Tabooya: In Your Face
The Michael Cera Craze
Michael Cera’s recent article in the New Yorker illustrates the stereotypical personality that he embodies: the awkward, out of place white boy who, in pursuit of his genuinely good intentions, tends to exacerbate whatever tensions may exist in any given situation. Audiences everywhere sympathize with the Georges, Nicks, and Paulies they see on TV and in the movies—not to mention the fact that Cera’s repeated depiction of this one type of character is brilliantly entertaining. But no matter how often Cera showcases his one persona in the movies, I will never understand the Michael Cera craze. I have always found him entertaining, but that’s about it.
This summer I had the opportunity to hear Michael Cera speak at the Apple store in New York City. He and his friend Sebastian Silva were promoting“Crystal Fairy and the Magical Cactus,”a movie that Silva wrote and directed, in which Michael starred. Audience interaction with Cera and Silva was limited to a question and answer session at the very end, after which the two stars disappeared into the store’s back room. My friend, whose obsession with Michael far surpassed my mere respect for him as an actor and writer, was determined to meet him. We rushed out of the store and waited by the corner to see if we could catch him on his way out the back. And sure enough, about ten minutes was all it took for him to exit through the side-street door.
"Who has it worse?"
As Thanksgiving approaches, most Harvard students are emerging from midterm season—a time where professors conveniently schedule midterm exams and essays within the same, short span of a few weeks. Dining halls are packed well past midnight. Coffee carafes are pumped without mercy until they choke and sputter. If one were to take a stroll on Mt. Auburn early on a Friday evening, he might be surprised at the relative quietness. It’s true that we Harvard students enjoy having a good time. But let’s be real—most of us take our midterms seriously.
Midterm season can also be characterized by a certain way that Harvard students have of interacting with each other. It is during this time that the seeds of a game I like to call, “Who Has It Worse?” are planted. No student realizes that he or she is a player of this game, but deep down we all have the desire to win. We all want to disclose to the people around us how much studying or writing we have to do, how much time we have to spend planning this or that, how frustrating it is that our extracurricular activities prevent us from starting our work until 11 p.m. Let me be clear: This is completely natural. In fact, I would say that when faced with serious stresses, it is healthy to communicate how we are feeling to those with whom we are close.
It’s Only Awkward if you make it Awkward
Over the course of your career as a student at Harvard, there is a good chance that at some point you will live, or have lived, in a dorm where Dorm Crew is responsible for cleaning your bathrooms. You probably recognize the trademark Dorm Crew post-it note informing you of the name of the student who cleaned your bathroom. Maybe you spend one second thinking about that note and the person who stuck it to your mirror before crumbling it up and throwing it into your garbage can. My guess is you won’t think about Dorm Crew again until the next time that post-it note greets you in the mirror a few weeks later (that is, unless you’re complaining to your roommates about how Dorm Crew hasn’t come in a while.) This is understandable—if you come home to find your bathroom miraculously clean, why would you be anything other than pleasantly surprised, and simply leave it at that? Even further, why would you spend any considerable amount of time pondering the miracle-worker who removed the seemingly permanent, built-up toothpaste grime on the side of your sink? “What year are they? What are they studying? What are their goals in life? Which part of my bathroom was the most pleasant for them to clean?” Nobody wants to recognize consciously that a person other than oneself cleaned the disgusting mess one has made. It’s uncomfortable.
Which is why every time I knock on a door with my cleaning supplies bucket and mop pole in hand, I pray that nobody answers. I bet that on a list of the most awkward situations in which Harvard students frequently find themselves, being in the room while a Dorm Crew worker cleans one’s bathroom is at the top. My experience goes a little something like this: The student answers the door slowly, still trying to anticipate whom their unexpected visitor could be. When they finally lay eyes on me, they always look a little perplexed. I’ve come to the conclusion that it takes them a good two seconds to process the chemicals and rags in my hand. They generally wait for me to initiate the conversation. “Hi, is now an okay time to clean your bathroom?” A hesitation. A glance inside the room. “Oh. Yeah, uh, sure.” They always sound unsure.
Confessions of a Subconscious Racist
As I was living in New York City this summer, a good friend from high school came to visit me. He was a counselor on a program for high school students—a “teen tour” that traveled in a bus all across the United States. So on the one night that he was in town, we caught up over authentic chicken shawarma in the Lower East Side. For a full hour he told me stories about Earl the bus driver. Hired by the tour to drive the kids around, Earl was a man who had seen it all, and done it all. My friend’s impersonation of him included a deep baritone voice, drenched with a thick southern accent. His stories were hilarious and incredibly specific—I thought I could picture Earl and his unbelievable experiences perfectly. There was no doubt about it: Earl was the bomb.
The next day I met my friend for an early breakfast to see him off. We talked until the bus pulled up, at which point I looked out the window to catch a glimpse of the infamous Earl. When he stepped off, I almost choked on my bagel. He was exactly how I pictured him in every way—large-bellied, white t-shirt with jeans, tennis shoes, greying hair—except one: Earl was white. Blood rushed to my face. I thought to myself, “Hadn’t my friend said he was black? I swear I thought I remember him saying that.” That was, of course, impossible. The only explanation was that my impulsive, sub-conscious biases had permeated the image that I had of this man. Because he was a bus driver from the south, I had assumed without even a thought that he must be black.
Our Periphery People
Last Tuesday, The Crimson featured an article about a beloved member of the class of 2012 who lost her life in a car accident last week. The news was—and still is—shocking, to those who knew her as well as to those who didn’t. It is a tragedy. She was so young. She had so much life to live.
When my roommate asked me Sunday night, “Did you know…?” I didn’t respond immediately. Her question had said it all. And though she and I had only shared a working relationship and I had not spoken to her in months, her absence suddenly filled the room. I hesitated for a good five seconds before responding to the question that had been left dangling in the air. It is those pivotal moments between the knowledge of oncoming bad news, and the bad news, in which we wish we could suspend ourselves indefinitely. “Yes. Why?”