 2011 bombing of Libya, where NATO dropped over 7,000 bombs and missiles on that nation whilst claiming with a straight face that no civilians were harmed up until independent investigators traveled there to see for themselves and found that, lo and behold, not only were civilians killed, but that the total number of Libyans killed by NATO might have been even higher than they had expected. It's bad enough that we're bombing people and then acting like nothing happened, but to make matters worse, our anti-ISIS strategy appears to consist of just that: making matters worse. After resisting the idea for years, President Obama asked and got permission last year to train and arm Syrians fighting against the government of Bashar Al-Assad and ISIS. One year and one million dollars later, five of the seventy rebels trained by the U.S. have been captured by the Al-Nusra Front - that is, Al Qaeda's affiliate in Syria. Several others have disappeared, hopefully not into the folds of ISIS, against which, need I remind you, we trained and armed them.

Then there is the question of Assad: what happens when our proxies come (as they undoubtedly will) into conflict with the regime's forces? The answer, as it turns out, is bomb him too, which would almost certainly lead to his fall and in all likelihood ISIS parading through the streets of Damascus and onward to Baghdad, Beirut, or even Tel Aviv, if they're feeling bold enough. Before you shrug your shoulders and dismiss this as something that only effects the people unfortunate enough to live there: per the Pentagon's own admission, a little over 4,000 American soldiers are currently stationed in Iraq. Yes, they are supposed to serve in strictly advisory roles, and yes, President Obama has stressed that he will not send them directly into combat, but the cynics among us (i.e. this writer) can't help but recall similar promises and assurances from another liberal, Democrat president: Lyndon B. Johnson, who infamously declared on the campaign trail that he would not send "American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing for themselves" and then proceeded to drag the nation into the bloody quagmire that was the Vietnam War, traumatizing an entire generation of Americans, devastating the lives of millions of Vietnamese, and costing him his presidency. 

Almost 60 years after the Sixties, we find ourselves facing one of the major issues that defined that decade. The president is waging war off-the-books and in contravention of the Constitution, and Congress, instead of reining him in, has essentially given their tacit blessing to his actions. The only difference is that impressionable young college students haven't taken to the streets in protest, although that is liable to change when the war inevitably goes downhill and our body count comes closer (however marginally) to matching the other side's. Perhaps then, they will take some of that passion that led modern-day slacktivists to send dentists that shoot lions menacing messages and use it to wave picket signs outside the Pentagon or rush to the polling stations next year to vote the bums responsible for this mess out. If that's too much however, we can always settle for Sharon Osbourne accusing people of being the Devil on Twitter.

Book Review: Zora Neale Hurston's "Jonah's Gourd Vine", "Mules and Men", and "Their Eyes Were Watching God"

Hello dear readers, sorry for the extended absence, but my latest is finally ready, and boy, is it quite a read (in reference to the length rather than quality, although I must say I am very pleased with how it turned out!) I took it upon myself to read the volume of Zora Neale Hurston's books displayed above and decided "Hey, why not review ALL of them for HonorSociety.org?" The result is probably the longest article I have written yet, but I like to think it is the best one I have written yet as well! Her books are a real treat to read, so much so that I am already scheming to get my hands on the rest of her works, and strongly encourage you all to check them out for yourselves. The original article can be accessed here, and it is reproduced in it's entirety below.

      Book Review: Zora Neale Hurston's Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God

Although many Americans might remember having to read Their Eyes Were Watching God in high school, a good number of them would probably be shocked to learn that the book, along with the author, Zora Neale Hurston's other offerings, once seemed to be consigned to the grim fate that had befallen their creator up to and after her untimely death: obscurity. Pilloried during her lifetime by such notable African-American (and yes, often male) contemporaries as Richard Wright and Langston Hughes for being insufficiently revolutionary, Hurston's work was forgotten by both black and white Americans for years until Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, took it upon herself to reevaluate Hurston's work and present it to new audiences. It was this reassessment of Hurston's oeuvre that led to her being granted (quite rightly, I might add) a seat in the annals of esteemed American literature. Although the texts remain the same as they were when Hurston first wrote and published them, the criticism of Hughes, Wright, and other fellow travelers of the Harlem Renaissance that they were quaint at best and frivolous at worst has long since faded away, as the individualistic perspective and rebellious subtext underlying all of them, "a hidden meaning... de inside meanin' of words" (Henry Louis Gates Jr., 191) as one of the characters she purports to have encountered in Mules and Men says, is now recognized by sophisticated scholars and recreational readers. Indeed, curious readers have a chance to see for themselves this "hidden... inside meanin" (Gates Jr,. 191) in a worthy volume put out by Quality Paperback Books that collects two of Hurston's novels and one of her nonfiction outings, as well as introductions and afterwords by academics like Rita Dove and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. On their own, Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God are all engaging, enjoyable reads, but when read in sequence, they give the reader a vivid look at Hurston's tremendous ability to weave stories that not only tickle and touch, but also tell us about ourselves.

The first selection in this volume, Jonah's Gourd Vine, also has the distinction of being Hurston's first novel. In spite of it's early place in her career as a writer, the novel possesses many of the characteristics and addresses many of the themes that would come to define Hurston's manner of writing. The most obvious of these characteristics is the rendering of black characters dialog in a written approximation of the vernacular spoken by many African-Americans in the South at the time (the time being the 1930's). The first spoken line in Jonah's Gourd Vine is said by the main character's mother, Amy Crittenden, as a storm approaches her family's home: "Ole Massa gwinter scrub floors tuhday," (Hurston, pg. 1). The unfiltered authenticity of Amy's speech contrasts sharply with the whimsically-figurative nature of the novel's first line: "God was grumbling his thunder and playing the zig zag lightning thru his fingers," (Hurston, pg.1). It's a very sharp contrast indeed, albeit one wholly typical of the stylistic gulf between the dialog and narration in Hurston's other work. But this should not be taken to mean it is a bad one, for Hurston consistently demonstrates throughout her books in general and Jonah's Gourd Vine in particular that what some readers might write off as uneducated chatter can convey as much weight and meaning as witty metaphors and refined references. Of course, the title of the book itself is one such reference, with the protagonist, young John Crittenden, filling in for the famed Jonah of biblical lore. After getting into a heated argument with his step-father that ends in violence, John is kicked out of his home and forced to leave the rest of his family behind. Making the most of this sad situation, John resolves to cross "Over de Big Creek," (Hurston, 10) near his home, as he always hoped to go over it someday. Over the creek, he finds gainful employment under the tough-but-fair Alf Pearson (often referred to simply as "Mister Alf") and attends school, where he meets Lucy, who is equally-part the titular gourd vine as she is the love of John's life.

For a while, things seem to be looking up for John and Lucy, as he is making good money and eventually becomes a preacher known for his powerful sermons. Unfortunately, John finds himself beset from without by enemies in the church hierarchy who would like nothing more than for him to lose his position and prestige and beset from within by his incessant temptation for female companionship outside of his marriage, straining but never quite destroying his relationship with Lucy. This uneasy state of affairs lasts until fate intervenes and, like when God sent the worm to take the vine away from Jonah, sends illness to take Lucy away from John, leaving him distraught and vulnerable to his weaknesses and thus his enemies. He subsequently finds himself married to the devious Hattie, who uses hoodoo (or voodoo, as it is more commonly referred to as) to enchant him into marrying her, before finally settling down with a woman who attends one of his sermons, Sally Lovelace, in hope that he will be able to move on from his previous marriage to Lucy at last. But just when things start to look up for the two, John succumbs to his base instincts again and sees a prostitute, berating himself for betraying Sally as he drives home only to be killed when a train hits his car as he crosses a railroad track. All in all, it is a tragic tale of a man trying to make his way in the world even as he fights with his inner demons, of a man who, as Mister Alf says before helping John escape the law, “God Himself was looking off when [he] went and got [himself] born,” (Hurston, pg. 99), and of a man who, as the preacher says as he is being laid to rest, “wuz uh man, and nobody knowed ‘im but God,” (Hurston, pg. 202).

The second entry, Mules and Men, is an account of Hurston's travels through the American South in search of what the people she speaks with call "lies" (Hurston, pg. 13): that is, African-American folktales and stories, usually of a fantastic or comic nature. As a black Southerner herself, Hurston was no stranger to such tales. Indeed, she proudly reveals that, "From the earliest rocking of my cradle, I had known about capers Brer Rabbit is apt to cut and what the Squinch Owl says from the house top," (Hurston, pg. 1). Although many readers might not share the history Hurston had with these stories, they are able to not only enjoy them for themselves, they are also able to view them through the anthropological lens that Hurston utilized when she revisited these "lies" she heard in her youth. Within are countless tales of the mythic slave John (or Jack, as he is named in some stories), who somehow always managed to find a way to outsmart Ole Massa, whether it be tricking him into killing his horse and parading around town yelling "Hawse hide for sale! Hawse hide for sale!" (Hurston, pg. 43) or making him think his prayers asking God to strike him dead will work by asking a friend to light matches in the tree that Massa plans to lynch him on. Then there are stories like the one of the white man and the black man trying to get a big bundle that God left in the middle of the road first and one in which Jesus builds his church upon a large rock he made after gluing together the different stones he asked the 12 disciples to bring him that attempt, in their own humorous way, to account for social differences between racial and ethnic groups. Of course, some are simply humorous, such as the story of the young girl who goes to school and returns home educated to the pride of her father only for his pride to turn into outrage when he discovers that she can spell everything but a clucking sound local to their area, indignantly exclaiming "Ah could spell dat myself and Ah ain't been to school a day in mah life," (Hurston, pg. 41).

Hurston's search for stories like these took her from her native Eatonville, a Florida community whose self-sufficiency and racial homogeneity nurtured her rugged individualism and unapologetic appreciation of black culture, to the French Quarter of New Orleans, said to have been the home and final resting place of hoodoo high priestess Marie Leveau. Whether this is a historical fact or just superstition is left for readers to speculate, but people like Turner (no first name given) fervently believe, relating the life and fate of Leveau to Hurston before taking her under his tutelage and giving her an introduction to hoodoo. This culminates in Hurston undergoing one of the hoodoo practitioners' rituals, lying naked on an altar without food for, according to her estimate, no less than sixty-nine hours before rising, being clothed in garments made in snake skin, and finally witnessing the brutal killing of several chickens. Slightly less unsettling are accounts of a woman who once killed the chicken of a neighbor said to practice hoodoo when it entered her garden only to later fall seriously ill, mysteriously dying in spite of the best efforts of her doctor and Hurston's encounter with one Anatol Pierre, who claimed that with nothing more than black candles, a coffin, a small doll, a black cat and chicken he could kill a man without ever touching him. Readers should rest easy though, for Hurston makes it out safely in the end, concluding her study of black folklore and hoodoo with an allusion to one of the stories she came across: "I'm sitting here like Sis Cat, washing my face and usin' my manners," (Hurston, pg. 246). Through the laughs and the shudders, readers too can rest assured that they will leave Mules and Men with the same sense of satisfaction and gratitude.

The last work included in this volume, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is undoubtedly Hurston's most famous work and features thematic and structural similarities to Jonah's Gourd Vine, although it departs from that novel in one very important way: the protagonist, Janie Crawford, is female, giving readers an opportunity to view some of the themes and situations addressed in Jonah's Gourd Vine through the eyes of a woman. Indeed, from the beginning of the novel, Hurston informs readers of what she believes to be the difference between men and women. While men spend their lives waiting for their hopes and dreams, their "Ships at a distance" (Hurston, pg. 1), to be realized, "women forget all those things they don't want to remember, and remember everything they don't want to forget. The dream is the truth. Then they act and do things accordingly," (Hurston, pg. 1). This is the central difference between Janie and John, the difference between Their Eyes Were Watching God and Jonah's Gourd Vine. While John was destroyed both mentally and physically by his endless striving after unattainable goals, Janie tries to make the most of what life throws her way, adapting when necessary to survive, and fighting when necessary to live. It is this wisdom that an older Janie seeks to impart on Phoeby, a curious young girl whom she relays her story to. An orphan, Janie was raised by her grandmother alongside the white children she served as a nanny too, leading her to conclude that she too was white until she started school, much to the amusement of her classmates and teacher. But it wasn't until Janie was older that her troubles started, for that was when, despite her own reservations, she agrees to marry Logan Killicks, a favorite of her grandmother's, on account that he will provide a good life for her and thus she will eventually come to love him. At first, this seems to be the case, as Killicks constantly sings her praises, compliments her appearance, and takes it upon himself to chop all their firewood by himself, but in spite of all these gratuitous acts of kindness, Janie cannot bring herself to love him. Before long, she notices "her husband had stopped talking in rhymes to her. He had ceased to wonder at her long black hair and finger it. Six months back he had told her, 'If Ah kin haul de wood heah and chop it fuh yuh, look lak you oughta be able tuh tote it inside'," (Hurston, pg. 25). In short, the magic was gone, if it ever was there to begin with, and soon enough, she finds herself swept off her feet by a smart-dressed, smooth-talking stranger named Joe Stark, who promptly elopes with her and takes her to a fictionalized version of the Eatonville of Hurston's youth. A powerful, charismatic personality, Joe becomes mayor of the town and begins ingratiating himself and Janie to the citizenry, something that Janie tries to do herself but, in a sign of things to come, is prevented from doing so by Joe. "Ah never married her for nothin' lak dat. She's uh woman and her place is in de home," (Hurston, pg. 41) he remarks when she is asked to give a speech. Surprised and hurt, Janie nevertheless suppresses her feelings and attempts to accommodate her husband's wishes.

Yet, this is to no avail, for Joe's pushy, domineering ways make not only Janie but also the townspeople he is supposed to represent sour on him. Aware of the increasing tension between him and the townspeople, Joe insults and criticizes Janie with increasing frequency when in the company of others, with Janie silently taking it until at last, she explodes on him in front of the men he is discussing business with, prompting him to beat her savagely after the men leave in a feeble attempt to restore his manhood. But the damage has been done, and shortly afterwards, Joe finds himself facing much bigger problems, namely a problem with his kidneys that in the end proves fatal. As he lies on his deathbed, Janie pleas with him to own up to his shortcomings after confessing hers, but it proves to be no use: he dies yelling at her to get out and to be struck dead by lightning. After the funeral, she finds herself getting over Joe's death relatively quickly, prompting disapproving whispers from the community. Indifferent to these rumors, she later muses to Phoeby, "Let 'em say whut dey wants tuh... To my thinkin' mourning oughn't tuh last no longer'n grief," (Hurston, pg. 89), and as it turns out, she has good reason to move past her grief. One day when she is preparing to close her shop, a tall stranger enters and begins flirting with her. Once again, she finds herself in thrall to a smooth-talking stranger, albeit one who goes by the nickname Tea Cake. After the disasters of Killicks and Joe, it appears that Janie has finally found someone who can protect and provide for her while respecting her wishes and autonomy. Unfortunately, their relationship comes to an end when a devastating storm strikes their community and whilst trying to save a cow from drowning, Tea Cake is bitten by a rabid dog. The storm passes, but his resulting madness does not, and after vainly trying to persuade a belligerent Tea Cake to go to the hospital, Janie has no choice but to shoot him when he turns violent. Although she subsequently has to defend herself in court and put up with additional scorn poured upon her by neighbors who believe she killed Tea Cake in cold blood after she is acquitted, she remains confident that she had no choice but to protect herself. Confident, but sad as well, as we learn at her second funeral for a husband, where she wears nothing more than some weathered overalls, the reason being "She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief," (Hurston, pg. 180). One can rightly say that grief plays a prominent role in Their Eyes Were Watching God, but by no means is it the dominant one. Equally important are resilience and self-reflection, as Janie sums up when she finishes telling Phoeby her tale: "Ah'm back home again and Ah'm satisfied tuh be heah. Ah done been tuh de horizon and back and now Ah kin set heah in mah house and live by comparisons. Dis house ain't so absent of things lak it used tuh be befo' Tea Cake come along. It's full uh thoughts," (Hurston, pg. 182). Prospective readers would stand well to check out Their Eyes Were Watching God for themselves, as they will likely feel like Phoeby does after hearing Janie's story: "Ah done growed ten feet higher from jus' listenin' tuh yuh, Janie!"

Reading Their Eyes Were Watching God on it's own may indeed leave readers with the impression that like Phoeby they have grown, but reading it in conjunction with Hurston's other work like Jonah's Gourd Vine and Mules and Men will likely leave readers feeling like giants. It gives them a chance to see the copious threads underlying Hurston's work, not least among them the human quest for dignity and identity. It is these intangible (some might even say unreachable) objects that all of her characters strive for, whether they be rooted in reality like John the compromised preacher and Janie the indomitable widow or fantastical creations conjured up by generations of African-Americans long before her time like John the wily slave or Marie the mystical matriarch. This doesn't even take into account the sheer pleasure it is to read Hurston's work: the characters come to life thanks to their stylistically-rendered dialog, and her passionate-yet-thoughtful prose fills in any loose-ends left in her narratives. If you're looking for edifying literature or simply an entertaining story, do yourself a favor and read (in sequence, preferably) Zora Neale Hurston's Jonah's Gourd Vine, Mules and Men, and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Words of Encouragement From A Recent College Grad

Once again, HonorSociety.org has published an article of mine! This particular one is basically an open letter to college students meant to encourage them as the school year looms near, although I can only hope that they find it such. In any case, the article is reproduced below, and the original post can be accessed here:

                                                                            Words of Encouragement From A Recent College Grad

For many readers, school is once again rearing it’s rather imposing head around the corner, causing them no small amount of stress. Indeed, chances are you or a friend are hastily stocking up on supplies and scouring Amazon for textbooks or going to the beach and movies with friends in an attempt to make the most of what remains of summer as we speak. Being a college graduate myself, I am very familiar with this feeling, and so it is for this reason that rather than talk down to you about why you should do this thing pertaining to your college career or not do that other thing pertaining to it, I am simply going to offer all you freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors some words of encouragement.

To freshmen: congratulations on your admittance to college! All those late nights and early mornings, difficult tests and tedious assignments are finally paying off, for you are about to begin a great adventure. There will still be difficult tests and tedious assignments, and there will still be late nights and early mornings, but there will also be so much more. There will be guest speakers to inform you, free movie screenings and concerts to move you, new friends to comfort you, and yes, even parties to let you unwind. But most importantly, there will be the realization that the world is a much bigger place than the classroom and halls you until recently split your time between. For many of you, this will be your first time away from home. Although you will stay in touch with your family, you will mostly be on your own in your day-to-day life. This experience, while difficult to undergo, will be very rewarding. Some of you may go in thinking certain doom lies ahead, while others, feeling that since you successfully maneuvered the travails of high school you must know the secrets of the universe, might go in thinking it will be a cakewalk. I found myself alternating between the two groups my freshman year, but I can assure you that both will find their expectations subverted. The nervous will find a place teeming with possibility and opportunity, while the cocky will quickly find themselves humbled. But being humbled is not necessarily a bad thing: after all, somebody needs to take you down a peg or too, to tell you that no, you don't know everything, and that's okay. After all, if you did know everything, you wouldn't be going to college now, would you? Best of luck with this exciting journey, and may learn much in class and even more outside it.

To sophomores: Well done! You managed to survive freshman year, with all of the new responsibilities and expectations it heaped upon you! As the culture shock wears off, you're more than likely getting into the hang of things, like setting aside time for studying and working on homework without having to be told by anyone, making lasting relationships with your peers, and, God forbid, speaking with financial aid or housing whenever the need arises. By this point, you should also be closer to having an idea of what you want to study if you are still an undeclared major. Hopefully the general electives you probably took last year gave you some idea of what interests you, but you still have until the end of the year to figure it out. Being more comfortable in this new environment and used to the standards of college-level coursework, budgeting time for extracurricular or recreational activities like clubs or on-campus organizations should be no great task. They might be just that - that is, extracurricular or recreational - but the fact is activities like these, aside from simply making your time at the university you attend much more enjoyable, could easily motivate you both in and out of the classroom by showing you a possible pathway after you graduate and thus encourage you to excel in your classes so you may work towards that goal (as in my case, working with UCLARadio did). Keep up the good work, and get involved!

To juniors: you're half-way done, and victory is within sight. You can juggle the demands of professors, TA's, RA's, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, campus staff, and random people in the lounge with ease. All of your GE's are most likely fulfilled and you've made significant headway on your major coursework. Stay involved with whatever campus groups you've become a part of, and continue making new friends and connections. It is also a good time to start thinking about what you're going to do after graduation, so if you're even considering grad school, it would behoove you to start cultivating relationships with your professors and TA's so that when the time comes, they can write you quality letters of recommendation. If you're thinking about entering the workforce immediately upon graduation, then you should seek out people who supervised you in any campus organizations you were a member of or jobs you worked at. Prospective employers will look upon glowing recommendations from people who actually worked with you the way grad school admissions committees look upon effusive recommendations from professors who actually supervised the student they are considering for admission: that is, positively. Stay alert, but stay in touch with friends and campus organizations. 

To seniors: this is it. One more year, and an easy one at that, if you played your cards right. Your major requirements are all but done, and your GE's are ancient history. There is a very good chance that you will spend your last few semesters taking classes you don't necessarily need because you've already accounted for most of your requirements and the only thing you really need is units. Of course, this is not always the case, and if it turns out you're short a class or two for your major or another requirement, you can easily finish it during the summer at another institution or even, in some cases, online. There is no shame in this, particularly when you consider that aside from that particular class, you're done and thus considered graduated. Equally important this year is making the most of what little time you have on campus: this might be the last time you see many of the people who you've encountered and befriended on this four-year adventure, in addition to being able to take advantage of many of the events taking place at your school. Keep studying, but don't be afraid to take a break so you can go out for a bite with your roommate. Go to office hours, but also go to the theater department's production of The Drowsy Chaperone. That way, in addition to having a college degree to show for all the work you've done the past four years, you also have cherished memories of your time there to return to and tell others about. Good work, and good luck wherever you go and whatever you do. 

Of Stars and Bars: Why Purging The Confederate Flag From American Life Accomplishes Nothing

The Confederate battle flag outside the South Carolina Capitol before it was taken down.

My latest post for HonorSociety.org, about the Charleston shooting and the Confederate flag, has been posted! Here it is reprinted in it's entirety, with the original post viewable  here:

                 Of Stars and Bars: Why Purging The Confederate Flag From American Life Accomplishes Nothing

On July 10th, almost a month after 21-year old Dylan Roof went on a shooting spree in a historically-black Charleston church that left 9 innocent people dead, South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley oversaw the removal of the infamous battle flag flown by the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia during the Civil War from the dome of the State House in Columbia. Erroneously believed by many to have been the national flag of the Confederacy, the battle flag is seen by some as a good-natured symbol of Southern heritage and remembrance of ancestors who gave their lives during the war and by many as an odious reminder of slavery and unrepentant racism. Considering that Roof not only owned one but proudly displayed it sometime before his assault on the Charleston church, one might be more inclined to side with the later group's interpretation of the flag. Indeed, it may be true that a significant number of Southern soldiers during the war might have viewed it as a fight for independence rather than slavery, but this has no more bearing on the negative associations one might have of the flag than the fact that a significant number of German soldiers during the Second World War neither believed in nor supported National Socialism minimizes the negative associations one might have of the Iron Cross often worn by bikers and surfers today. For this reason, it is best that the divisive and yes, offensive nature of the flag be recognized and that the flag be removed from  governmentbuildings like South Carolina's State House.

Unfortunately, as it is with all-too many political and social controversies, the story did not end there. A few weeks before the flag came down from the state capitol, Apple announced that it would  remove apps that featured it  from it's App Store. Although it claimed it would only go after apps that used the flag in malicious ways, Apple  proceeded to  remove four strategy games that used it in the "educational or historical" manner it purported to make an exception for. Around the same time, Warner Bros. announced that it would  no longer produce models and replicas of The General Lee of The Dukes of Hazzard fame  bearing the so-called Confederate flag on it's roof. Shortly afterwards, TV Land, apparently unable or unwilling to remove the car's flag from the  program itself, pulled the whole show from syndication over the matter. Not to be outdone, Ebay announced that given the flag's status as a "contemporary symbol of divisiveness and racism", they would no longer allow vendors to sell the flag and merchandise bearing it on their website. Following Ebay's example in short order were  Amazon, Walmart, and Sears, with each company pulling the offending item from their shelves and webpages. This anti-Confederate flag frenzy reached some truly absurd heights, with one online commentator claiming that several teenagers complained that they carried guitars displaying the flag at the store he worked at. He posted a picture of one of the guitars in question, a limited edition Epiphone  emblazoned with the Union Jack in commemoration of the 1960's British Invasion. Fortunately, it doesn't seem enough teens have complained about said guitar for Epiphone to cease production of them.

Interestingly though, one could make the case that these teens had even more reason to complain about the Union Jack than the Stars and Bars, especially if they came from or had family from parts of the world where the "British Invasion" probably means something very different from Ed Sullivan introducing John, Paul, George and Ringo to American television audiences for the first time. Indeed, until half a century ago that flag represented an empire that not only lorded over people of color from northernmost Canada to the Indian subcontinent but also regularly bombed and gassed said people  whenever they challenged or appeared to challenge their rule. Would it be at all surprising if at the very least some Africans, Native Americans, Arabs, and Indians looked upon that flag and felt emotions similar to the ones American blacks likely do when they see the Confederate flag? To return to the example of the Iron Cross referenced earlier, while Ebay purged it's site of the battle flag, it still continues to host necklaces, pendants, rings, coins, and even medals once worn by soldiers of the Wehrmacht as it rampaged across Europe. Furthermore, one can still easily buy merchandise displaying the more explicitly-offensive swastika. True, most of the items in question are antiques, but one is left to scratch their head why a similar exception wasn't made for the equally-offensive yet equally-historical Confederate flag. But it wasn't a Union Jack, an Iron Cross, or even a swastika that Dylan Roof posed in pictures with before murdering those people, it might be countered: it was the Stars and Bars! That may be so, but Roof also posed in at least one picture wearing a jacket with the  flags of apartheid-era South Africa, a regime which arguably held  the dubious honor of making Jim Crow look comparatively benign, and  Rhodesia, a former British colony that waged a  brutal, decade-long war against it's native black population  after independence. Despite the fact that these flags have comparable or even stronger racist associations than the Confederate flag, they still remain available for purchase on Ebay. 

I am not saying that Ebay or any other company should be forced to sell products bearing any of these symbols: as private businesses, they are free to carry or not carry whatever they please. I am also definitely not saying that they should remove merchandise bearing said  symbols as they did with the Confederate flag: that is completely contrary to the point I am making. The point I am making is that the fact that Roof actively sought out clothing bearing the South African and Rhodesian flags when most Americans would just give you a confused look when you ask them to point to South Africa on a map and what Zimbabwe used to be called reveals that he was so strongly invested in white supremacist ideology that he would cling to those beliefs even if society worked to scrub anything bearing the whiff of racism in American media and merchandise away. More than likely, he would have just become more deeply involved in white supremacist sub-subculture, where this see-no-evil attitude would be cited as proof that their ideas are so alluring to white Americans that the authorities have to censor them. In the shadows, this misplaced sense of persecution would likely metastasize into even more malignant forms of hate, and by extension, more violent forms of it as well, directly leading to more Dylan Roofs and more massacres. Instead of averting ours and others' eyes from racist symbolism and driving peddlers of it into the protective shroud of the dark, we should allow them to express their bigoted beliefs as we would non-bigoted ones, where others can shine a light on the absurdity of such beliefs and expose their incoherence to members of the public. Case in point is Roof himself. During his confession, he admitted to police  that he "almost didn't go through with [the shooting] because everyone was so nice to him." We all know what followed, but for a moment, the Charleston shooter doubted the morality of his murderous mission, and it wasn't because somebody confiscated his jacket with the Rhodesian flag or TV Land stopped airing The Dukes of Hazzard: it was because some of the people he irrationally hated showed him kindness and humanity, thus undermining the fundamental tenets of his racist ideology. Perhaps things would have turned out differently had Roof experienced more moments like these before that tragic day.