Author Archives: Miri

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About Miri

Writer, activist, social worker, and huge fan of cats, flowers, and cities.

Exhibitionist Journalism

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So, yesterday this little gem was posted on Salon.com, an online news magazine that I generally like a lot but that, unfortunately, frequently falls into the trap of sensationalism. The piece, by Holly Kretschmar, describes the author’s experience with cooking and eating her placenta after giving birth to her first baby–a course of action recommended by her doula, which I understand is some sort of earthy midwife whose services Kretschmar was inspired to engage after she miraculously conceived despite fertility problems and a doctor’s estimate that her chances of conceiving naturally were .0001 percent. Apparently, this arbitrary, albeit fortuitous, glitch is reason enough to throw out the concept of science entirely and resort to all manner of cuckoo rituals.

Anyway, the doula recommended a placenta recipe and Kretschmar enthusiastically tried it, chronicling her experience in this article that Salon for some unknowable reason decided to publish. The piece went into terrific detail about how the placenta tasted and what texture it had, and Kretschmar, a vegetarian, pontificated on the joys of eating of oneself: “It occurred to me that this meat of mine was truly sustainable, a renewable resource created without killing. In a way, our culinary experiment was the ultimate act of consumption: eating life without taking life.”

I’m not even going to go into the numerous reasons this entire enterprise is repulsive (for instance, that silly little taboo called cannibalism), because, when it comes down to it, Kretschmar made a personal choice to eat her own placenta. Okay. It’s a free country. But the more important question (at least to me) is this: why the hell write and publish an article about it?

The fact that she finds it interesting is not (or should not) be enough. Plenty of people find their bowel movements interesting, but I’ve yet to see a published article about that. Websites like Salon generally have standards for publication, the standards we all learn in journalism school–newsworthiness, timeliness, and impact, for instance. Articles about personal experiences that ought to be kept private, like bowel movements and, yes, placenta eating, just don’t make the cut. Usually.

To me, it seems that this article served a dual purpose for Kretschmar and for Salon. The author gets to exhibit herself to the world as some sort of new-age open-minded hippie and satisfy her own need for attention, and Salon gets to drive up pageviews by disgusting and angering its readership. (A quick peek at the comment thread of the article confirms this result.) The only party that doesn’t win in this scenario? The readers.

This is exactly what’s wrong with journalism nowadays. It used to be that publication was reserved for the best of the best–articles that could inform or inspire. Then blogs and other social tools appeared on the scene to fill the niche of personal media. And then, respectable publications like Salon decided to steal blogs’ audience by publishing just the sort of self-serving drivel they’d previously (and rightfully) ignored.

I’m not saying blogs don’t serve a purpose. They do. Perhaps Kretschmar’s friends would’ve loved to read about her foray into placentophagy. But the rest of us don’t need to know, and most people who read websites like Salon are intelligent enough to know a blatant publicity stunt when they see one. Give us more respect, Salon.

A (Very) Belated Reaction to the Helen Thomas Fiasco

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Yes, this is extremely belated, but somehow I didn’t get around to writing about it.

Anyway, everybody knows by now what Helen Thomas said, but what very few mainstream media outlets (aside from Jewish blogs and Wikipedia) have mentioned is that the person to whom Thomas made her now-infamous comments was a rabbi wearing a kippah (Jewish skullcap) on his head. In light of this, what Thomas said wasn’t just culturally insensitive, ignorant, and crude–it was an uncalled-for personal insult to a Jewish individual. It would be equivalent to saying that Muslims should “get the hell out of Europe and go home to Iran, Iraq, and everywhere else”–to a woman wearing a hijab. (The notable difference being that Iran and Iraq, while dangerous and unstable, are at least Muslim countries, while Germany and Poland, the two most enthusiastic perpetrators of the Holocaust, certainly aren’t Jewish ones.)

In light of this, I’m frankly shocked that so many people have defended Helen Thomas and bemoaned the fact that she decided (or was asked/forced/persuaded/coerced) to resign. This is especially “feminist” bloggers who seem to feel that people should be able to say anything they want, no matter how reprehensible, without having to face the consequences–as long as they are women. Feministing is guilty of this, though it at least refrains from going a step further like some others have by claiming that Thomas’ remarks were perfectly acceptable and in fact, accurate.

(There is also much to be said regarding the fact that Feministing regularly and enthusiastically denounces intolerant remarks made about women, blacks, Hispanics, the LGBT community, and many others–as it should, of course–while mostly excusing intolerant remarks made about Jews. This, however, is a topic for a future, very scathing post.)

Anyway, the particular circumstances in which Thomas chose to reveal her views on Jews make a terrible comment even worse, and it’s unfortunate that the media has largely ignored those circumstances. Thomas was right to resign. Journalists are free to hold whatever views they choose, no matter how intolerant or controversial, but journalists who crudely espouse those views to the very subjects of their prejudice have no place in the field.

The Courage to Protest

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Last week I went to see a speaker named Gloria Feldt. She came to campus as part of the annual Sex Week, and, since she is a former CEO of Planned Parenthood and was speaking about women’s rights (which I am a full supporter of, in case anybody was wondering), some students actually came out to protest the event.

They stood outside the auditorium holding anti-abortion signs for the entire hour and a half that Feldt was speaking. At first I was annoyed by this, because they glared at me as I walked in and because I felt that they should’ve at least listened to what Feldt had to say (after all, her message was primarily one of female empowerment and had almost nothing directly to do with abortion).

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how relieved I was to see actual protesters on this campus. Because, let me tell you, that doesn’t happen often. Sure, there’s the occasional rally–yesterday was Take Back the Night, the infamous anti-rape rally, and a few months ago the Living Wage Movement (which seeks to provide a living wage to all of Northwestern’s employees) held a rally.

But see, it doesn’t take much courage to hold a rally against rape or supporting a living wage. Most people at this school will either agree with you or keep their disagreement to themselves (or, occasionally, post immature, ignorable comments on related news articles).

Protesting abortion, however–now that’s going to get you some dirty looks.

Maybe that’s just because this is a liberal campus. In a more conservative area, maybe holding a living wage rally would be gutsy and controversial. But here it’s not. And I, too, support things like abortion, rape prevention, and the living wage. But I still like to see people taking a stand for what they believe in, even if it’s not what I believe in.

The last time we had a protest that actually seemed controversial was way back at the beginning of the year, when some random people stood around holding signs that were meant to highlight the fact that low-income people do indeed exist at Northwestern. However, the way they went about this was questionable. While there are certainly people here who are struggling to get by (and people who have to work fulltime to put themselves through college), the protesters instead chose to hold signs saying things like “My top 3 sororities didn’t want me” and “I can’t afford North Face.” Haha. Well, honey, neither can I, and I’m hardly disadvantaged!

(Also, personally, I would be absolutely honored to be rejected by a sorority. Means I’m not a carbon copy of somebody. But that’s a topic for another blog post.)

(Also, while not evidence of actual economic disadvantage, the North Face sign could perhaps be viewed as a protest against Northwestern’s homogeneous fashion sense. But I don’t think that was the point.)

That protest also included signs about race relations on campus and the fact that they need to be improved, but honestly, nobody can seriously argue with that. That fact that one of the protesters was asked if she wears her hijab in the shower is pretty sad.

In any case, I’ve yet to see someone publicly display a controversial viewpoint on this campus and face the possibility of scorn and ridicule. It’s a completely apolitical campus in that sense. Until now. And honestly, it restored my faith in this school a little bit (after it was gradually shattered over the course of this past year). I guess there really are people here who care enough to stand up for something–and I mean, really stand up for something. As in, stand in a group of just several people and hold signs while dozens file into an auditorium and sneer at you. That’s a far cry from attending a big feel-good rally that represents the opinions of 90% of the campus with your twenty best friends.

The truth is that, as much as I disagree with people who oppose abortion, I’m proud to go to school with them. I’m proud that at a campus where it often feels like everybody’s on a mission to look, talk, and act like everybody else, some people still aren’t afraid to stick out.

Dreaming

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Imagine for a moment spending five years of your life dreaming, and working for that dream to become a reality. You lose your mind studying, make sacrifices, and mentally torture yourself each time you mess up. And then your dream finally materializes.

That’s what I did. I wanted to go to Northwestern. I did everything and anything I could. Took classes I hated so much they made me cry, quit my favorite activity for a prestigious summer program, abandoned all attempts at having a social life, and studied till my eyes bled. And got in.

And then…then I got there. My dream school. Northwestern. I had a wardrobe full of purple and a heart full of hope. There I was, in the beautiful city by the lake and my top-choice college with its top-ranked journalism school. This was it. I was going to become better, meet new people, learn, grow.

And. I. Hated. It.

It’s taken me this long to admit it, but it’s the truth–I hate my dream school.

Don’t get me wrong. The classes are pretty interesting. The professors are great. The campus is gorgeous. Chicago is awesome. There’s a beach here. Food’s good. Blahblah.

But let’s face it. I fit in here about as much as an Eskimo in the Sahara. I don’t get these people and I don’t feel like a part of anything. I’ve tried and tried joining clubs, but I just don’t feel engaged.

I hate the horrible weather, and I hate the way people expect me to spend my weekends getting so drunk I throw up. I hate the cliques. I hate the people who post on College ACB, demeaning others, sometimes by name. (Don’t believe me? http://collegeacb.com/sb.php?school=NW) And the people who tell their girlfriends to dress better so their stupid frat brother friends will accept them.

I hate the way student organizations are really just glorified social clubs, and if you show up without a friend, you’ll leave without one, too. I hate the way nobody ever talks about what they’re learning. I never hear anybody being passionate about biology, English, anthropology, or physics. Just movies, TV shows, parties, friends, drinking. I hate the way nobody reads books unless they’re assigned for a class.

Now before someone posts on here telling me how wrong I am and how I’m just an antisocial nerd who needs to get out more, I know that there are plenty of exceptions to what I just described. There always are. But the fact is that the prevailing culture here accepts and embraces it, and people like me who don’t like it tend to stay quiet.

For once in my life, I thought I’d be happy. I thought it’d be wonderful to get something I’d worked so hard for. After all, the best part of dreaming is making your dreams come true, and that’s what I did. On my own. I was so proud of myself, for once. I felt lucky that out of so many people I knew, I was one of the few who actually got to go to their dream schools.

But I guess fate tricked me once again.

This isn’t my place. All that work was for nothing. Those sacrifices? Meaningless. All for a dream that I would soon grow to hate. It might’ve been good for my brain (though most days I’m not even sure about that), but it was awful for my soul.

Now I’m stuck in a place I don’t belong, and it’s all my fault. That’s what you get for dreaming. I should’ve just let things happen to me, sat by and gotten B’s, gone to Ohio State like a good girl. Then I wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of achieving my dream and hating it.

I don’t know what it is. Everybody loves college. Everybody loves Northwestern. Something’s wrong with me and I don’t know what it is or how to fix it. Maybe there’s a gene everyone but me has. Maybe some crucial part of my brain is malformed. Trust me, if I could just take a magic pill that makes me normal, I would.

I’ve pissed away my entire freshman year trying and failing to make this work. I lie every single time someone asks me how I’m enjoying my Dream School. I say it’s wonderful. It’s not.

But at least I’m almost a quarter of the way through this torture.

My advice? Don’t waste your time. I learned in my sociological analysis class that even the most sound theories should not necessarily be implemented as policy because there are, essentially, a million ways in which things can go wrong. Same goes for individual lives. I’ve hit on one of those million ways, and now I regret ever having dared to dream.

Now I know I can’t trust my instincts, and I’m wondering why I should even bother working hard when I inevitably end up hating whatever it is I worked for. In high school, which I couldn’t wait to get out of, I at least had friends and a loving family to come home to every day. College is like high school without those saving graces.

I realize already that if any Northwestern people saw this, they would probably comment all over this saying that I’m an idiot and how dare I post this and what the fuck is wrong with me. Don’t believe me? Check out the comment section of any opinion article on the Daily Northwestern’s website. Enthusiastic suppression of dissenting viewpoints is as much de rigueur on this campus as money and skinny jeans.

In the meantime, these endless lonely hours have led me to do some research. My new dream school has the nation’s number-one psychology department. It has a beautiful campus and beautiful weather. I’d never have to wear the ugly down coat I practically lived in this entire winter. My new dream school is known for its lack of a party scene and its preponderance of nerds–people like me. It’s located near a city that celebrates diversity and inclusiveness, not snobbism and pretentiousness.

But my new dream school is Stanford, and even if I managed to get in–1% acceptance rate for transfer applications–it’s much too far away.

And besides, I think I’ve learned my lesson about dreams.

Bookman’s Heaven

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Note: This short piece has the rather unusual (for me, anyways) distinction of having achieved a grade of 100% in my journalism class, which I’m very proud of and happy about, so I hope you enjoy it too. 😀

If history were a place, it would be Bookman’s Alley.

A fixture of Evanston, Illinois for the past 31 years, this bookstore is the sort of place a bibliophile can enter in the morning and emerge from in the late afternoon, squinting at the sun, wondering where the hours went.

Walking into Bookman’s Alley reveals a serene white-haired man sitting at a desk cluttered with books. He talks easily and casually with regular patrons, but to a first-time visitor, he says nothing.

The store seems tiny and cramped, and the hardwood floor—creaking quietly with each step—is covered with afghan rugs of varying colors and sizes. Piano jazz flows from somewhere near the ceiling. Artwork covers every inch of wall that a bookshelf hasn’t already appropriated, and prints and posters for sale call for attention from baskets on the floor. Full of mismatched chairs for reading and relaxing, the store smells like dusty paper and rugs that haven’t been aired out in decades.

The bowl of pastel-colored gumdrops near the door is an anachronism. Their rough texture and syrupy taste are a jolt from the present.

Reach the end of the front room and you will find a miracle. The room opens up into another, then another. The rooms overflow with dusty tomes, sometimes autographed, sometimes available nowhere else but this bookstore, hidden in an alley. Each bookshelf has a label, such as “Nautical,” “China,” “Magic,“ “Literary Biography,” or, curiously, “Nostalgia.”

Some books peer out from glass cabinets, and some—such as the $1,400 first edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and the Damned—are too precious to be seen and are denoted by a handwritten card instead. Antiques, though not for sale, accompany the books—Civil War uniforms, model ships, a falconer’s costume, and even a 19th-century printing press.

This is a place where history lives and breathes.