Munch This: A Sober Look at Everyone’s Favorite Convenience Store
May 2009
By Mary Corcoran
The hike to Munchie Mart can be a challenge, be it from a Vampire-themed Valentine’s Day Party on Forbes Street, a Zombie Bride Festival on Davis, or even from as close as one of Kalamazoo College’s dorms.
The walk often requires intense focus, chanting the grocery list, or just a single word—cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes—to ensure one’s quest is successful.
“You focus on walking in a straight line, deciding which homeless people to avoid (the answer is all of them), and remembering which light means walk,” says Colin King K’11.
“Drunk people are very focused on their tobacco,” he goes on. In the three minutes Colin, and most other Munchie patrons spend in the store, the mission is easily fulfilled. “You know what you’re going to get when you finally get there,” he says.
But door opened and door closed, that’s just one side of Munchie Mart.
Stepping behind the shop’s tall, forest green counters, Paul, 23, and Will, 26, are vested with the authority and responsibility to dispense two of America’s few legal drugs: cigarettes and alcohol. Both men work two jobs and attend Western Michigan University full time; they’re busy, and on Friday night, five hours into their shifts, they’re peppy.
Sounds from the east side of the state, more specifically Comerica Park, spill through the store’s cobwebbed overhead speakers, and though loud, perhaps unnecessarily so, patrons are rung up and shuffled in and out with great efficiency and order.
Once through Munchie’s Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age and proudly announcing that the store accepts food stamps, a whole new world of sugary sweets, beer, beer, beer, and liquor appears.
Ask any of the many men and women who walk out with a thirty pack of chilled PBR, Red Dog, or Keystone, Munchie’s pièce de résistance is its walk-in fridge.
With its low ceiling and crowded shelves, its heavily postered walls and windows, stepping inside the fridge is an experience. It’s getting out, according to Paul and Will, that proves a challenge for many of Munchie’s already-inebriated customers.
For help out of the fridge, officially dubbed the “Beer Tank” by a Miller Lite banner, the room’s single door sports a user-friendly, eye-level sticker reading: “PUSH.” As if not conspicuous enough, the message is hammered home by a white handprint beneath it, ensuring that non-English speakers and those with blurred vision are not discriminated against, or worse, trapped.
“It’s called the Beer Cave,” Paul scoffs, offering an insider’s perspective. “Miller Lite needs to get it right.”
Whether a fridge, a closet, a tank, or a cave, its door, like those on the ice cooler, is often left open by distracted patrons rushing back to their porch, living room, or dorm.
When two unnaturally orange, spandex-clad women in their early twenties, stumbling and giggly, approach Munchie’s register, they ask for a fifth of bottom shelf booze. Generic College Girl A hands over a shiny plastic ID, and trying to trip her up, Will asks what her zip code is. “49003”—she’s a local and she knows the answer.
Will laughs. “And what state do you live in?” he asks, but before she can answer, his counterpart, Paul, chimes in, “Insanity! I live in a state of insanity!”
And he’s right, but it’s working for them.
Shortly thereafter, just around 10:30, there’s a rush at Munchie Mart. It’s raining outside, and many patrons arrive soaked, but like Colin, they’re on a high-stakes expedition and feeling no pain.
A middle-aged man with intensely unfocused pupils teeters in, leaning forward, his body at a seventy-degree angle with the tiled floor. He’s dressed in a cut-off sleeve tee shirt, wearing a brown vest, and looking utterly removed from reality. Gazing toward a rainbow of beer bottles, he misses the green rugs rolled out for the weather, and he trips, rolls the rug up, and continues on. If he so much as noticed the misstep, he shows no sign of it—but, would you? He buys his booze and leaves.
Another pair of college women arrive and purchase their 6-pack of Coors, but not without Paul first asking if they’re driving; he’s concerned, and with good reason.
The store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” hangs in the background, appearing on indistinct poster board and looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child. Still, its message rings true.
“We’re not driving, but we are drunk,” replies the more rambunctious of the two. With brown paper bag in hand, they give a little cheer on the way out the door: “Beer pong here we come!”
But keeping the shelves stocked and ringing up purchases are only part of the job. After encountering enough drunken patrons who drive to Munchie only to try to buy more alcohol, Paul and Will see their responsibility to look out for the customer as a big part of the job too.
Around 11, a scraggly-haired twenty-two year old, a regular, swings open the door and beelines toward the forties.
“This guy buys for minors,” Paul declares shamelessly. The kid laughs, shakes his head nervously, and continues on his way. “And he knows every time he comes him here I’m going to try to get him to admit it,” Paul goes on.
With no serious response from the accused, Will takes a turn; “He buys about ten forties, and he drops bottles,” he says.
With faux indignation, he kid denies the accusations and approaches the register braced with a single 22-ounce Miller Lite—innocent at least for tonight.
Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has taken an active stance against underage drinking by rewarding his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated. The homemade IDs then make their way into Munchie’s box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners.
Just before midnight, an older man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio. “You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over his eyes. The man laughs—he’s been caught. He pays for his malt liquor, and he leaves.
Paul and Will know some of the regulars by name, but Paul says he remembers faces better. Handing over a fifth of Smirnoff, Will warns its new owner to “drink slowly.” He’s seen her at her worst.
If the guys had alter egos, they say they might be Rocky and Bullwinkle (Will’s got dibs on the former), Simon and Garfunkel, or Adolf and Mussolini. Though they do strive to keep the customer satisfied, ruling with an iron fist takes top priority.
Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but “we’d want to use it too much,” he says with a laugh.
With closing time growing nearer, Paul and Will throw on the heavy metal music. Loud. The genre has been statistically proven to get customers out of the store quicker. Sure, every once in a while the plan backfires, but largely, it’s successful.
In between the monotony of fulfilling work responsibilities, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips play second string to the metal), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window and ill-coordinated college students looking for more, more.
For Paul and Will, the Munchie Mart experience is way more than three minutes.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Dirt on Kzoo Confessional
The Dirt on Kzoo Confessional
January 2009
By Mary Corcoran
Earlier in the week, the conversation in one of my classes drifted towards issues of inclusion and exclusion in terms of the real and the realized. The schism between notions we accept and those we enact is exemplified most perfectly in our tolerance and participation not in open dialogue, but on Kzoo Confessional.
Since when do we have to surrender our names and identities in order to be honest? What is it about our culture that identifies and attaches value, freedom, and candid conversation to anonymity?
Words claim their strength from the the conviction of the person speaking them. Speeches are given everyday, opinions delivered from television shows, car windows, and classrooms, and it is the identity tied to the perspective that demands respect and audience.
We listen to our professors--while we don’t always agree with their perspectives or opinions, most of us accept that the the content they deliver to us is legitimate. If we don’t listen to our parents, most of us at least hear them out. We listen to the media, in some way or another, be it by sporting the latest fashion, listening to a new song, or checking out some fad, our age group is particularly susceptible to “buying in.” All of these outlets, these images of authority so responsible for dictating our actions, are tangible. We hear them and we certainly see them.
We spend so much time listening--why is it that the time we spend speaking is a time we prefer to remain anonymous?
Kzoo Confessional, a website on which anyone with a K college email address can post and comment anonymously, has become a part of our arcadian culture. Other liberal arts schools including Oberlin, Amherst, and Middlebury, have launched their own confessional websites, each of which has come under fire by their respective school administrators and newspapers.
On our own campus, the site has been the subject of great debate among students and faculty--last year, in an effort to get Kzoo Confessional shut down, some particularly cruel postings were showcased in the library. The faceless forum, which has deteriorated to little more than an outlet for unbridled gossip and offensiveness, is a phenomenon discussed in some freshmen seminars. Just a few weeks ago, it was brought up during an LAC on hazing.
Kzoo Confessional gives voice to students while simultaneously silencing their identities.
What does it matter that you’re brave enough to name--or rather, judge--the hipsters, the hottest freshmen, and the biggest sluts if you’re not willing to name yourself? Such insights are hurtful, and in many instances, purely hateful. Surely when the website began, it wasn’t intended for trash talking alone.
The site’s terms and conditions are explicitly outlined in a summary post by the administrator, Sam Yoo K’10. He states: “Please try to maintain some semblance of dignity and intelligence when posting. Think about whether or not what you have to say is interesting, useful, and/or kind...Do not pose as someone else.”
“Some semblance” is a term that allows for potentially dangerous freedom of interpretation, but generally, the summary is genuinely good natured advice, simply calling for maturity and asking that the site be utilized as a public forum, or, as Yoo states, “a community based project...trying to echo the Kzoo College community. Let's be accepting, open minded, and kind to one another...Treat the confessional as a public space.”
Keeping this in mind, one recent post caught my attention. It reads: “What the hell constitutes a ‘hipster’? I need to be informed before I hate them.’” Interesting. Now, beside the grammatical error, this post is worthy of some analysis. In a not-so-subtle way, aspects of our K education are sneaking in, insisting on understanding and evaluating a situation before speaking out and taking sides. A potentially insightful individual, his or her thought process has been warped and channelled negatively, raising the question, what if it was used for good?
After spending enough time on the site, a community of identities--however anonymous--emerge. There are the letter people, a healthy population of trolls and owls, the abhorred spammers (the consensus is that there’s more than one...which brings me to Zodiac), and an unclearly explained fixation with some individuals, sports teams, and various cliques. Rumor has it that certain individuals post about themselves, but really, who’s to say? Even if you’ve visited the site just once, you’ll probably remember a few of the most popular discussion points.
Every once in a while, someone will pose as an administrator and deliver the “official” threat to shut down Kzoo Confessional.
Sometimes people will try to stage serious conversations, opening up dialogue on topics like the recent election, best house parties, favorite classes, or the popular, “Give someone a compliment or thank you anonymously...” thread.
Consistently, the site is used for gutless personal attacks. I remember last year thinking that everyone blew their criticism of the site way out of proportion. It wasn’t until speaking with someone personally affected by its ways that I started to see the other side of the argument. One night in June a friend told me about how her entire first quarter of college was defined by her emotional and social response to a cruel and untrue “secret” posted about her. But students are not the only victims; so too are professors.
Logging on to Kzoo Confessional with her own kzoo.edu email address, at least one professor has read the ruthless posts taking shot at both her class and her as an individual. The words made her fearful of returning to the classroom. Neither she, nor anyone else, knew who posted, who the friends and who the foes were. Exploiting the privilege of anonymity to strike fear in others? Definitely not a K value.
A senior student told me she stopped visiting the site, finding it “demoralizing” and the posts largely misogynistic. I like to think that issues of gender and sexuality are discussed fairly openly on this campus--forums are held, information distributed, student groups formed in an effort at representation and peer-to-peer education--but still, Kzoo Confessional has become a place where while both men and women are bashed, women bare the brunt of attacks on physicality. Why won’t the women at this college lose their mustaches? Why are all the girls at this college fat and ugly? First, neither statement is true or funny. Second, what is gained from purging an opinion so hurtful to others?
It saddens and disappoints me that something in our society is dictating that in order to handle controversy we need to first remove ourselves from positions of responsibility. This concern is furthered by those who exploit the forum in exchange for nursing their own wounded egos. Our school’s motto is “Lux Esto,” isn’t it? Be light and trust in yourself and community of peers. Speak your thoughts and harvest a responsible exchange of ideas.
Logging on to Kzoo Confessional, it’s worth thinking about the audience, considering our reasons for speaking and our reasons for hiding.
American poet Randall Jarrell said “The world goes by my cage and never sees me.”
As a community, I hope we can stop hiding beneath anonymity and ideally, begin projecting our most positive images of self in every situation in which we we operate--the plane of reality, classrooms, the caf, and the gym, and the plane of the less tangible, the internet, Kzoo Confessional.
As for now, I’ll continue my daily visits to the site. Bombs away, gentle readers.
January 2009
By Mary Corcoran
Earlier in the week, the conversation in one of my classes drifted towards issues of inclusion and exclusion in terms of the real and the realized. The schism between notions we accept and those we enact is exemplified most perfectly in our tolerance and participation not in open dialogue, but on Kzoo Confessional.
Since when do we have to surrender our names and identities in order to be honest? What is it about our culture that identifies and attaches value, freedom, and candid conversation to anonymity?
Words claim their strength from the the conviction of the person speaking them. Speeches are given everyday, opinions delivered from television shows, car windows, and classrooms, and it is the identity tied to the perspective that demands respect and audience.
We listen to our professors--while we don’t always agree with their perspectives or opinions, most of us accept that the the content they deliver to us is legitimate. If we don’t listen to our parents, most of us at least hear them out. We listen to the media, in some way or another, be it by sporting the latest fashion, listening to a new song, or checking out some fad, our age group is particularly susceptible to “buying in.” All of these outlets, these images of authority so responsible for dictating our actions, are tangible. We hear them and we certainly see them.
We spend so much time listening--why is it that the time we spend speaking is a time we prefer to remain anonymous?
Kzoo Confessional, a website on which anyone with a K college email address can post and comment anonymously, has become a part of our arcadian culture. Other liberal arts schools including Oberlin, Amherst, and Middlebury, have launched their own confessional websites, each of which has come under fire by their respective school administrators and newspapers.
On our own campus, the site has been the subject of great debate among students and faculty--last year, in an effort to get Kzoo Confessional shut down, some particularly cruel postings were showcased in the library. The faceless forum, which has deteriorated to little more than an outlet for unbridled gossip and offensiveness, is a phenomenon discussed in some freshmen seminars. Just a few weeks ago, it was brought up during an LAC on hazing.
Kzoo Confessional gives voice to students while simultaneously silencing their identities.
What does it matter that you’re brave enough to name--or rather, judge--the hipsters, the hottest freshmen, and the biggest sluts if you’re not willing to name yourself? Such insights are hurtful, and in many instances, purely hateful. Surely when the website began, it wasn’t intended for trash talking alone.
The site’s terms and conditions are explicitly outlined in a summary post by the administrator, Sam Yoo K’10. He states: “Please try to maintain some semblance of dignity and intelligence when posting. Think about whether or not what you have to say is interesting, useful, and/or kind...Do not pose as someone else.”
“Some semblance” is a term that allows for potentially dangerous freedom of interpretation, but generally, the summary is genuinely good natured advice, simply calling for maturity and asking that the site be utilized as a public forum, or, as Yoo states, “a community based project...trying to echo the Kzoo College community. Let's be accepting, open minded, and kind to one another...Treat the confessional as a public space.”
Keeping this in mind, one recent post caught my attention. It reads: “What the hell constitutes a ‘hipster’? I need to be informed before I hate them.’” Interesting. Now, beside the grammatical error, this post is worthy of some analysis. In a not-so-subtle way, aspects of our K education are sneaking in, insisting on understanding and evaluating a situation before speaking out and taking sides. A potentially insightful individual, his or her thought process has been warped and channelled negatively, raising the question, what if it was used for good?
After spending enough time on the site, a community of identities--however anonymous--emerge. There are the letter people, a healthy population of trolls and owls, the abhorred spammers (the consensus is that there’s more than one...which brings me to Zodiac), and an unclearly explained fixation with some individuals, sports teams, and various cliques. Rumor has it that certain individuals post about themselves, but really, who’s to say? Even if you’ve visited the site just once, you’ll probably remember a few of the most popular discussion points.
Every once in a while, someone will pose as an administrator and deliver the “official” threat to shut down Kzoo Confessional.
Sometimes people will try to stage serious conversations, opening up dialogue on topics like the recent election, best house parties, favorite classes, or the popular, “Give someone a compliment or thank you anonymously...” thread.
Consistently, the site is used for gutless personal attacks. I remember last year thinking that everyone blew their criticism of the site way out of proportion. It wasn’t until speaking with someone personally affected by its ways that I started to see the other side of the argument. One night in June a friend told me about how her entire first quarter of college was defined by her emotional and social response to a cruel and untrue “secret” posted about her. But students are not the only victims; so too are professors.
Logging on to Kzoo Confessional with her own kzoo.edu email address, at least one professor has read the ruthless posts taking shot at both her class and her as an individual. The words made her fearful of returning to the classroom. Neither she, nor anyone else, knew who posted, who the friends and who the foes were. Exploiting the privilege of anonymity to strike fear in others? Definitely not a K value.
A senior student told me she stopped visiting the site, finding it “demoralizing” and the posts largely misogynistic. I like to think that issues of gender and sexuality are discussed fairly openly on this campus--forums are held, information distributed, student groups formed in an effort at representation and peer-to-peer education--but still, Kzoo Confessional has become a place where while both men and women are bashed, women bare the brunt of attacks on physicality. Why won’t the women at this college lose their mustaches? Why are all the girls at this college fat and ugly? First, neither statement is true or funny. Second, what is gained from purging an opinion so hurtful to others?
It saddens and disappoints me that something in our society is dictating that in order to handle controversy we need to first remove ourselves from positions of responsibility. This concern is furthered by those who exploit the forum in exchange for nursing their own wounded egos. Our school’s motto is “Lux Esto,” isn’t it? Be light and trust in yourself and community of peers. Speak your thoughts and harvest a responsible exchange of ideas.
Logging on to Kzoo Confessional, it’s worth thinking about the audience, considering our reasons for speaking and our reasons for hiding.
American poet Randall Jarrell said “The world goes by my cage and never sees me.”
As a community, I hope we can stop hiding beneath anonymity and ideally, begin projecting our most positive images of self in every situation in which we we operate--the plane of reality, classrooms, the caf, and the gym, and the plane of the less tangible, the internet, Kzoo Confessional.
As for now, I’ll continue my daily visits to the site. Bombs away, gentle readers.
“Well” Takes a Shot at Reality
“Well” Takes a Shot at Reality
March 2008
By Mary Corcoran
The world has become a place where sickness—terminal illness, even—has been trivialized by the healthy; where minority verbalization about disadvantage is often referred to as “playing the race card;” and where the media indulges the privileged by producing television and film devoid of compassion but chocked full of pre-packaged judgments and labels.
The human impulse to label things—to group them together and give them a name—despite having a tendency to cloak reality, reinforces the label-er’s judgments by providing him with the illusion of being in control.
By this logic, American media is a control freak. Mainstream television and film habitually snub the truly disadvantaged by silencing their realities and promoting idealized—easier to handle—images of sickness, poverty, and general disadvantage.
While theatre is hardly mainstream, the voice of one woman—to be fair, two women: her mother chimes in at turns—have graced a Broadway stage, and more locally, the Nelda Balch Playhouse, to bring to light these disparate perceptions and subsequent projections of privilege,
both in the arts and in American culture.
In addition to authoring the play “Well,” in the Broadway production, Lisa Kron K’83, stars in the story she describes as a “multicharacter theatrical exploration of issues of health and illness both in the individual and in a community…I work using autobiographical material, but ultimately this is a theatrical exploration of a universal experience.”
A play within a play, “Well” discuss wellness in terms of mental and physical health, racial integration during the 1960s, and the tricky relationship between mothers and their daughters—oh, and the convenience of selective memory and perspective. Kron questions perspective and her play begs understanding of disadvantage, wholeheartedly speaking to the truth of being a minority.
According to the Media Awareness Network, a Canadian organization dedicated to media literacy, biology is not the sole determinant in racial identity; rather, the North American perception of race is “equally shaped by social norms and expectations, which are based on historical events and current practices.” The organization, comprised of experts in education, journalism, mass communications, and cultural policy has found “being white is perceived as the norm. Often the fact that whiteness is also a race is not acknowledged.” This belief mirrors Kron’s argument that whiteness, health and Christianity, are merely the foundations for the disadvantages and vice associated with minority status, sickness, and any non-Christian religions.
“Well” delves into the privileged perspective, specifically drawing attention to untrue notions of duality in several contexts: of whiteness—simply being black on top of white; of
religion—being Jewish on top of Christian (like a decoration), and of health—being sick on top of healthy, as if when sick one should just summon the underlying strength of his health to overcome. All of these beliefs are real, naturally idealized and perpetuated by the privileged, those graced with the fortune and luck—a central theme in “Well”—to not understand what it means to be unwell.
The Media Awareness Network attributes differences in white and minority perspectives to the advantages inherent in white privilege; that is, in schools all American children learn a predominantly white ethnocentric perspective. To be fair, that’s not the case during February or March, Black History Month and Women’s History Month, respectively.
Through “Well,” Kron brings to the surface many sticky topics often avoided in television, theatre and, you guessed it, real life.
Raised in Lansing, Michigan during the 1960s, Kron grew up in a primarily white middle-class neighborhood that during her childhood was in the process of undergoing gentrification efforts (spearheaded by her mother and the Westside Neighborhood Association). In several settings however, she was a member of the minority—the out-group, the unprivileged—specifically in measures beyond that of biological race. In her play, Kron details her experiences as a privileged, “well” individual, while also giving voice to her struggles and the realities of being unprivileged and unwell in a generally unsympathetic, narrow-minded society.
She questions why some people get better while others remain sick—why some people transcend their obstacles while others are forced to simply muddle through. And her perspective is genuine. As a child, Kron and her family were the lone Jews in their Westside neighborhood of Lansing. She is also a lesbian, and though she does not bring to her play the trials she’s encountered specific to her sexual orientation, the theme bleeds through. The crutch of Kron’s case—that often media and the entertainment industry portray only privileged perspectives—is one that is often consumed unquestioningly, and hardly ever vocalized.
White Americans are indulged through television as they watch mostly white characters move through an artificial, race-free reality. The mere coinage of the term “token black character” speaks volumes to the norms media has taught America to accept. Kron’s Well unpacks these ideas by giving them voice—a voice people want to hear. In 2006, the play’s lead actors each received a Tony nomination.
The play’s completeness is concreted by a critical, ironic paradox. Throughout the plot, as the character of Lisa remembers and retells experiences from her youth, her mother, Ann, often can’t help but interject. “The rest of it was right, but that last part—I think you must have made that up so you could have a nice ending,” she says. “Its just that I’ve noticed a number of little inaccuracies as you’ve been going along.”
The interplay between mother and daughter chips away at stories, splicing together differences in perspective to form a cohesive picture of their lives together and, more broadly, a snapshot from the time—Michigan in the 1960s. Well’s integrity rests in collaborative storytelling and the transparency of their efforts at sifting out truth from fiction.
In a review of Well, Linda Winer of “Newsday” explains, “The revelations are both graceful and awkward, subtle and obvious, elegant and confusing. Like life.” At this stage in American media and culture when so much realistic thought is stifled, the content of Well’s revelations is almost arbitrary, and the provocative progressiveness of individual thought and opinion, revolutionary.
As the play takes place in the recesses of Lisa’s memory and in comfort of her mother’s living room, thought and conversation are intimate and uncensored. Projecting images more truthful than others, “Well” is an honest work—a reminder to look beyond the glitz and shine American mass media so often glosses over true disadvantage.
March 2008
By Mary Corcoran
The world has become a place where sickness—terminal illness, even—has been trivialized by the healthy; where minority verbalization about disadvantage is often referred to as “playing the race card;” and where the media indulges the privileged by producing television and film devoid of compassion but chocked full of pre-packaged judgments and labels.
The human impulse to label things—to group them together and give them a name—despite having a tendency to cloak reality, reinforces the label-er’s judgments by providing him with the illusion of being in control.
By this logic, American media is a control freak. Mainstream television and film habitually snub the truly disadvantaged by silencing their realities and promoting idealized—easier to handle—images of sickness, poverty, and general disadvantage.
While theatre is hardly mainstream, the voice of one woman—to be fair, two women: her mother chimes in at turns—have graced a Broadway stage, and more locally, the Nelda Balch Playhouse, to bring to light these disparate perceptions and subsequent projections of privilege,
both in the arts and in American culture.
In addition to authoring the play “Well,” in the Broadway production, Lisa Kron K’83, stars in the story she describes as a “multicharacter theatrical exploration of issues of health and illness both in the individual and in a community…I work using autobiographical material, but ultimately this is a theatrical exploration of a universal experience.”
A play within a play, “Well” discuss wellness in terms of mental and physical health, racial integration during the 1960s, and the tricky relationship between mothers and their daughters—oh, and the convenience of selective memory and perspective. Kron questions perspective and her play begs understanding of disadvantage, wholeheartedly speaking to the truth of being a minority.
According to the Media Awareness Network, a Canadian organization dedicated to media literacy, biology is not the sole determinant in racial identity; rather, the North American perception of race is “equally shaped by social norms and expectations, which are based on historical events and current practices.” The organization, comprised of experts in education, journalism, mass communications, and cultural policy has found “being white is perceived as the norm. Often the fact that whiteness is also a race is not acknowledged.” This belief mirrors Kron’s argument that whiteness, health and Christianity, are merely the foundations for the disadvantages and vice associated with minority status, sickness, and any non-Christian religions.
“Well” delves into the privileged perspective, specifically drawing attention to untrue notions of duality in several contexts: of whiteness—simply being black on top of white; of
religion—being Jewish on top of Christian (like a decoration), and of health—being sick on top of healthy, as if when sick one should just summon the underlying strength of his health to overcome. All of these beliefs are real, naturally idealized and perpetuated by the privileged, those graced with the fortune and luck—a central theme in “Well”—to not understand what it means to be unwell.
The Media Awareness Network attributes differences in white and minority perspectives to the advantages inherent in white privilege; that is, in schools all American children learn a predominantly white ethnocentric perspective. To be fair, that’s not the case during February or March, Black History Month and Women’s History Month, respectively.
Through “Well,” Kron brings to the surface many sticky topics often avoided in television, theatre and, you guessed it, real life.
Raised in Lansing, Michigan during the 1960s, Kron grew up in a primarily white middle-class neighborhood that during her childhood was in the process of undergoing gentrification efforts (spearheaded by her mother and the Westside Neighborhood Association). In several settings however, she was a member of the minority—the out-group, the unprivileged—specifically in measures beyond that of biological race. In her play, Kron details her experiences as a privileged, “well” individual, while also giving voice to her struggles and the realities of being unprivileged and unwell in a generally unsympathetic, narrow-minded society.
She questions why some people get better while others remain sick—why some people transcend their obstacles while others are forced to simply muddle through. And her perspective is genuine. As a child, Kron and her family were the lone Jews in their Westside neighborhood of Lansing. She is also a lesbian, and though she does not bring to her play the trials she’s encountered specific to her sexual orientation, the theme bleeds through. The crutch of Kron’s case—that often media and the entertainment industry portray only privileged perspectives—is one that is often consumed unquestioningly, and hardly ever vocalized.
White Americans are indulged through television as they watch mostly white characters move through an artificial, race-free reality. The mere coinage of the term “token black character” speaks volumes to the norms media has taught America to accept. Kron’s Well unpacks these ideas by giving them voice—a voice people want to hear. In 2006, the play’s lead actors each received a Tony nomination.
The play’s completeness is concreted by a critical, ironic paradox. Throughout the plot, as the character of Lisa remembers and retells experiences from her youth, her mother, Ann, often can’t help but interject. “The rest of it was right, but that last part—I think you must have made that up so you could have a nice ending,” she says. “Its just that I’ve noticed a number of little inaccuracies as you’ve been going along.”
The interplay between mother and daughter chips away at stories, splicing together differences in perspective to form a cohesive picture of their lives together and, more broadly, a snapshot from the time—Michigan in the 1960s. Well’s integrity rests in collaborative storytelling and the transparency of their efforts at sifting out truth from fiction.
In a review of Well, Linda Winer of “Newsday” explains, “The revelations are both graceful and awkward, subtle and obvious, elegant and confusing. Like life.” At this stage in American media and culture when so much realistic thought is stifled, the content of Well’s revelations is almost arbitrary, and the provocative progressiveness of individual thought and opinion, revolutionary.
As the play takes place in the recesses of Lisa’s memory and in comfort of her mother’s living room, thought and conversation are intimate and uncensored. Projecting images more truthful than others, “Well” is an honest work—a reminder to look beyond the glitz and shine American mass media so often glosses over true disadvantage.
From Laramie to Kalamazoo, Gay Rights Challenged
From Laramie to Kalamazoo, Gay Rights Challenged
February 2008
By Mary Corcoran
When notorious gay-bashing preacher and propagandist Fred Phelps announced on his website, godhatesfags.com, that he would picket a Kalamazoo, Michigan high school production of The Laramie Project, locals responded. No one in the community foresaw the good that would come out of his ultimately empty threat. Set in Laramie, Wyoming, 1998, the play documents the community’s reaction to the brutal beating and murder of gay University of Wyoming student, Matthew Shephard.
The play, which is the second most popular production performed on the high school and university level in the country, is often the target of hate, and Phelps and parishioners of the Westboro Baptist Church are regularly the loudest, most visible demonstrators. Phelps, who is featured as a character in the play protesting Shepard’s funeral, has called it “a perverted, tacky showing presented by the Fags to help generate sympathy for their abominations.”
Phelps’s daughter, Nancy-Phelps Roper, a parishioner and attorney for the Topeka-based church, said in a phone interview she expected “no more than ten” of the congregation’s approximately 70 parishioners to protest the Kalamazoo production. When opening night arrived on February 22nd, security at the high school was tight, with police and school safety officers stopping every person looking to enter the theatre. No press was allowed and no one entered without a ticket. In the theatre’s lobby, seven activist groups including PeaceJam, Michigan Equality, and Triangle Foundation, distributed literature and spoke with attendees.
Outside, a small group of exclusively local protesters were quickly deterred by police and a peaceful, student-led counter protest. The students of Kalamazoo Central High School donned angel wings and white gowns, having been inspired by a scene in the original production of The Laramie Project, in which Shepard’s friends and fellow students do the same and join hands to “block the hate” generated by Phelps and his group at Shepard’s assailants’ trial.
Stop The Hate in Kalamazoo Coalition, a group formed directly in response to Phelps’ announced intentions, is comprised of twelve community activist groups, many who know the WBC all too well. According to the coalition, Phelps has a long history of announcing intentions to protest against events in order to incite rage and hate within a given community. Phelps’s group, which is regularly monitored by the Anti-Defamation League, frequently does not show up; the buzz of media attention surrounding their protests achieves their goal of entertaining and giving voice to hate.
Even from a distance, the WBC’s message of hate was clear. Phelps-Roper decried community inaction against the production—“God hates Kalamazoo and every member of this community,” she said in a phone interview. As for the young cast, Phelps-Roper had equally strong words: “Shame on them, they couldn’t do anything if they were not propped up and supported and sponsored by parents and the city and the state—they’re just doing what they do in doomed America,” she said. “It’s a favorite pastime of this nation to corrupt the youth as young as they can get the job done.”
And yet Kevin Dodd, assistant director of the high school production, thanked the WBC after the show. “They gave us something as a community to push against—to get focused, get moving,” he said.
At the forefront of the movement was the Kalamazoo-based Arcus Foundation, a group committed to achieving social justice for all people. They countered the hate first by co-sponsoring the high school production, and second, by organizing and funding a visit from Moises Kaufman, playwright and director of the award winning original production of The Laramie Project. In a press conference, Kaufman praised the students for having inherited the words of a community that was in great mourning, and using them as a tool to soul search. “High school students are leading perhaps the most enlightened dialogue in the community,” he said.
Nearly a decade ago, when Kaufman and his company at The Tectonic Theatre Project first traveled to Laramie to conduct interviews with community residents, they were struck by the town’s tremendous likeness to the rest of small-town USA. There is “something truly profoundly American about this play,” said Kaufman, who credits its strength to the unbiased portrayals of each interviewee and the careful respect exercised on behalf of even homophobic perspectives.
“The Laramie Project doesn’t advocate anything,” said Kaufman. “I want to believe that good ideas will come to the surface and bad ideas will perish under their own weight.” In the years since his play kicked off the Sundance Film Festival in 2002, Kaufman has not had contact with Phelps. “He’s not there to talk to anybody,” said Kaufman. “He’s not interested in dialogue.”
Not even Phelps could muffle the optimistic and encouraging dialogue in Kalamazoo, as the high school production sold out each of its five performances and the community banded together to show its support. Despite the initial shock surrounding Phelps’s announcement, student actor Emily Deering said of her community, “In 48 hours, we were one.”
“The play is not really about Matthew Shepard, but the many ways that a community/school reacts to acts of prejudice, discrimination, and violence,” said high school theater director Topher Barrett in his Director’s Note.
When Barrett first proposed to put on The Laramie Project, he was met with unexpected, but welcome support from students, parents and the administration. “I was sort of scared that I didn’t get more resistance,” he said. Anticipating controversy from the beginning, he carefully screened his cast and worked extensively to educate his students.
For the student-actors, The Laramie Project became more than an artistic expression of social commentary. Even before the cast and crew began learning their lines and designing the set, Barrett organized a trip for his students to see the play performed in Wisconsin, more than four hours’ drive away. Despite Barrett’s vigorous prepping, the production suffered some significant setbacks during its six weeks of rehearsal (one ensemble member quit the company less than two weeks before opening night). More indicative of the social implications of The Laramie Project in Middle America is the experience of one student who accepted an ensemble role, only to quit the following day after his mother forbade his participation.
Barrett encountered encouraging experiences, as well. One student actor, Khari Whimper, said that before working on the play, he was too narrow-minded, but after immersing himself in the story and getting to know Laramie and its residents through reading and reciting testimonials, Whimper said he had learned more than tolerance—he had learned acceptance by opening up his mind and coming to truly respect others.
Kalamazoo Central’s production concludes with a slideshow of pictures accompanied by names, ages, dates and cities, followed by a clear and simple message:
Some were gay.
Some were transgendered.
Some were straight.
Homophobia killed them all.
After the performance, the cast of nine expressed their hopes, urging the community to maintain its togetherness and raised awareness, and to keep the conversation of change going, even after the curtain closes.
“Change is coming,” said Kaufman, reflecting on the community response. “We are in the middle of this moment of change.”
February 2008
By Mary Corcoran
When notorious gay-bashing preacher and propagandist Fred Phelps announced on his website, godhatesfags.com, that he would picket a Kalamazoo, Michigan high school production of The Laramie Project, locals responded. No one in the community foresaw the good that would come out of his ultimately empty threat. Set in Laramie, Wyoming, 1998, the play documents the community’s reaction to the brutal beating and murder of gay University of Wyoming student, Matthew Shephard.
The play, which is the second most popular production performed on the high school and university level in the country, is often the target of hate, and Phelps and parishioners of the Westboro Baptist Church are regularly the loudest, most visible demonstrators. Phelps, who is featured as a character in the play protesting Shepard’s funeral, has called it “a perverted, tacky showing presented by the Fags to help generate sympathy for their abominations.”
Phelps’s daughter, Nancy-Phelps Roper, a parishioner and attorney for the Topeka-based church, said in a phone interview she expected “no more than ten” of the congregation’s approximately 70 parishioners to protest the Kalamazoo production. When opening night arrived on February 22nd, security at the high school was tight, with police and school safety officers stopping every person looking to enter the theatre. No press was allowed and no one entered without a ticket. In the theatre’s lobby, seven activist groups including PeaceJam, Michigan Equality, and Triangle Foundation, distributed literature and spoke with attendees.
Outside, a small group of exclusively local protesters were quickly deterred by police and a peaceful, student-led counter protest. The students of Kalamazoo Central High School donned angel wings and white gowns, having been inspired by a scene in the original production of The Laramie Project, in which Shepard’s friends and fellow students do the same and join hands to “block the hate” generated by Phelps and his group at Shepard’s assailants’ trial.
Stop The Hate in Kalamazoo Coalition, a group formed directly in response to Phelps’ announced intentions, is comprised of twelve community activist groups, many who know the WBC all too well. According to the coalition, Phelps has a long history of announcing intentions to protest against events in order to incite rage and hate within a given community. Phelps’s group, which is regularly monitored by the Anti-Defamation League, frequently does not show up; the buzz of media attention surrounding their protests achieves their goal of entertaining and giving voice to hate.
Even from a distance, the WBC’s message of hate was clear. Phelps-Roper decried community inaction against the production—“God hates Kalamazoo and every member of this community,” she said in a phone interview. As for the young cast, Phelps-Roper had equally strong words: “Shame on them, they couldn’t do anything if they were not propped up and supported and sponsored by parents and the city and the state—they’re just doing what they do in doomed America,” she said. “It’s a favorite pastime of this nation to corrupt the youth as young as they can get the job done.”
And yet Kevin Dodd, assistant director of the high school production, thanked the WBC after the show. “They gave us something as a community to push against—to get focused, get moving,” he said.
At the forefront of the movement was the Kalamazoo-based Arcus Foundation, a group committed to achieving social justice for all people. They countered the hate first by co-sponsoring the high school production, and second, by organizing and funding a visit from Moises Kaufman, playwright and director of the award winning original production of The Laramie Project. In a press conference, Kaufman praised the students for having inherited the words of a community that was in great mourning, and using them as a tool to soul search. “High school students are leading perhaps the most enlightened dialogue in the community,” he said.
Nearly a decade ago, when Kaufman and his company at The Tectonic Theatre Project first traveled to Laramie to conduct interviews with community residents, they were struck by the town’s tremendous likeness to the rest of small-town USA. There is “something truly profoundly American about this play,” said Kaufman, who credits its strength to the unbiased portrayals of each interviewee and the careful respect exercised on behalf of even homophobic perspectives.
“The Laramie Project doesn’t advocate anything,” said Kaufman. “I want to believe that good ideas will come to the surface and bad ideas will perish under their own weight.” In the years since his play kicked off the Sundance Film Festival in 2002, Kaufman has not had contact with Phelps. “He’s not there to talk to anybody,” said Kaufman. “He’s not interested in dialogue.”
Not even Phelps could muffle the optimistic and encouraging dialogue in Kalamazoo, as the high school production sold out each of its five performances and the community banded together to show its support. Despite the initial shock surrounding Phelps’s announcement, student actor Emily Deering said of her community, “In 48 hours, we were one.”
“The play is not really about Matthew Shepard, but the many ways that a community/school reacts to acts of prejudice, discrimination, and violence,” said high school theater director Topher Barrett in his Director’s Note.
When Barrett first proposed to put on The Laramie Project, he was met with unexpected, but welcome support from students, parents and the administration. “I was sort of scared that I didn’t get more resistance,” he said. Anticipating controversy from the beginning, he carefully screened his cast and worked extensively to educate his students.
For the student-actors, The Laramie Project became more than an artistic expression of social commentary. Even before the cast and crew began learning their lines and designing the set, Barrett organized a trip for his students to see the play performed in Wisconsin, more than four hours’ drive away. Despite Barrett’s vigorous prepping, the production suffered some significant setbacks during its six weeks of rehearsal (one ensemble member quit the company less than two weeks before opening night). More indicative of the social implications of The Laramie Project in Middle America is the experience of one student who accepted an ensemble role, only to quit the following day after his mother forbade his participation.
Barrett encountered encouraging experiences, as well. One student actor, Khari Whimper, said that before working on the play, he was too narrow-minded, but after immersing himself in the story and getting to know Laramie and its residents through reading and reciting testimonials, Whimper said he had learned more than tolerance—he had learned acceptance by opening up his mind and coming to truly respect others.
Kalamazoo Central’s production concludes with a slideshow of pictures accompanied by names, ages, dates and cities, followed by a clear and simple message:
Some were gay.
Some were transgendered.
Some were straight.
Homophobia killed them all.
After the performance, the cast of nine expressed their hopes, urging the community to maintain its togetherness and raised awareness, and to keep the conversation of change going, even after the curtain closes.
“Change is coming,” said Kaufman, reflecting on the community response. “We are in the middle of this moment of change.”
Crystal Ball Message Gets Foggy
Crystal Ball Message Gets Foggy
December 2007
By Mary Corcoran
Talked about by some upperclassmen as the event of spring quarter, Crystal Ball has certainly left its mark on Kalamazoo College; it is highlighted in college review books and sourced on Lesbian Gay Bi-Sexual Transgender Queer & Questioning websites, but on K’s very own campus, is Crystal Ball known for liberation or for controversy? Most K students know about the dance; many freshmen hear about it during their first few days on campus. However, what students often don’t hear is the story straight from the source.
Kaleidoscope, Kalamazoo College’s on campus LGBTQ group, sponsors the dance. Crystal Ball proposals as put forth to Student Commission in years past differ in terms of the dance’s intended purpose. For example, the 2003 proposal reads: "The purpose of Crystal Ball is to provide a safe environment for GLBT students to dance with their partners in a safe, public environment. Additionally, the best way to minimize homophobia is to put heterosexuals in contact with GLBT students in a positive environment." Two years later, the proposal had evolved. "...It allows our LGBT students to feel comfortable in an environment (the school dance) that traditionally overlooks or otherwise renders invisible gay and lesbian identities. The larger student population enjoys it for encouraging them to cast away gender norms and dress codes by coming whatever way you please—in drag, in costume, whatever..."
When the idea of performing gender came up in Dr. Jennifer Einspahr’s seminar on belonging and identity, she posed to her students that Crystal Ball may not be as liberating was originally intended.
According to Einspahr, safe spaces such as the dance, are traditionally created in order to avoid the “inevitability of misunderstanding,” allowing minority groups to explore themselves without fear of ostracization by finding comfort in the company of others with whom they share similar experiences. Often minorities’ concerns and experiences are discredited, and safe spaces are constructed in order to provide the recognition so frequently denied, she said.
“Gay K,” a nickname known to many in the greater Kalamazoo area, specifically, the Western Michigan community, emphasizes the need for safe space for gay and lesbian students, said Einspahr.
But some people on campus say that misunderstanding is very much a part of Crystal Ball and that upperclassmen have kept the dance alive, but have failed to pass down understanding and respect for Crystal Ball’s integrity. Upperclassmen, attendees of the dance in years past, have drawn attention to the growing trend among women to dress skimpily, instead of in drag.
Emily Thomas, a senior at K, and leader of Kaleidoscope, has “noticed a steady decline in taste since freshman year,” explaining that three years ago, the dance was attended in significantly more drag, with “overwhelming participation from female students.” For Thomas, Crystal Ball is intended to dispel the myth that women can’t wear drag. One of her goals for Crystal Ball ’08 is to “encourage people to stay true to the intention of Crystal Ball and wear drag. According to Thomas, last year was one of the worst she remembers, noting women were particularly scandalous in their attire, and drag was on the decline.
For many on K’s campus, risqué attire is what Crystal Ball has come to be known for—that and the overwhelming gender split between men who dress in drag and women who wear very little at all. This trend has led some students and faculty to question whether it is more socially acceptable for one sex to cross-dress than it is for the other.
To many students on campus, particularly freshmen, the link between gender and sexuality has not been bridged, nor is it being clarified by Crystal Ball. According to Einspahr, “learned ideas about gender have shaped the way we think about sexuality.”
In a survey of 70 freshmen, 56 had heard of Crystal Ball. Of those 56 students, less than half knew who sponsored the dance or could identify meaning with Crystal Ball’s cross-dressing. In the same pool, 24 students correctly identified it as a drag dance, and 13 described it simply as “slutty,” “sleazy,” or “naked.”
Emily Walker, a freshman, first heard about Crystal Ball while she was on LandSea. Her leader, a 2007 Kalamazoo College graduate, gave Walker the impression that “mostly boys dress like girls and girls just dress slutty.” And this made sense to her. “I think it would be more fun for boys to dress up as girls than it would be for girls to dress up as boys,” said Walker. Alex Bae, also a freshman, agreed. “For girls it will be hard because they always worry about their appearance,” he said.
Several women on campus, students and professors alike, have identified Crystal Ball as a fun night and a great dance, but at the same time, reject it as an event capable of raising awareness about gender and sexuality.
Members of POWER, the feminist group on campus, have mixed feelings about the dance. Several women agreed it is fun, but others view it as insulting and oppressive.
“I tend to be the radical member of POWER,” said Sara Goldstein, prefacing her explanation of how Crystal Ball mocks female oppression and perpetuates society’s greater acceptance of effeminate males and gay men, over masculine women and lesbians.
“It is profoundly offensive that men take amusement in dressing up in the pieces of women’s oppression,” said Goldstein. “Let’s mock the way women have been oppressed over the last 100 years.”
Goldstein, a senior applying to PhD programs in women’s studies, explains that all too often society spins being gay and lesbian and dressing masculine or feminine, in such a way that women are portrayed as “angry dykes,” and men are portrayed more softly, as “metrosexuals.”
According to Kaleidoscope, Crystal Ball aims to raise awareness and open minds in any way it can. “It is unfortunate that people are unaware of the struggle of people who are transgender, transsexual, or simply enjoy cross-dressing due to the social stigma placed upon them,” said Aaron Quinones, a leader of Kaleidoscope in an email. “Our event is aimed at allowing a place for people to represent their sexuality however they choose.”
Quinones characterizes Crystal Ball as “fun, outrageous, and controversial.” And is the dance or its attendees slutty? According to Quinones, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. “The bottom line is that Crystal Ball is an event where anyone and everyone can come and display their sexuality, whatever that may be and however they so choose. We can’t and shouldn’t deny people entry because they dress too risqué, or because they didn’t dress in drag,” he said in an email.
“It’s okay to be over sexualized,” said Dayna Doman, also a leader of Kaleidoscope. The dance is intended to open minds, and skimpy attire doesn’t undermine this point, she said.
A message, the one seemingly most lost in campus dialogue, is that, in Quinones’s words, Crystal Ball is “about abandoning judgment and having a good time while expressing a side of one’s sexuality that doesn’t always get expressed.”
Whether Crystal Ball’s original meaning has been distorted or not, according to Doman, “Any expression of your sexuality Kaleidoscope supports 100%.”
December 2007
By Mary Corcoran
Talked about by some upperclassmen as the event of spring quarter, Crystal Ball has certainly left its mark on Kalamazoo College; it is highlighted in college review books and sourced on Lesbian Gay Bi-Sexual Transgender Queer & Questioning websites, but on K’s very own campus, is Crystal Ball known for liberation or for controversy? Most K students know about the dance; many freshmen hear about it during their first few days on campus. However, what students often don’t hear is the story straight from the source.
Kaleidoscope, Kalamazoo College’s on campus LGBTQ group, sponsors the dance. Crystal Ball proposals as put forth to Student Commission in years past differ in terms of the dance’s intended purpose. For example, the 2003 proposal reads: "The purpose of Crystal Ball is to provide a safe environment for GLBT students to dance with their partners in a safe, public environment. Additionally, the best way to minimize homophobia is to put heterosexuals in contact with GLBT students in a positive environment." Two years later, the proposal had evolved. "...It allows our LGBT students to feel comfortable in an environment (the school dance) that traditionally overlooks or otherwise renders invisible gay and lesbian identities. The larger student population enjoys it for encouraging them to cast away gender norms and dress codes by coming whatever way you please—in drag, in costume, whatever..."
When the idea of performing gender came up in Dr. Jennifer Einspahr’s seminar on belonging and identity, she posed to her students that Crystal Ball may not be as liberating was originally intended.
According to Einspahr, safe spaces such as the dance, are traditionally created in order to avoid the “inevitability of misunderstanding,” allowing minority groups to explore themselves without fear of ostracization by finding comfort in the company of others with whom they share similar experiences. Often minorities’ concerns and experiences are discredited, and safe spaces are constructed in order to provide the recognition so frequently denied, she said.
“Gay K,” a nickname known to many in the greater Kalamazoo area, specifically, the Western Michigan community, emphasizes the need for safe space for gay and lesbian students, said Einspahr.
But some people on campus say that misunderstanding is very much a part of Crystal Ball and that upperclassmen have kept the dance alive, but have failed to pass down understanding and respect for Crystal Ball’s integrity. Upperclassmen, attendees of the dance in years past, have drawn attention to the growing trend among women to dress skimpily, instead of in drag.
Emily Thomas, a senior at K, and leader of Kaleidoscope, has “noticed a steady decline in taste since freshman year,” explaining that three years ago, the dance was attended in significantly more drag, with “overwhelming participation from female students.” For Thomas, Crystal Ball is intended to dispel the myth that women can’t wear drag. One of her goals for Crystal Ball ’08 is to “encourage people to stay true to the intention of Crystal Ball and wear drag. According to Thomas, last year was one of the worst she remembers, noting women were particularly scandalous in their attire, and drag was on the decline.
For many on K’s campus, risqué attire is what Crystal Ball has come to be known for—that and the overwhelming gender split between men who dress in drag and women who wear very little at all. This trend has led some students and faculty to question whether it is more socially acceptable for one sex to cross-dress than it is for the other.
To many students on campus, particularly freshmen, the link between gender and sexuality has not been bridged, nor is it being clarified by Crystal Ball. According to Einspahr, “learned ideas about gender have shaped the way we think about sexuality.”
In a survey of 70 freshmen, 56 had heard of Crystal Ball. Of those 56 students, less than half knew who sponsored the dance or could identify meaning with Crystal Ball’s cross-dressing. In the same pool, 24 students correctly identified it as a drag dance, and 13 described it simply as “slutty,” “sleazy,” or “naked.”
Emily Walker, a freshman, first heard about Crystal Ball while she was on LandSea. Her leader, a 2007 Kalamazoo College graduate, gave Walker the impression that “mostly boys dress like girls and girls just dress slutty.” And this made sense to her. “I think it would be more fun for boys to dress up as girls than it would be for girls to dress up as boys,” said Walker. Alex Bae, also a freshman, agreed. “For girls it will be hard because they always worry about their appearance,” he said.
Several women on campus, students and professors alike, have identified Crystal Ball as a fun night and a great dance, but at the same time, reject it as an event capable of raising awareness about gender and sexuality.
Members of POWER, the feminist group on campus, have mixed feelings about the dance. Several women agreed it is fun, but others view it as insulting and oppressive.
“I tend to be the radical member of POWER,” said Sara Goldstein, prefacing her explanation of how Crystal Ball mocks female oppression and perpetuates society’s greater acceptance of effeminate males and gay men, over masculine women and lesbians.
“It is profoundly offensive that men take amusement in dressing up in the pieces of women’s oppression,” said Goldstein. “Let’s mock the way women have been oppressed over the last 100 years.”
Goldstein, a senior applying to PhD programs in women’s studies, explains that all too often society spins being gay and lesbian and dressing masculine or feminine, in such a way that women are portrayed as “angry dykes,” and men are portrayed more softly, as “metrosexuals.”
According to Kaleidoscope, Crystal Ball aims to raise awareness and open minds in any way it can. “It is unfortunate that people are unaware of the struggle of people who are transgender, transsexual, or simply enjoy cross-dressing due to the social stigma placed upon them,” said Aaron Quinones, a leader of Kaleidoscope in an email. “Our event is aimed at allowing a place for people to represent their sexuality however they choose.”
Quinones characterizes Crystal Ball as “fun, outrageous, and controversial.” And is the dance or its attendees slutty? According to Quinones, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. “The bottom line is that Crystal Ball is an event where anyone and everyone can come and display their sexuality, whatever that may be and however they so choose. We can’t and shouldn’t deny people entry because they dress too risqué, or because they didn’t dress in drag,” he said in an email.
“It’s okay to be over sexualized,” said Dayna Doman, also a leader of Kaleidoscope. The dance is intended to open minds, and skimpy attire doesn’t undermine this point, she said.
A message, the one seemingly most lost in campus dialogue, is that, in Quinones’s words, Crystal Ball is “about abandoning judgment and having a good time while expressing a side of one’s sexuality that doesn’t always get expressed.”
Whether Crystal Ball’s original meaning has been distorted or not, according to Doman, “Any expression of your sexuality Kaleidoscope supports 100%.”
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