If Lacy is out, I won’t bother to glance up from the bears. The shop houses a massive collection of teddy bears in all sizes and fur color and style of dress, bears slouched along shelves and nestled on the hutch, families of bears outfitted in pioneer garb and baseball uniforms. They are my responsibility. Every night I straighten them like good children.

“Come back in the morning,” I’ll say, my back to the screen door, and it is inevitable.

“Oh, fudge!” Whoever it is, they’ll slap thighs and pump fists, because people are so clever and isn’t that my luck: the world’s been figured out, everyone is a goddamn original.

If Lacy is with me, she’ll give me a nudge to get on with it.  She hooked us up with the gig when she started hooking up with Lance Castle, who owns the place. Lacy has an unbelievable ability to ignore the ugly in others. Yeah, people would kill for our jobs. At a confectionary! In an outdoor shopping mall! 100 feet from an antique schooner! On the Jersey Shore! People would kill for lots of things.

On these nights I arrange my face. Who isn’t fronting? Lacy believes in playing nice.  Smooth out the road and you’ll roll faster along it, and Lacy has been non-stop since we were assigned adjacent cubbies in the first grade. Girl Scouts, field hockey, drama club. In the fall she’ll leave for college.

The smell of burnt sugar is so sweet my teeth hurt. There was a time Lacy and I’d chug Coke by the liter behind the Dairy Queen then grind our jaws until they squeaked but those days are over. It’s already mid-July. The air conditioner lets out a moan.

To the customers I say, “Who’s up for dessert?”

Tonight this guy shows up dressed like a wildlife safari guide: khaki pants, black knee socks, khaki shirt and cotton belt, hat like a serving bowl upside his head.

“Where’s the zoo?” I call from the vat I’ve been stirring because he’s asked for it, pressing his face to the mesh wire screen on the window like that. This guy, either he doesn’t hear me or hears it too much because he does not reply. His moustache is glued on, off-kilter, and he’s sucking on the end of it like a pen cap. That’s the thing—beneath the props and the get-up, there’s something half-tender about him. I wipe my hands on my apron and abandon my batch of fudge.

We use a spatula the size of a paddle. It’s called a “best buddy.” In Home Ec Eddie Dinardo dared me to chug a cup of canola oil. We were making a casserole from found pantry items: green beans, cream of mushroom soup, fried onions from a can. I would’ve done it, too, taken the dare, taken any sort of attention, if only to shut them up but Lacy pointed out there was no call for canola in the recipe. Just like that, they dropped their spoons and returned to their stations. I can feel the chocolate stiffening in the barrel with every second unstirred. After this guy leaves I will have to junk the thing and start over, but it’s too late now.

“Three samples per every half-pound sale.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, pulling in the door behind him. And then, as if I was expecting otherwise: “I’m not here to cheat you.”

Crocodile Dundee orders the store. He wants fudge logs in all fifteen flavors, by the pound, by the entire 5-pound block, even. I straighten my hairnet and serve him, drive the cool metal blade of my pastry slicer through maple, caramel crisp; jimmy it down through the nuts in chocolate almond joy. I slap the squares on the scale and measure, then wrap each selection neatly in wax paper. As he watches his eyes fill like he could cry or sneeze, so I bend the store’s rules about freebies. The deli server at the A&P used to feed me everything on grocery runs with my mom’s man-of-the-hour: sliced turkey and ham and Swiss. Usually, whoever he was sat fidgeting in the car while I ran through the aisles, but one time when I was poking my tongue through cheese holes he snuck up behind me, dirt caked in my neck, his pupils wide and shuddered, “You’re one hungry mouse, Bonnie.” My mother’s name but I did not correct him.

That’s how big-hearted I’m feeling.

This guy reaches a leathery arm over the glass case and snatches his stuff.

“You’re a doll,” he says, like a song, which catches me in the throat. I’m about to throw in a box of saltwater taffy, a local treasure for such manners, but he says, “That should do it” and “Please” and “What do I owe?”

A bear slips off a shelf.

I ring him up.

Lacy has plans for me. All summer she’s been saying: We’ve got to get you some, Missy. What she means is a boy. As if that might impress state scholarship committees. As if I have anything else to do other than become her pet project. We’re living in a one bedroom flat she found in a bayside complex, the kind with stairs that wrap around the outside like a roadside motel. The wallpaper is pastel starfish. She pays the rent and I fix her fatties. “Have fun while you can,” she says, blowing smoke. It’s hard to know what to think or if she means it. Maybe I should be more grateful.  We all have this stuff we lay on people, how we’d like them to be. Lacy is no different. A middle-aged douche in a uniform may not be what she has in mind for me but then Lacy is not here at Oh, Fudge! tonight.

I wipe down the counters, lock up.

Have you ever watched a man eat? It is revolting. I get it, we’ve all got to live, but a grown man on fudge is one twisted glimpse of humanity: wet tongue slapping the roof of his mouth in slow motion, cruising around molars for a final hint of heaven.  Like those food chain posters taped to the walls of ninth grade bio, the domination of the weak, only I’m not sure in this case which is which.

Outside the street lamp’s shining a spotlight on him atop a burgundy picnic table. Elbows resting on huge knees, he is going at it, making those food sounds, and I can almost feel Vanilla Dream dissolving into a pale chalky pour, a sweet grit of sugar and bean and condensed milk, and it’s crushing, really, though he doesn’t look it, how fast anticipation ends up tasting like scented eraser.

“As good as you’d hoped?” I say, scrolling through the combination on my bike. He looks up, wipes a crumb; with a nod, he motions to me.

I am no stranger to poor judgment. My mother took comfort where she could. 16 when she had me. Against better judgment, maybe, but we were fine until Lucas came along and we trailed after his father deep into the Pine Barrens for an above ground pool, diving board and cabana made of real handcrafted pine. Lucas was left to toddle unsupervised, against better judgment, but such are the needs of women and men. Besides, I was there. Eight, to my brother’s three. Against better judgment Lucas ran too close to the edge where the plastic met the concrete and he stumbled on the lip, tripped, fell in.  I was rapt; I sat on the broken mesh of a lawn chair watching his last dance of fury and grace, mesmerized by his shake, sinking, eventual still.  This was not criminal. Against better judgment, certainly: to bear witness and do nothing. Enough to be told time and again something’s wrong with you. You are lacking. But lacking has never been enough to get anyone locked up.

Quicksand Man roots in the breast pocket of his button front shirt, hands me a card that reads: Jack Swamp, Reptile Depot. Book me for your next special occasion! Birthdays, school programs, private events. I look at him looking at me wide-eyed and wait for it, only there’s no punch line, so I play along, and he says his show is running throughout the summer across the street at Fantasy Land. The children’s theme park, not the porn shop, he adds, coughing, as if he knows anything about me. Then right in my face he makes a peace sign with two fingers, and I see where they have grown gnarled, the skin in varying stages of black, pink and white, bulbous, raw and scabby. Around his knuckles the boils look like pod seaweed that washes ashore, bladderwrack gathered by children for curtains on sand castles. I wonder what it would feel like to touch his mess of wounds, if he would notice; if over time the body simply builds up a tolerance to all that snake venom, would he even flinch.

“Love bites?” I say.

“Occupational hazard,” he says, with an open shut, V-shadow cast on the concrete: the projected image dark and smooth as scissors. “Double the chances, double the fun. First show is at 7:00, encore at 9:00. Come early if you can. Rides open at 6.”

By day I lifeguard. I have Lacy to thank for that, too. Six days a week we get paid to sit beach front at 20^th street, Surf City, white chair staked in the sand, attuned to the sounds of summer, eyes peeled for trouble, all that. Ours is a picture of normalcy.

“When life hands you lemons –” Lacy says. It’s easy for Lacy to believe everything has a reason.  After the district judge ruled Lucas’ death an accident, I stayed with her family until my mom got it together, as they said, better than before. Lacy had been taking swim at the Y, so I was roped into lessons. For months there was no getting us out of the water. Nostrils pinched, we’d tuck and tumble four in a row across the length of the pool before surfacing. Underwater we pressed hands to each other’s like a mirror in the deep where nothing could come between us; all anyone could see was the blur of our bodies. Lacy’s dark curls were spared but my hair turned green after a while.

“What’s with the fancy?” Lacy wants to know the next night at Oh, Fudge! I am dragging my blade along curling ribbon, topping packages with logo stickers because I’m in a rush, that’s what, hoping to duck out early. She buzzes around me. I’m a decorating machine, snapping brains of orange and yellow and blue around the boxed flavor of the week, and it is true, how good I can be when I set my mind to it. Apply yourself, school counselors said. A little effort goes a long way. Everyone has your best interests at heart.

I’ve even cleaned up, borrowed Lacy’s lip gloss and hair goop.

“Do you have a date?”

I eye the clock. She hops the counter, swings her tan legs.

“Let me guess. The wake board guy?  The gas station hottie?” Lacy is wearing one of those ankle bracelets with charms that jingle: ice cream cones, rhinestones, lacquered fruits.  Sometimes, it’s amazing how we ever wound up friends.

“Come on,” she says. I slip around her, slide open the case, straighten the labels, and drag out another cold block of fudge. It feels like clay. I cover it in Saran Wrap then loosen my apron.

“Over and out,” I say.

She knocks a row of bears with her dismount.

“No fair. I’m dying, Miss, who is he?”

For his third birthday my mom gave Lucas a red plastic kaleidoscope on a metal ball chain, the kind you get from a supermarket machine that splices the world into a million matching pictures. I stole it from his chubby fist, secured it through the loop in my jeans.

Fantasy Land is like that: an assault of color and light and hopeful little children, spun out to make it feel like Christmas, rather, how Christmas is shown on TV. Families mashed together, children on the legs of parents trailed by aunts and cousins and grandparents with stiff hips, walkers flying American flags, palms out for a treasure of tokens, prize tickets, for funnel cake and soft serve and hives of cotton candy. Arcade bells clash with jackpot whistles. Fake rifles pick off fake deer.

Reptile Depot is sandwiched between the teacups and bumper cars. There is a stage sectioned off by dock cord and rows of metal bleachers. The early show’s over but I grab a seat in the back until Swamp pops out from the Port-o-John wiping his hands on his thighs and urges me closer, my ears burning red in the front row. A tap on the shoulder makes me jump, but it’s only a parent. I’m blocking her child’s view.

“Do you mind?” the mother says. Before I slide over Swamp materializes. “Sorry, Ma’am. She’s with me.”

I guess I should feel flattered. To be spoken for, for the squeeze of my shoulder, the smell of his breath, not that I’m jumping up to volunteer for his snake tricks. On set Swamp looks larger than he did in the store. Lacy says a healthy boost of confidence can do that. He’s in his element, here. Plus, his helpers, pallbearers of reptilian trunks and crates, are little people. Children, it seems. Or maybe there are lifts in his shoes.

A parade of wildlife begins: Baby crocs, bearded dragons, tarantulas and scorpions and tortoises, twenty kinds of snakes, rat snakes and coral snakes, anacondas, green mambas and eastern diamond backs. The audience oohs and aahs at the range of reptiles, but when Swamp stretches an albino jungle python onto a foldout banquet table the parent behind me plain faints. It’s like something from a magician’s handbook only instead of scarves from a sleeve he is pulling flesh from a box, heavy and pale and slow as taffy, thick as my waist, the color of Creamsicle, a recent flavor added to the list at Oh, Fudge! Swamp falls into such a rhythm, stroking the beast’s body of scales, his eyes gloss over.  For a minute it’s as if we’re not even there.

“Can’t see!” a child shouts, rousing Swamp from his spell. He lifts the gentle python overhead like a barbell without the slightest tremble. I know enough to know snakes are nocturnal. This one is probably just waking up, but still it sounds cruel: to be squashed in captivity, strung out for a tease, then stuffed back into a cage twice a night. Do they go willingly or by force? Are there enough holes in their lids?

“How was it?” Lacy asks on the guard stand the next morning. Red sweatshirt zipped to her neck, she blows chewing gum bubbles the size of my fist, snaps them in my ear.

“Fine,” I say. I cinch my hood tighter.

“How was what?” Lance Castle spits the shell of a sunflower seed he’s been sucking because isn’t that convenient, he is both beach patrol captain and fudge shop owner. Somehow neither he nor Lacy got the memo: don’t shit where you eat. He’s got her by the thigh and she’s on his lap doing this slow roll of her hips like she’s stirring up batter. Towheaded children swarm the spot beneath our feet, ruffled suits, digging in the sand with plastic tools and bare hands, never seeming to catch on that it’s infinite.

“What kind of no good are you up to?” Castle asks. He looks like an overgrown teenager, surfer hair creeping up his forehead, potbelly fried to a crisp.

“Tell him, Missy,” Lacy laughs.

I whip the cord of my whistle until it strangles my fingers then whip it the other direction. In the distance the parasails are cheerful.

“No kind,” I say.

All day I’m thinking about Fantasy Land. I count the hours until the sun goes down and I can disappear in the crowd, feel the pulse on my skin.  I count the steps from my guard chair to the surf then back over the dunes through the salt grass past the taco stand to the condo strip, I count over my canned spaghetti, dirty glasses in the sink. Down the main drag on my bike I count pedal rotations, then at the mall, through the parking lot, into the shop. I count the light switches and I count the bears, Astronaut Bear and Rocker Bear, Fisherman Bear and Baby Bear, I count the seconds between.

At first Lacy covers for me.

“If there’s going to be ass involved, better mine than yours,” she says in the lazy hour after beach patrol, before we’re due at the shop for our night shift. It is charitable of her, I guess.  She rubs off the clotted mouth of our sugar dispenser, licks her finger.

“Did you fuck him yet?”

I haven’t yet changed out of my swimsuit.

“What did I tell you,” she says. I blow into my mug. Coffee ripples. Lacy flips the pages of her college course catalogue.

“What’s Love Got to Do with It? The Science of Superheroes and Why Bad Guys Lose! Purity and Porn in America!  Ha, now there’s one for your mother.”

Lacy doesn’t mean anything by it. She and my mom are like sisters. They are the same size and everything. Back home in Hammonton Lacy is always either borrowing her tank tops or her bedazzler.

Lacy pouts. “You know I’d take you in my suitcase if I could.”

The whole time she talks I am quiet.

Quiet is my specialty. After his shows Jack Swamp is so keyed up there’s no stopping him, rattling off each animal’s name by its proper genus and species. It’s hard to keep it all straight but he’s listed the classifications in a marbled notebook.  I scroll through and listen. He shares nothing personal. Venom, he says. Bet you didn’t know venom has medicinal properties. Someday all those peptides and proteins will distill out to cure heart disease and high blood pressure, but careful, it’s a fine line what’s beneficial and what’s lethal. When he talks the fabric stretches snug around his zipper.  I never ask his real name.

The jellyfish arrive. There’s something tidal about it, the jellies and undertow, the latter driving the former or vice versa; either way, they seem connected, a record force, pummeling the island, requiring extra vigilance in the water. The three of us perch along the guard chair like it’s a dunk tank. Like any second one of us could plunge under.

Watch out for the greenheads, Castle says in morning report. Flies are vicious this time of year. He also tells us the Coast Guard found a body in the wetlands down by Holgate. The body belonged to the vintage postcard collector with the balsam lean-to, black hair and bad skin, who spoke at the ground in rapid beats, hawking pin-ups of his grandmother in a red polka suit and calling them precious 1940s cheesecake. I never knew him but Lacy shoots me a look like there goes your mystery man. Castle says it isn’t a summer until someone washes ashore so at least that’s out of the way. People are always dying. We can all ease up knowing it didn’t happen on our watch. In other news, dolphins were spotted off the coast in Harvey Cedars. Like lovebirds having breakfast, snouts made of donuts dipping into the current, and even if Castle is full of shit I picture them. It’s a comfort. I go so far to tell him as much, such is the hold of prettier things. He takes my wrist and squirts a hot coil of sunscreen into my palm. I rub his back and Lacy’s quads tighten. A pack of swimmers drifts beyond the designated flags. Castle rises between us, his body puffed as a cloud. He waves his arms like one of The Five Chinese Brothers. Lucas loved that story so much, the brother who swallowed the sea, sketches of found treasures along the ocean floor, I never returned it to the library.

This is the summer of our lives! Lacy reminds me until this, too, becomes habit. Days pass and pull apart, mash together. Sometimes there are wine coolers, and sometimes there is beer.  At night I visit Swamp’s depot at Fantasy Land. I lose track of time. By morning the flies nip, but it’s the jellyfish I’m sorry for, beached and abandoned and everywhere, blanketing the shoreline like terrycloth; really, people have to watch where they walk.

One night in late July Lacy insists on sneaking out with me. Tuesdays can be dead at Oh, Fudge! but I say I’m not sure it’s a smart idea to risk it. What would Castle think? To which she says: Fuck him. Lacy says this as she straddles a four-foot bear. He is stuffed in a rocker wearing a Santa hat. We call him Mr. Softee.  She talks to him like he’s a Magic 8-ball. “Whaddya say, Softee, shall we go see who’s stolen our Missy’s heart?” Presses her ear to his fur, announces: “Signs point to yes.”

At Fantasy Land Lacy springs for all the amusements. The swings, the flying elephants, the carousel. We nab painted horses that slide up and down, we ride the Ferris wheel just as the sun sets, and it’s hard to explain how it feels, her hair whipping my face, to be high up like that among a perfect blend of color, all the way from here to Atlantic City.

We split a soda (her treat) and bag of peanuts but something gets to me. Going around with her gives me a bad feeling I don’t get when I’m alone. I don’t feel special, and even though I owe her the kitchen sink I don’t feel like sharing, either. She suggests the pirate ships and the free fall but I’m not in the mood. Fortunately, the fun house is closed for renovation but I’ve run out of options.

“So where is he, where’s lover boy?”

“Promise not to laugh,” I say.

“What do you take me for?”

“No one,” I say then feel lousy for saying it, the laughing part, like I’m committing some betrayal but it’s too late. We are already in the back row of Reptile Depot. One by one the cages are wheeled onto the stage. Anticipation beats in my chest. When Swamp makes his entrance sure enough she cracks up.

“A snake charmer!?!”

I could kill her. I could slice down her center and rip out her bones in one motion, like cartoon cats do fish dinners on TV, string whatever’s left as a necklace. Instead I sit silently and watch. She snorts as she laughs and then leaves.

“Dude, what’s with this about closing up early?” Castle wants to know on the beach in the morning. “Lacy says you’re wrecking business.”  Children are running through the scum scooping jellies and plunking them in pails, then spreading them out on drier ground in a lengthy execution line. They mutilate the pearly blobs with the edges of clam shells, chanting, “Die! Die! You’re dead!” until someone gets stung.

“Yeah, well,” I say, grabbing meat tenderizer and the first aid kit. I climb down the guard chair. Lacy fixes on the horizon. By the time I came home last night she was in bed, room locked. I slept on the couch.

“I got sick,” I tell him.

“Get better,” he says.

My mistake: I open my mouth. It’s a desperate measure. I blather to Swamp, my whole sad story, hoping for what, I’m not sure. After his late show I hose down the concrete around the depot, globs of melted ice cream. Spiders scurry to corners. I should know better. Disappointment is a wasted emotion. I follow Swamp around as he breaks down the stage and inspects his inventory, instructing his team of assistants to load his wares into the flatbed of the truck.

I am still standing in the lot when headlights from oncoming cars make my eyes shine all sparkly. Still standing there saying God knows what. Mercifully, Swamp suggests a Slushie.

We trundle down to the pier. The bay is dark, the air cloudy and thick, but the moon sits low and full enough to wrap your arms around. Swamp rolls up the cuffs of his pants, his ankles pale and hairless. I remove my sandals. We dangle our legs off the dock; listen to the rhythmic slap of the water. He takes my hand in his good hand and I wish he’d switch it to the bitten one. Everyone hides, he says. Or was it, lies? There are things we’d rather not remember. As he says this he pulls me in. Something crackles in his pocket, but it’s only snake molt. I pull out a joint and he says that’s not necessary so I reach into my bag and offer up a pair of fuzzy dice I won with Lacy the other night.

“Thanks, kid,” he says.

Back at his truck Swamp hangs the dice over the rearview, where photos encased in Plexiglas clink like faces off a milk carton. He’s old enough to be my father. I squint at all the children resting chins on folded hands: girls in bows, boys in clip-on ties. I wonder if they are all his.

By August everyone is angry.

For one, we lose the annual island-wide beach patrol races: five miles on land, a mile at sea, plus an obstacle course. It was supposed to be our year. Castle had been counting on us to restore his beloved trophy to its place on his mantel, but when it came down to the final relay Lacy and me could not get into sync. When he tries to reprimand us, Lacy up and quits.  “I’m done with you losers.” I almost feel bad for him, the way she says it, like he should be ashamed. When I get home her car is packed. Our lease is paid through Labor Day but that’s it for goodbye. School, she says, orientation, what not. Time to get off the island. She snaps her gum. She says, you know how it is.

Two: The drawer is short at Oh, Fudge! Ten days shy of my 18^th birthday. We’re talking a handful of dollars but Castle won’t give it a rest, he is convinced Lacy has sticky fingers, that no-good whore. I tell him to check his math. He installs new locks, says watch it.

“Life is not a free ride.”

“What would anyone take from here?”

“You’d be surprised what people want.”

I picture boxes of fudge dancing right out the store on cartoon broomsticks, but Castle has a point: Why pay for a cowrie shell necklace or beer cozy when you can get it for free? Signs wrap around tiki torches throughout the area: Shoplifters will be persecuted.  The elastic of my hairnet leaves a crease on my brow.

And then I catch a perp. The kid is so dumb, what is he thinking? Hunka Love Bear stuffed under his baseball jersey is large enough to be a guard dog or library lion, a full term pregnancy. He can’t be more than six, thumb in the mouth and crust in the nose, hair in need of a wash, so I wave him off, run fast and be free. At the door, I don’t know if it’s a change of heart or what’s wrong with me, I stab him in the gut with my spatula – the best buddy. The kid howls. The bear drops to his feet.

Three.  There is a scare. While Castle is on lunch break the riptide takes a tourist by surprise. In a floral bathing cap an older woman struggles for the shore but the breakers beat her back. Her arms slap the surface. I know what to do.  I am trained for this, I have waited for this my whole life; I grab my float shaped like a swollen limb and thrash against the waves. She latches onto my throat, and I do my best, carrying her mostly but she is exhausted and I am tired and together our fight against the current is not good enough. Castle returns in time to finish the rescue, throws two towels around us. The woman turns to me, shivering blue lips, and calls me her hero. Castle, I say. Thank Castle. But he doesn’t answer. Later, I call my mom.  The connection is bad or there’s background noise; either way, she sounds distracted. “What’s that, honey?” She says over and over until I hang up.

“Why aren’t there more islanders?” I want to know. Everyone seems to clear out by fall just when the place quiets down, but why leave when you can stay year round? The beach in winter sounds romantic, I say. What I don’t say: Where else should I go?  Swamp stares at my lips like he can’t find the remote. A garden snake’s wrapped around his finger. She is graceful and harmless, a coil of rings, black with a single green stripe, her neck stretched like she’s coming up for air. Lucas would have loved her. But then, Lucas was happy with anything to play with: my old figurines, pencil thin waists and rubber mouths poised in surprise. Swamp shoots me a funny grin so I let him. Eventually, we all get what we want. He sniffs my hair like it’s a favorite blanket. I think and I think: This is what happens when those born to love you … but never reach the end of it. His serpent keeps licking my cheek.

For my birthday we go for a drive. I leave my bike chained to a post and climb into his truck, the crates puzzled together along the floor of his flatbed. You’d think the animals wouldn’t be able to move, their bodies all twisted up in boxes, but they become agitated once we rumble over the Causeway. Thumping and rattling against their walls, as if trying to break free. I look at Swamp nervously. His moustache is peeling. I want out. I start playing with the buttons. Relax, he says. Trust me. It’s a straight shot on the mainland to this restaurant with serenades and free cake, pasta and breadsticks, all you can eat.

When Swamp turns off over the bridge into Little Egg Harbor, I can forget my hunger. What kind of an asshole climbs into a stranger’s car? It’s all I can think as we inch up and down the residential streets, narrow inlets on all sides, one room shacks spruced up with aluminum siding. The reptiles continue to knock and hiss as if they have some better place to be. At the end of a cul-de-sac he cuts the engine. The night is bottomless black. Above us, a sweep of bright stars.

“Welcome home,” Swamp says. “Wait, I got you a present.” He climbs out his side of the truck. The door slams. Gravel crunches underfoot as he goes around to the back, to the cages. I hear everything.

Listen, the snakes through their walls are going batshit crazy.

And then there’s the click of a latch.

It’s that time again—seventeen years passed, the ground has warmed up to 64 degrees Fahrenheit, and the cicadas, by the millions, will soon be in force. I have been lucky enough to experience several broods in my hometown of Washington, D.C. I remember the first time I encountered cicadas in 1987. I was six years old and afraid to open my mouth for fear one might fly in. Though I haven’t entirely shaken this fear, now, when a brood ascends upon us, it feels to me like a strange mash-up of cultural sources: something from the Bible, a horror movie, a science exhibit. And, similarly, I feel a confusion of emotions ranging from horror and disgust to fascination and awe. But there’s another way—which, still, perhaps, produces the same emotions—of looking at these red-eyed projectiles and their crunchy carcasses: as a free, meal-enlivening delicacy.

It turns out cicadas are nutritious: high in protein and low in carbs. Like many insects, they are supposed to be quite tasty when dry-roasted or dipped in chocolate. But you can also get a little fancier and use them in tartlets and stir-fries. In fact, there’s a whole book of recipes devoted to the art of eating cicadas: Cicada-licious. And, if you’re interested, you can partake in a poll: “Would You Eat a Cicada?” and other insect-y questions, and contribute to pie charts on the matter. Check out Radiolab’s article and interactive: The Dinner Buzz. To all those on the East Coast affected by Brood II: Bon Appétit!

—Nicola Fucigna, Fiction Editor

Fifteen-year-old Jack Andraka and His Revolutionary Method for Diagnosing Pancreatic Cancer

My main concern as a fifteen-year-old was getting this one boy in my creative writing class to notice me. Perhaps it’s because of the memories of my frivolous teenage self that I’m a bit astounded to read that Maryland high schooler Jack Andraka won the youth achievement Smithsonian American Ingenuity Award last year for inventing a new method to detect pancreatic cancer, one of the most lethal cancers precisely for the reason that it evades discovery. Andraka, who became interested in the disease after a close family friend died from it, used the Internet (something I only used for AOL chat when I was his age) and his freshman biology class (I remember dissecting a frog . . .) to hypothesize a ground-breaking diagnostic method. He then wrote an experimental protocol and contacted nearly 200 researchers. Only one was willing to take a chance on his idea, but that was all it took

Andraka’s inspiring story is truly worth a read. You should also check out the TED Talks about his research.

—Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach, Poetry Editor

Chappelle’s Show and the $325,000 Burger

In a Chappelle’s Show sketch about what would have “really” happened in the movie Deep Impact, Chappelle, playing the black president in charge of saving America from an asteroid the size of Maine (Morgan Freeman plays this role in the real movie), gives a press conference in which he discloses some of the country’s greatest secrets. He produces a vial with the cure for AIDS, he admits that magic does exist, and he invites a pretty young blond woman named Paula to the stage. Then two more Paulas appear next to her. The three are obviously identical triplets, but the joke begins with the way Chappelle subverts that fact: “We cloned these three bitches in the laboratory in Seattle,” he says.

That line has stuck with me since I first heard it over ten years ago, and it was the first thing that popped in my head when I learned of the $325,000, five-ounce burger that was engineered in a lab in the Netherlands. A New York Times article explains the crazy process of assembling an edible burger with tiny bits of beef muscle tissue (basically stem cells for food), as well as implications on the food industry, but the best part is the lead doctor’s final quote: “I’m not by nature a very passionate guy. But I feel strongly that this could have a major impact on society in general.” Chappelle’s Show could have had fun with this story.

—Nathan Schiller, Editor

Twelve-o-clock sear on the wilting backyard,
where I played on the sun-cooked swingset,
skating blackcats down its scalding tin slide,
the sheet-metal panged and dented with blasts.

The blackcats’ thin, powdered fuses snapped
inches from my fingers as I jerked away.
How I wish I could take back those summers,
the burn that left a smoke-white scar on my palm.

The way Almyra Nuns, the pastor’s daughter,
boiled me the year-long June I was thirteen.
How between garden leaves her small hands
were the nine a.m. sun—still dewed, part rose.

Sitting once at the pool with me, she said,
“Look’t—your veins make a wreathe on your back,”
tracing a slow ring between my shoulderblades.
She moved when her dad sickened of our church,

and I was left to hours walking cornstubble,
skinning the teeth from cobs’ red-raw mouths.
So many lonely afternoons out east of town
the quiet treelines, furrows, didn’t cease to sting.

Some winter evenings I still walk those fields,
watching my breath smoke and turn to amber fire
from the little sunset left—my cheeks set aglow.
Confronted there, same as always, with wind.

Road C, Late Summer

Thrashed yellow-pale leaves,
cut stalk-stubble reeking of anhydrous—

live fields we wandered past
late summer evenings. You’d leap

from the shoulder gravel to pick
tart indigo throats of spiderwort,
flimsy prairie roses—their burgundy

tucked in your wind-ruffed hair, black
like a moist breath of dark earth.
Scalded with sunset, a silo’s white brick

flared above your house’s pines.
Then we cut back across the Porter’s section
and stark gridwork of country roads.

You twined two sunflower’s stems,
their huge heads lolling against

your neck. You plucked sundance,
its carmine heart enclosed in amber.

–Peter the Great of Russia

The smallest person on our list is followed by the largest. In 1696, a six-foot, seven-inch, 24-year-old Peter Romanov inherited a backwards Russian kingdom and transformed it into an empire that rivaled those of the West. In fact, it’s because of Romanov that we can even consider Russia, despite its mostly Asian geography, a Western nation at all. By the time of his 1725 death, Peter Romanov—better known as Peter the Great—set Russia on a trajectory that would one day meet and outstrip the strength of all other European nations. Without question, this enormous man was enormously important.

In 1672, Peter Romanov was born to Tsar Alexis I and his second wife, Natalya.¹ The seventeenth century Russia into which he was born did not resemble the formidable Russian Empire of later days. While the European powers of Spain, Portugal, Britain, and France were already grinding their footprints overseas, exporting Western culture to other continents, the isolated Tsardom of Russia struggled for an identity.

Centuries earlier, before the turn of the millennium, a local east Slavic ethnic group known as the Rus consolidated around the city of Kiev in Eastern Europe. Kieven Russia remained as a sizeable Eastern European entity for several hundred years. By the mid-thirteenth century, however, pressure from an aggressive Asian tribe, the Mongolians, fragmented the Rus, and they were integrated into the Mongolian Empire.² Russia—the land of the Rus—became the latest addition to an Asian composite of conquered peoples.³ This invasion developed into an identity crisis for the Russians. Were they still European if they were governed by an Asian people?

Even after the Grand Duchy of Moscow broke away from the disintegrating Mongolian Empire in 1480 and unified many of the Russian territories, the new Russian leaders had an easier time acquiring eastern, Asian lands than they did European lands to their west. At the turn of the sixteenth century, with Moscow as the new capital of an expanding Russian state, Ivan the Terrible became its first “tsar,” and the “Russian Tsardom” was born. Ivan and his successors pushed ever eastward. They crossed the continental divide—the Ural Mountains—and just kept going.⁴ Deeper and deeper into the Asian continent they went until they became, in purely geographical terms, mostly Asian. As a result, Russia absorbed more and more people who looked less and less European.

There were also major cultural differences between Western Europeans and Russians. In fact, while Russia, in terms of its geography, seemed to be both European and Asian, in terms of its culture, it was often neither. For example, it was a Christian Orthodox nation, while Western Europe in 1500 was almost fully Catholic, and Asia was a smattering of Muslim, Daoist, Hindu, Buddhist, Confucian, and more.⁵ Additionally, Russia’s unique Cyrillic script and language set it apart from the Latin alphabet of the West and the ideographs of the East.⁶ And, while the light skin color of western Russians said European, their unique style of dress and big beards on the men’s faces said no such thing. They even slept with their shoes on, a practice considered highly uncivilized by Westerners of the day.

Thus, Russia was neither geographically nor culturally Western. It had Mongolian heritage, most of it lied in Asia, as did millions of Russian Asians. They practiced a different kind of Christianity, wore different clothes, had different habits, and wrote different letters.

Ultimately, by the time of Peter Romanov in the late seventeenth century, Russia had done little to keep up with the modernizing European continent. Technologically and culturally, it fell centuries behind. It had no Renaissance, no Reformation, no Scientific Revolution.⁷ It’s as if Russia was stuck in the European Middle Ages. Its army and navy lagged woefully behind. Its Orthodox clergy controlled education. There was no quality literature or art of which to speak, no emphasis on mathematics or science. In Western Europe, the seventeenth century was the century of Galileo and Newton, Descartes and Locke. It was a century of a rising merchant class. Rural peasants moved to growing cities for diverse employment. As serfdom faded away in the West, it was increasing in the Russia inherited by Peter Romanov. And while Western Europe, with its numerous warm-water ports, sailed the seas and brought in unprecedented profits from subjugated colonies, Russia pushed eastward, finding nothing but icy coasts, frigid taiga, and the remnants of a malformed Mongolian Empire that had relied more on pillaging than infrastructure. In this case, going eastward was the equivalent of going nowhere, and it seemed to be the only thing the Russians were doing fast.

And then came Peter the Great. In 1696, he inherited sole control over the Russian state.⁸ His experienced and educated tenure as heir-apparent allowed him to analyze everything that was right with Western Europe and wrong with Russia.

He determined that the best way to catch the European powers was to become like them. Within a year of his ascension to sole sovereign, an undercover Peter traveled to Europe to learn about it.⁹ Tsar Peter I transformed into Sergeant Peter Mikhailov and set off for Europe as part of a “Grand Embassy” of over 200 Russian diplomats ostensibly led by a trio of ambassadors who tried to form alliances with European countries. He also ordered 50 Russian nobles to scatter throughout Western Europe to learn about its culture and innovations.

The Grand Embassy first stopped in Holland, but as his ambassadors lobbied the Dutch court, Peter, who dreamed of a great navy for his kingdom, secured a pedestrian position as a ship carpenter.¹⁰ For four months, “Sergeant Mikhailov” worked for the Dutch East India Company, learning the art of shipbuilding and other carpentry. He then traveled to Britain, owners of the greatest navy in history, and took a course on shipbuilding. He examined England’s shipyards and artillery plants. He learned about navigation. He studied Manchester and London, learning how Western cities functioned. He even attended a session of Parliament. On his way back east, he stopped in Prussia, Austria, and Poland. Throughout his European trip, he visited factories, arsenals, theaters, museums, and universities. Unfortunately, as he planned a trip to Venice, the great seafaring city-state of the Mediterranean, an uprising in Moscow forced Peter home, but not before his 18-month journey taught him much about the West.¹¹

Peter, now 26, brilliant, and a behemoth of a man, set about modernizing Russia. With gobs of money, he wooed Western technicians and scholars to brave the Russian cold, while he simultaneously sent Russians to Western schools and vocations so they could one day return as experienced Europeans ready to teach the next generation of Russians. He deduced that militaristic and economic strength were tied to naval might, but was stymied by Russia’s lack of viable coastline. All of it was to the north on the aptly named White Sea, which was frozen up to nine months a year.

So Peter let slip the dogs of war. He went to war against the Ottoman Empire, the accomplished Muslim nation that had removed the Roman Empire from the map not 250 years earlier, so he could access the Black Sea. With his capture of the Ottoman fortress on the Sea of Azov, which Russians had been trying to acquire for over a century, he had his access. At nearby Taganrog, Peter built the first naval base in Russian history.

Then, in 1700, he went to war with the Empire of Sweden.¹² The war raged for 21 years. By its end, victorious Russia tacked on more land to its west, including modern-day Latvia and Estonia. It became the dominant power of the Baltic Sea, another outlet for Peter’s dream navy. With that 1721 victory, Peter the Great transformed the Russian Tsardom into the Russian Empire, which lasted until the Russian Revolution of 1917.

During and after the two-decade war, Peter forced his country to evolve. He had inherited a decentralized nation that was divided into many cumbersome, uneven districts, each largely governed by a nearby city. Peter transformed this scattered kingdom into an efficient central state, around which twelve manageable provinces (guberniya) were administrated by able governors. He created a Senate and cabinet to help supervise his growing empire.

He ordered new shipyards, sea fortresses, and ships, drawing the plans himself. He took an active part in the formation of a merchant fleet that grew alongside the strengthening navy. To make sure he had qualified builders and officers, Peter set up two academies: the School of Mathematical and Navigation Sciences in Moscow and the Naval Academy in Saint Petersburg.¹³

Peter promoted metallurgy as a new Russian industry, and Russia soon became the world’s top producer in cast-iron melting. This production, in turn, bolstered Russian industry and the military. The Tsar designed new Russian guns. He made both the army and navy professional, standing units. Government and military promotions became based on merit instead of bloodline.

Still, he wanted more than to just have Western European firepower. Peter felt Western innovation was tied to Western culture. Therefore, he wanted his subjects to look and behave more like Western Europeans. He discouraged beards as too “Asian looking.”¹⁴ He ordered the entire military, nobility, and court to lose their proud whiskers, even shaving reluctant nobles himself. He required them to dress in Western clothing. In bed, however, they were commanded to remove their shoes or face a mild punishment (see opening quote). He even encouraged them to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.¹⁵ Secular schools replaced Orthodox ones. Peter’s encouragement of science and state-run education hastened the Church’s loss of authority. The first Russian newspaper, the Saint Petersburg Vedomosti, was printed under Peter’s reign.

Peter encouraged commerce and industry, recognizing that each was essential not only to a vibrant economy, but in supporting the military. He built weaving mills and other proto-factories. He modernized means of communication and encouraged foreign and domestic trade. With a demand for skilled workers, free peasants left their farms. Villages became towns and towns became cities. A middle class grew. (Indentured serfs, however, were as subjugated as ever.) Throughout this transformation, Peter served as the ultimate role model for the new Russian citizen. Stay busy. Work hard. Get things done.

Perhaps no death in our Top 30 occurred more heroically.¹⁶¹⁷ Legend has it that in November 1724, the Tsar was inspecting various projects along the coast of northwest Russia when he saw a group of soldiers on a sinking boat, some drowning in the icy waters. He rushed in to help. The giant Peter is said to have been in the ice for some time, saving all he could. Consequently, fever struck the great Tsar. His kidneys failed. Within two months, his bladder became gangrenous. He died on the eighth of February, 1725, at the age of 52.

But what of the Russia he left behind? It was transformed. The Archbishop of Novgorod eulogized him: “We are burying Peter the Great . . . who has raised Russia as if from among the dead and elevated her to such heights of power and glory. . . . He was your Samson, Russia. . . . He was your Moses. . . . He was your Solomon, who received from the Lord reason and wisdom in great plenty. . . . Can a short oration encompass his immeasurable glory?”

He inherited a basically landlocked backwater that neither Europe nor Asia wished to claim and renovated it into an intercontinental empire capable of sending its navy to the furthest reaches of the globe. Five tsars and 37 years later, the Empress Catherine the Great followed in the former Great’s footsteps, further expanding the Empire, reducing church authority, and promoting cultural progress. She completed Russia’s eastward journey (a sort of Manifest Destiny in reverse), reaching as far as modern Alaska and becoming the third largest empire in history.¹⁸ Peter set Russia on the trajectory that Catherine continued.

It cannot be overstated how stagnant Russia was when compared to Western Europe before Peter I. Whereas Catherine just continued the policies of her predecessor (keeping her from our Top 30), it was Peter who truly changed Russia’s future. By the turn of the nineteenth century, Russia rivaled the West. Indeed, thanks to Peter’s reforms, it became a part of the West, mirroring its culture and embroiled in its geopolitics. It’s Russia that finally slows Napoleon then becomes a part of the European coalitions that bring him down. From then on, Russia entered into negotiations, alliances, and treaties like any other European nation. It even became crucial in putting down revolutions across the continent.

It should be noted that after Russia’s triumph in the Napoleonic Wars, the nineteenth century was not kind to the world’s largest country.¹⁹ It seemed to have forgotten the lessons learned under Peter. The century’s industrialization of Western Europe and the young United States of America pushed those regions technologically and militaristically ahead of the rest of the world. Still, thanks to Peter, the potential was still there for a great, powerful Russian nation, and that potential was seized upon after the First World War. By the end of World War II, the Soviet Union and United States were the two world superpowers. Peter’s dream was realized.²⁰

To wonder what might have happened to Russia without Peter, we probably don’t need to look any further than the history of the Ottoman Empire. Russia and the Ottomans, dating from well before Peter’s victory at Azov to well after World War I, were archrivals, competing for control of the Black Sea and the adjoining Bosphorus Straight, which linked the Black with the Mediterranean and allowed Russia access to the Atlantic. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, while Russia was an isolated, medieval kingdom, the Ottoman Empire was the foremost regional power. It controlled northeast Africa, the Middle East, Anatolia, and it even expanded well into southeast Europe; with multiple incursions, it struck fear in the hearts of Austrians and Italians. The Ottomans were on three continents and had long coastlines on the Black, Aegean, Mediterranean, and Red seas. Their glorious, ancient capital of Constantinople straddled Europe and Asia like a colossus. If one were to have predicted the futures of stagnant Russia and the flourishing Ottoman Empire, one would think that the Ottomans’ was far more glorious, while Russia’s fate was to again be conquered.

Peter the Great, however, had other plans. Thanks to him, Russia modernized. The Peterless Ottomans, despite far superior geography, did not. As Russia eventually joined the great powers of Europe, the Ottoman Empire steadily weakened, disintegrated, and lost land to surrounding nations, including Russia. Its clear debilitation led it to be dubbed the “sick man of Europe,” and European leaders took it upon themselves to decide its fate (a cause of the footnoted Crimean War). After World War I, the Ottoman Empire collapsed and was forced into becoming the Republic of Turkey. Constantinople became Istanbul while the Turks, feared centuries earlier, became pawns in European games. All the while, the Soviet Union’s sphere of influence grew to be larger than all things ever whiffed by the Ottoman Empire.

With Peter Romanov, we have an example of a leader going against the grain. Unlike so many other important figures of history who merely took advantage of trends better than their contemporaries, Peter reshaped history itself. He redirected Russia from remaining a bloated blotch of Eurasia to becoming a mighty monster of the West. Due to his impressive goals, effective means of achieving them, and role in creating a future world superpower, Peter the Great is the 26th most influential figure in Western history.

Given these circumstances, one would expect that the last concern on Ware’s mind, as he seeks to recover from this devastating event, would be losing his athletic scholarship, and potentially being handed a hefty bill for his medical expenses. After all, Ware was a sought-after player when he was recruited out of high school in Rockdale County, Georgia, and offered scholarships by the University of Louisville. However, a little-known fact about college athletic scholarships, is that they can be withdrawn at the discretion of a university. Scholarships are not necessarily mandatory, four-year commitments by a university to a student athlete; rather, thanks to NCAA rules, athletic scholarships are treated as commitments that can be withdrawn after one, two, or three years, as soon as a coach makes a decision that he no longer wants to offer a player a scholarship.

Thus, if a player were offered an athletic scholarship while in high school, but were then to suffer a serious injury, his scholarship could be withdrawn. Now, suppose that a player were recruited by a coach who is later fired by a university. A new coach could decide that the formerly recruited player doesn’t fit his style of play (for example, a defensive-minded basketball coach might decide that a shooting guard recruited by a prior coach shoots the ball too often, and does not make enough effort as a defender), and so could dismiss such a player. As Josh Levin noted in Slate: “Coach doesn’t like you? He’s free to cut you loose. Sitting the bench? You could lose your free ride to a new recruit.”

Even seemingly modest attempts to expand the protections offered to student athletes, have met furious opposition from universities. In 2011, the NCAA Division I Board of Directors approved a proposal to permit guaranteed multiyear scholarships, that is, to allow a school to offer scholarships that could not be revoked by coaches on a yearly basis. In early 2012, schools opposed to this decision sought to have it overturned: 205 of 330 schools, a solid majority, voted to overturn the NCAA ruling, just a couple votes shy of the needed 207 votes.

Athletic scholarships can be withdrawn as soon as a coach no longer wants to offer one to a player.

Why were schools so enthusiastic to overturn a rule that would provide greater discretion in offering multiyear scholarships? Allen Sack, a longtime NCAA critic, and author of The Counterfeit Amateurs, a highly acclaimed work on how college athletics became big business, believes that since some universities will choose to offer multiyear scholarships, student athletes might feel more comfortable enrolling in such institutions, and thus, schools with multiyear commitments will be more likely to recruit talent, and thus enjoy a competitive advantage. This could then incentivize more universities to actually offer multiyear scholarships, and many schools, Sack argues, don’t want to offer such scholarships, preferring the flexibility of being able to discard players at will.

In his Slate piece, Levin notes that while some major schools and athletic conferences, such as the Big Ten and football powerhouses Auburn and Florida, have committed to offering multiyear scholarships to their players, other major universities, like LSU and Alabama, opposed multiyear scholarship rules. At the University of Alabama, winner of 15 national championships in football (including in 2009, 2011, and 2012, under Coach Nick Saban), during the 2010 and 2011 seasons, more than 20 players either left the program by choice, or were forced out. While some of these players were academically ineligible, and others transferred to other universities (though possibly under the threat that their scholarships would not be renewed), at least three players had their scholarships outright revoked).

Additionally, a Wall Street Journal investigation found that between 2007 and 2010, Saban offered players a medical “scholarship” at least 12 times. This scholarship allows players who were injured to maintain their financial aid, but they are not allowed to play football (or another sport) with the team any longer. According to interviews with players, in at least three instances, a player was healthy enough to play after returning from an injury, but was encouraged to take a medical scholarship due to reduced athletic performance; that is, Saban was allegedly using the medical scholarship as a means to rid his team of less capable athletes. Since college football teams receive a limited number of scholarships (85 per team per year at most Division I programs), a team has an incentive to shift underperforming players off the roster.

Thus, the medical scholarship has in effect become a tool for implementing quality control of student athletes. Such an approach seems to fly in the face of arguments that college athletes are “amateurs” or “students first.” While it is positive that these young men didn’t lose their financial aid, it is difficult to argue that a college athlete is acting as an amateur or non-professional when his athletic scholarship can be revoked, and he can be booted from a team’s roster, a rather severe consequence for reduced athletic performance. Forcing players onto medical scholarships, or, even worse, revoking their scholarships outright, appears more akin to the NFL’s policies, which allows teams to cut players and thus fulfill only a portion of their financial obligations to players under a contract.

Had Kanuer’s ailments been covered by the university, she would have paid just a $1,000 deductible. Instead, she was left her with $80,000 in bills and $55,000 in debt.

Not knowing whether one will enjoy an athletic scholarship throughout one’s tenure in university must be harrowing enough. However, college athletes also have to worry that, due to unclear and inconsistent rules regarding medical coverage, they might be saddled with a substantial bill for medical expenses resulting from injuries that occurred while playing college sports. A 2009 New York Times investigation found that there are several mechanisms through which students are either not covered, or suffer from inadequate medical coverage. In some cases, student athletes, like many of their non-athlete peers, are covered under medical plans initiated by their parents, but these plans often carry restrictions on injuries that occur while playing varsity sports, as well as injuries that occur outside of their parents’ home state.

In other cases, athletes might enjoy medical coverage from their university, but disagreements over the nature of an injury lead to students being only partially covered for the harm they suffered. One of the more egregious instances of this can be seen in the case of Erin Knauer, a member of the crew team at Colgate University as a walk-on. Knauer experienced considerable pain during a workout (during the same time that she was suffering from a cold), which led to her being hospitalized twice during a one month period, and which required further physical therapy for healing. Knauer was diagnosed with postviral myositis, a muscular inflammation, and Colgate officials claimed that this was an illness, rather than an injury, and so Knauer would be responsible for her medical bills. Other experts contested this diagnosis, arguing that there could be multiple causes for Knauer’s medical problems, especially given that she was already suffering from a cold at the time she experienced pain during her crew workout. If Kanuer’s ailments had been covered under the athletic insurance provided by the university, she would have paid just a $1,000 deductible, and no other medical bills; instead, she was forced to use her student health plan, which ultimately left her with $80,000 in bills and $55,000 in debt. Knauer was forced to work two jobs in order to pay these bills, and has found herself hounded by bill collectors.

It is tempting to dismiss Knauer’s situation as a unique instance, since she was a walk-on athlete at a smaller school. However, the case of former Ohio State football player Jason Whitehead shows that even scholarship athletes at college sports powerhouses can find themselves facing severe challenges with medical bills. During his first year at Ohio State, Whitehead suffered a career-ending injury. Whitehead, who was utilizing insurance provided through his father’s work, took the bills not covered by his medical insurance to his school’s athletic department, who refused to assist with these expenses. He was then medically disqualified by his school’s physician, losing his scholarship. Several years later, he learned that he still owed $1,800 in unpaid medical bills.

There is some positive news for student-athletes who suffer injuries while participating in collegiate athletics. Thanks to a 2008 class-action settlement by players who argued that their college athletic scholarships did not cover some living expenses, the NCAA set aside $218 million into the Student-Athlete Opportunity Fund, which can be used to help players cover a variety of shortfalls in their scholarship funds, ranging from medical to personal expenses. However, due to the way this settlement was structured, universities have discretion over how these funds are allocated, and thus might control or restrict player access to such funds. Additionally, in many cases, players are not aware of the availability of these funds, which limits the extent to which players actually make use of such funds.

Given the extent to which players face a perilous situation, in terms of both potentially losing their athletic scholarships, as well as being saddled with medical expenses due to injuries, it is only reasonable to ask what solutions might lead to more reasonable outcomes for college athletes.

Historian Taylor Branch, known for his writings on the American civil rights movement, has argued that college athletics is in reality a large business, and as a result, college athletes deserve some sort of compensation. Branch cites such examples as the SEC football conference having surpassed $1 billion in athletic receipts in 2010, and multibillion dollar, multiyear college football television deals, as examples of the highly commercialized nature of college sports. Branch also notes the myriad examples of financial malfeasance in college football, most prominently the improper benefits scandal at USC (full disclosure: I am a graduate of archrival UCLA), as well as similar controversies at Ohio State and the University of Miami.

Branch decries the treatment of unpaid college athletes. He views the concept of unpaid athletes as both paternalistic and patently unfair, especially in light of the massive revenues generated by their efforts. Branch also details how the whole concept of “amateur athletes” came to pass. During the 1950s, Ray Dennison, a college football player for the Fort Lewis A&M Aggies, died from a football-related head injury. Dennison’s wife sought to obtain worker’s compensation benefits, which raised the question of whether her husband was an employee engaged in a business (in this case, playing football). The Colorado Supreme Court eventually decided that the late Mr. Dennison was not a worker or employee, and so his wife did not receive any compensation for his death.

Around this time, Branch notes, the phrase “student athlete” began to work its way into much of the NCAA’s legal documents. Another lawsuit, stemming from the debilitating injury of Texas Christian University (TCU) running back Kent Waldrep, who was paralyzed from the neck down after a particularly rough tackle, further demonstrates how the use of the student-athlete term has been used to help universities avoid liability for player injuries. During the 1990s, as Waldrep continued a decades-long fight for workers compensation funds, TCU argued that since he was not paid wages, nor did he pay taxes on his financial aid, which the court found Waldrep could have kept even if he left football, Waldrep should not be treated as an employee for worker’s compensation purposes. Once again, the concept of the student-athlete was used to shield a university from liability for a player injury.

At the same time that players were denied legal recourse for injuries that occurred while playing college sports, a series of sponsorship deals made college football and basketball even more lucrative. In addition to eye-popping television broadcast deals for college athletics (CBS paid $771 million for the broadcast rights to the 2011 NCAA March Madness college basketball tournament), universities and athletic conferences have also been marketing the likenesses of former players, through the sales of video games, as well as actual footage from previous games. Players, however, receive no financial compensation from these ventures; this has led to a lawsuit by former UCLA basketball player Ed O’Bannon, as well as other college athletes whose likenesses have been used decades after leaving school.

Universities and athletic conferences market the likenesses of former players through the sales of video games, as well as actual game footage, but players receive no financial compensation from these ventures.

Branch also challenges the assertion that college athletes truly function as “student-athletes,” noting that numerous universities have consistently accepted and excused poor academic performance from college athletes. There are numerous documented instances of college instructors being asked to raise or pad the grades of student athletes; perhaps one of the most egregious of these can be seen in the case of Jan Kemp, a University of Georgia English instructor who won over $2 million in a lawsuit against the university, after she was fired for refusing to raise the grades of some football players, in order to ensure that they would be eligible to play in an upcoming bowl game.

A more recent example can be seen at Florida State University, where during 2006 and 2007, 61 players across ten different sports allegedly participated in extensive cheating and academic fraud, leading to the suspension of these athletes, and the stripping of all wins in which these players participated. A college academic tutor was implicated in this scandal, as were allegations that coaches had knowledge of fraudulent academic practices by student athletes, but chose to look the other way. Such treatment, Branch and others argue, lays waste to the myth of the student-athlete as being somehow a student who simply happens to participate in organized sports.

In addressing these myriad problems, Branch offers several solutions. First, players must be given a “meaningful voice” in matters that affect them. Branch believes, however, that the NCAA is reluctant to take such a step, because they would then face real challenges from college athletes. For example, how would universities react to demands for compensation from players whose monetary value to the school (for example, a star running back or point guard who fills seats at a university arena) far exceeds the dollar value of their scholarship? Additionally, how would universities deal with a situation where athletes who participate in revenue-generating games like football demand compensation, but those who play less popular or lucrative sports like lacrosse or tennis stand little chance of receiving real remuneration for their athletic talents?

Lastly, Branch points to a successful precedent for compensation of athletes competing in a non-professional activity: the Olympics. Until the 1970s, American Olympic athletes were forbidden from participating in professional sports in the United States. After President Carter signed the Amateur Sports Act, athletes were granted a voting stake in the Olympic’s governing body, and were allowed to participate in professional sports at home, and to receive sponsorships and endorsements. As Olympic athletes began to receive treatment and compensation more akin to that of professional athletes—and in many cases, such as with the United States basketball team, were actually professional athletes—“the world did not end.”

Numerous important have also been advanced against the payment of college athletes. Writing in Sports Illustrated, Paul Daugherty argues that college athletes (especially those with full scholarships in popular sports like basketball and football) already enjoy numerous advantages, including not having to work to pay their way through school, and free accommodations at first-class hotels and travel to numerous destinations while competing on the road. Daugherty also notes that college athletes enjoy access to specialized tutoring, and often professors who are more pliant in the grading of student-athletes. Daugherty also believes that offering compensation to players based on how much revenue they generate for a school would likely lead to a situation where some athletes (most likely those in non-revenue sports like swimming) might lose their scholarships and have their sports downgraded to the lesser “club” status. Daugherty also argues that since sports like football and basketball are not necessarily profitable at every school, requiring pay arrangements might actually be harmful to the football and basketball programs at some universities.

Other commentators have argued that offering payment to college athletes would undermine the educational mission that is supposed to be at the heart of the university experience. Writing for The Sports Journal, Dennis Johnson and John Acquaviva point out that payment of athletes might make their university experience, in essence, a commercial transaction. They also believe that there is a fundamental lack of appreciation for the value of a college degree and its cost to the university, among those who argue for payment of college athletes.

Johnson and Acquaviva share Daugherty’s concern that payment of college athletes based upon their contributions to university revenue poses a threat to less profitable sports. Since programs like baseball, softball, golf and many others don’t actually generate substantial revenue for universities, the authors fear that the payment of basketball and football players will lead to the eventual elimination of those programs that are not net sources of revenue.

Ultimately, it seems only fair that college athletes in revenue-generating sports receive some compensation for their financial contributions. As discussed earlier, college football and basketball players at the most popular and successful programs can generate tens of millions of dollars in revenue for their respective institutions, through television broadcast deals, as well as ticket sales and merchandise and sponsorship agreements. It’s hard not to notice that these athletes also make it possible for college football and basketball coaches to earn multimillion dollar salaries. These athletes face the risk of serious injury (which has the potential to derail a potentially promising professional career), and also face tremendous pressure to perform.

With that said, many of the concerns raised by Daugherty and others do have some validity. Excessive compensation of college athletes does have the potential to undermine the educational mission of a university through the further commercialization. From a financial standpoint, it might also make non-revenue sports far less viable financially, and thus lead to dedicated, talented athletes in sports like swimming or volleyball facing the complete elimination of their sports from the collegiate arena. After all, large paychecks for student athletes will necessarily mean reductions in athletic funding elsewhere.

Additionally, any situation where players are compensated as a portion of their schools total athletic revenue could lead to scholarship decisions being made purely on the basis of financial compensation, that is, a wide receiver choosing between football scholarships at the University of Florida, USC and the University of Miami might select whichever university posted the highest revenues, and thus largest player salaries. Through this, colleges might effectively become a microcosm of the NFL and other professional leagues, where, much to the chagrin of fans, players frequently leave teams for financial considerations.

A more equitable solution might be to separate schools into tiers, based on a model that accounts for the revenue that these universities generate from ticket sales, broadcasting agreements, and other direct sources of revenue related to a particular sport. Obviously, there are some challenges in categorization; for example, what portion of a school’s sweatshirt and T-shirt sales are tied to the success of its football or basketball programs? But overall, a uniform method of calculating the revenue generated by a particular sport at a university should be devisable.

These revenues could be normalized for a school’s size and the size and income levels of the surrounding population; after all, a school like USC, located in California, almost certainly has more potential to generate revenue than a football powerhouse like Auburn, which is located in less populous and poorer Alabama.

Schools with similar normalized scores would be grouped into a given tier, which would be broadly representative of their financial status in a particular geographic and economic market. All the schools in a particular tier would be required to place some portion of their total revenues in a pool, which would be used to compensate players. All players, at all schools, within a given tier would be compensated the same amount if the sport they competed in generates net revenues (primarily basketball and football).

A uniform method of calculating the revenue generated by a particular sport at a university should be devisable.

At the end of a season, players who performed exceptionally well, either statistically or in helping their teams succeed on the field or court, would receive a performance bonus. Player performance would be judged by a panel comprised of former players and coaches, and these performance scores would be fed into a mathematical model to generate fair bonus compensation for exceptional performers. In order to minimize bias, former players, coaches and assistant coaches would not be allowed to assess the performance of any team that they played for, or athletic conference that they were a part of (thus, a former University of Florida assistant coach or player has no incentive to reward current Florida players, or penalize a star at rival LSU or Alabama, a fellow member of the SEC conference). Bonuses and overall compensation would be capped, just as salaries are in the NFL and NBA. These bonuses would also be limited in a manner that would allow schools to avoid, or at least minimize, the risk that non-revenue sports might be phased out.

Through such a system, players would be able to share in the fruits of their labors, as do their coaches, university administrators, and others who currently enjoy the financial benefits of the athletic endeavors of college football and basketball players. Star players would also reap a reward for a job well done. The exact dollar amount, and portion of athletic revenues, that would be directed towards player compensation requires a highly detailed examination of university and athletic program finances, which is beyond the scope of this piece. However, a system conceived along the lines proposed has the potential to allow players to share the lucrative rewards of the success that they helped generate.

It is true that such a system treats college football and basketball players differently from other student-athletes, who likely would not be paid. And why shouldn’t it? Student-athletes in these two sports can generate an immense amount of revenue for their respective institutions, something that sports like golf or volleyball simply are not capable of doing.

A variety of business organizations provide higher compensation to employees or groups of employees who are responsible for an outsized portion of that entity’s financial success. Within Wall Street investment banks, top traders (who execute the purchase and sales of stocks, bonds, or other financial instruments for the bank or its clients) are often been paid larger bonuses than leading deal-side investment bankers (those who negotiate mergers and acquisitions, or help companies raise capital and go public), since traders, especially pre financial crisis, generated a greater portion of profits for most banks. In a large technology company, a group focusing on cloud computing, which is a highly sought-after technology at the moment, might be more profitable, and thus enjoy greater individual compensation, than a team focused on the less profitable personal computer development. Just the same, there is no real reason, other than the misplaced sentimentality, to demand some sort of parity in compensation, between football and basketball players as opposed to volleyball players or swimmers, given the revenue gap between players in these respective sports. It is fair to say that no sport should be eliminated due to another sport; however, that is far different from arguing that an athletes in a revenue-generating sports cannot receive any compensation whatsoever, because it won’t also be possible to pay peers in non-revenue sports.

The very best college athletes in football and basketball also might enjoy a financially rewarding career in a professional league, something that, as Joe Nocera noted in his excellent New York Times piece, is not true of wrestlers or rowers. Also, Nocera observes, athletes in football and basketball are generally required to attend college if they want to play in professional leagues in the United States (a notable exception to this rule was exposed by Brandon Jennings of the Milwaukee Bucks, who chose to play for a European basketball team for a season, rather than attend college). A player could be badly injured in college, and thus lose his chance to ever realize his professional dreams. In some cases, these players might have already been prepared to play for a professional team straight out of high school, as demonstrated by the success of Lebron James, Kobe Bryant and Kevin Garnett in the NBA. It seems only fair, given the risks college players are forced to take with future professional careers, that they should be allowed to earn some compensation while playing in college.

Aside from compensation, which affects only one class of college athletes, broader reforms are required to protect all college players. All college athletes, regardless of their sport, should enjoy full medical coverage, throughout their time in university, for any and all injuries sustained while competing in their respective sports. Student-athletes should never have to pay out of their own pockets for an injury incurred on the playing field, or have to seek outside insurance coverage to cover the costs of their injuries.

Given that the most successful college athletics programs generate such large revenues, a formula ought to be devised where all universities pay some portion of their athletic revenues into an insurance pool, which would be used for the exclusive purpose of ensuring that all student athletes receive all required medical coverage. Such a formula would have to take into account a variety of factors, including the size and revenues of an athletic program, how much players in revenue-earning sports like football and basketball are being paid, and the projected yearly costs of providing medical coverage to all college athletes. It is unconscionable that any student athlete, whether playing basketball or running track, should be denied the medical care that they require.

As for athletic scholarships, coaches should continue to enjoy the discretion to dismiss players. Sports teams, whether at the collegiate or professional level, function as competitive entities, where winning (within established rules) is the primary objective. As a result, if a player holds a team back from successfully competing, or does not fit with a particular coach’s strategy or style of play, a coach should enjoy the discretion to dismiss this player.

At the same time, any college athlete on a scholarship almost certainly relied on the assurances of a head coach, acting as a representative of a university, that there would be some role for the athlete on a university’s team, and that this player would have the opportunity to obtain an education. If there is no longer such a role athletically, then the player should at least enjoy the opportunity to complete his or her education. Given how crucial a college education can be to future employment prospects, the loss of an athletic scholarship should not spell the death of an academic career. Thus, universities should guarantee that if a player loses a full athletic scholarship, he or she will still be able to complete university coursework, and graduate if all requirements are met. There are exceptions where a student should be dismissed outright—for example, for criminal conduct—however, simply losing a scholarship due to reduced athletic performance, or a poor player-coach fit, should not lead to the termination of one’s scholarship.

The story of college athletics today is one of big winners—primarily universities, coaches, television networks, and merchandisers, all of whom profit handsomely off their unpaid, poorly protected workforce: college athletes. That simply cannot continue any longer. Players should be paid for the wealth they help universities generate, and all players, whether or not they make a university richer, should enjoy basic protections in terms of scholarships and medical expenses. As Kevin Ware continues on the road to recovery, he deserves to know that he can complete his education, and will not be stuck with a hefty bill for his medical treatment. Furthermore, if Ware is able to return to playing basketball, he, and his Louisville teammates (who won the 2013 NCAA national championship), deserve to earn a financial reward for their efforts.

Every person has a well-known film they’ve never seen, or book they’ve never read, or musician they’ve never heard of. The last thing you want to have happen in a social situation, particularly if you’re not in the proximity of close friends, is to have your secret exposed. Once, when I was younger, a friend quietly admitted to me that he’d never seen Braveheart. “Oh, yeah, well . . .” I said, pushing the conversation along. I’d never seen it either, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. (Ironically, we were at our Jewish sleep-away summer camp.)

I’ve been playing classical piano for over fifteen years, and in that time I’ve learned precisely one piece by the romantic Austrian composer Franz Schubert: Musical Moment No. 3, his piece every student learns (you can watch a decrepit, vivacious Horowitz play it here). To many classical music fans, the fact that I know so little about Schubert I had to double-check his first name is sacrilegious—though, in fairness to me, no one knows the first names of composers. (Scarlatti? Handel?) But for the past two weeks, after hearing it on the radio, I’ve been enjoying his Second Symphony on repeat. It’s filled with life-affirming energy and youthfulness, which may be unsurprising, considering Schubert wrote it when he was seventeen (seventeen!), about fifteen years before he contracted typhoid fever (or was it syphilis . . .) and died, not exactly unknown but most certainly unappreciated, at thirty-one.

I was hooked by the first movement, the Allegro vivace, primarily because I thought it sounded a lot like Beethoven, whose work I’m far more familiar with. And, sure enough, Schubert, who greatly admired his German contemporary, wrote the initial theme of the first movement to correspond with Beethoven’s Overture to his ballet “The Creatures of Prometheus”. The symphony may not be as majestic and polished as, say, Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, but it is a lot of fun and it has its dramatic moments. (The initial theme of the fourth and final Presto movement totally could have been edited to work as the score to The Rock.) Familiarity with it will also absolve you from embarrassment in social situations not involving close friends.

—Nathan Schiller, Editor

The real story: A Eugene man who’s screamed about his nutsack for 30 years

I have spent the last three years living in Eugene, OR, in anticipation of my return to the East Coast. However, now that I have only a month left, the reality of leaving is setting in and I am realizing just how much I will miss this one-of-a-kind city.

The University of Oregon (UO) campus, where I’ve spent a large portion of my time in graduate pursuits, is almost a city within a city. There, you have the opportunity to meet local celebrities, and if you’re lucky, find out just what makes them so special. Take the infamous Frog, salesman of his own homemade “greatest joke books the world’s ever seen,” as well as some rubber chickens. Frog has been bringing smiles to the people of Eugene for over twenty years, always greeting locals and visitors alike with his enthusiasm for life. Then, take the man who rides his bike around campus, often in a jock strap, and yells “LTD [Lane Transit District] can lick my sweaty, shaven nutsack!” For most, he remains nameless, just another noise on the street, but thanks to a twenty-minute documentary by UO student Ben Schorr, you can learn the real story of John Brewster.

When I first got here, it was easy to pass judgment on such a distinctive place and its people (the stereotype is quite true; there are a lot of hippies, deadheads, environmentally friendly vegans, and wanderers by choice). But, now that I’m about to leave Eugene, I realize that behind each initial judgment, there is an untold story very much worth discovering.

—Julia Kolchinsky Dasbach, Poetry Editor

                          Call Santiago a whore.
                          Call Santiago ready to take you back.

Of the three major news events, only the Senate’s failure to add background checks to pending gun control legislation is on the surface a political story. But the calamities in Boston and Texas have already become, and no doubt will continue to be, hotly contested political issues as well. The timing of the Boston bombing assures that it will be a political football—violent rampage by a pair of well-armed immigrants just as gun control and immigration legislation are working their way through Congress. Before the identity of the bombers was even known, Iowa Representative Steven King was calling for a halt to immigration reform based on speculation that the bombers were foreign nationals. While it’s unclear whether any of the reforms being considered in Congress would have affected the Tsarnaevs’ legal status in coming to and staying in America, both sides of the debate are arguing for why the Boston bombings demonstrate the need for or danger of the reforms they favor or oppose. On the gun control side, while Boston was in lockdown Arkansas State Representative Nate Bell snarkily suggested that perhaps the liberal residents of the city wished they had looser gun laws (Bell has since apologized). The fact that the Tsarnaevs used illegally obtained guns has both sides debating whether that shows the need for more extensive and better enforced regulations, or whether it shows that criminals don’t follow the law anyway, so what’s the point?

Meanwhile, the explosion of a fertilizer plant in West, Texas, that killed at least 14 people and injured 200 more has revived debates over deregulation and the funding of regulatory agencies like the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA). Despite housing volatile chemicals such as those used in the Oklahoma City bombing, the fertilizer plant sat within 3,000 feet of two schools and within eyesight of a nursing home, and hadn’t been inspected by OSHA since 1985. The Blue-Green Alliance—an alliance of labor and environmental groups—is using the explosion to call for increased funding for OSHA and other regulatory organizations, while Republican Senator Chuck Grassley is bemoaning what he sees as the left’s hypocrisy in politicizing the Texas explosion in debates over regulation while criticizing the right for politicizing the Boston bombing in the debate over immigration.

The current legislative fight over gun control provides a glimpse into the future of how the events in Boston and Texas will work their way into the political debate. The push behind the gun control legislation began following the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. During his scathing press conference following the defeat of the background check amendment, the president was flanked by survivors and victims’ family members from the Newtown shooting and the January 2011 shooting that nearly killed former Arizona Congresswoman Gabby Giffords. Even before the press conference, Republican Senator Rand Paul accused the White House of using the victims of gun violence as “props” in the debate over gun control.

The sheer volume of tragedy and political debate has left politicians confused about exactly who has accused whom of politicizing what. I’m on record as believing that, while we should be on guard about exploitation of our fears and emotions, tragic events should be part of our political debate. For instance, the timing and tone of Representative Bell’s tweet was insensitive, but the main problem with his comment wasn’t that he was using the events in Boston and the danger facing the people there to advocate his position on gun control. There’s no point in having a debate over gun control if it’s not going to be about which laws will make people safer. The main problem with Bell’s comment is that he would, in any circumstance, advance the dangerous position that the path to less gun violence lies through having more guns.

It’s important to draw a distinction between politics and governing.

It’s important, though, to draw a distinction between politics (at least as we currently think of that term) and governing. Too often we conflate the two or, even worse, see acts of government as nothing more than tools for winning elections or even just news cycles. There’s plenty of blame to go around for this. Politicians take the path of least resistance to getting elected and re-elected. The press finds it easier and more lucrative to cover politics the way it would sports, focusing on tactics and success and failure while studiously avoiding any suggestion that one side or one position may be better or worse for the country. And, ultimately, however poorly served we are by our representatives and the media, we’re the ones who get to vote and choose what media to consume.

If the issues are viewed as nothing more than fodder for a game politicians are playing against one another, then invoking the real people affected by those issues seems especially callous and unforgiveable. To the extent that this view of American politics is accurate, the politicization of tragic events is indeed shameful, but that shamefulness is the product of a much deeper flaw in our republic. If instead we view government as a vehicle through which we come together to address the problems facing us as a people—as we should view it and demand that it in fact be—then tragic moments are an appropriate time for addressing the problems we face and the proper means for responding to them and preventing further hardship. As illustrated by the Barney Frank quote in this excellent Charles P. Pierce post, the performance of Boston’s first responders demonstrated why we need a “common pool” of resources to respond to mass hardship. There’s also no point to having a debate about the trade-offs between security and liberty and humanitarianism that isn’t informed by the real-world consequences of policies in areas like gun control and immigration.

Tragic events like the Boston bombing have a tendency to unite this very divided country, and much of the resistance to talking about controversial policies at a time like this comes from a feeling that we are squandering that sense of common purpose. But part of the price of living in a democratic republic is the need to make difficult choices and engage in potentially uncomfortable and factious debates, and the moments we face our greatest challenges can be the most appropriate moments to have those debates.

This weekend my parents and I were sitting around the kitchen table telling my boyfriend about our last years in the Soviet Union (we emigrated in July, 1991). “There was no food,” my mom said, remembering one summer at the dacha when we ate primarily mushrooms and stinging nettle (both picked from the ground and made into soups). My dad (with me on his shoulders) and his friend even swam to the field on the other side of the Moscow River to steal cabbage—the perfect booty because of its buoyancy. On our way home that day, we ran into one of the most distinguished Soviet academics. I don’t remember this, but my dad says she stared at the armloads of cabbage with bulging eyes and asked where on earth she could get some for herself. My dad pointed her to the field across the river.

What was incredible about the Soviet condition was that, except for the government elites, nearly everyone was in it together—doctors, writers, lawyers, janitors, secretaries, farmers, and even premier academics. Obviously, there were shades of gray—our dacha, which belonged to my grandparents, was part of a small academic village established by Stalin in the 1950s, and we had a general store that delivered small rations of groceries for the community once a week—but largely, we were all standing on the same lines for toilet paper. Times were hard, but people made do and it facilitated a certain closeness and humility that we rarely see anymore. For that reason, my parents and I were reminiscing almost fondly; the memories weren’t entirely painful. Coincidentally, the day after the conversation, I came across a photo essay (collected via international media outlets) about the last years of the Soviet Union. The text is in Russian, but you don’t need to understand Cyrillic to appreciate it.

—Masha Udensiva-Brenner, Editor

Book Clubs

Years ago I moved to North Carolina on a rainy Monday night. I didn’t have a cell phone, an apartment, or a friend in town. The only thing I had was a tenuous hold on a nondescript “program assistant” position.

I finally found my apartment (the second floor of an old house), but I still had no furniture and no friends. I would lie on the floor and wonder when I would make them—what they would be like. These were probably similar feelings to the ones I had the night before I started kindergarten.

At the start of this new life, I tried and joined everything. I went to Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn concerts alone, group hikes, pottery displays, and anything else I could find.

Finally, I found a women’s book club on Craigslist. The ad stated that they didn’t want members who would ever read a book from Oprah’s Book Club, and if anyone thought the group lowered themselves to read bestsellers, they should just walk away. Even though those were two of my main sources of fiction at that time, I decided to join the group . . . or, I should say, I decided to put in a request to join the group.

They accepted me.

I went to the first meeting—a multitude of cats roamed free around the living room, plates upon plates of food covered the dining room table: oily brownies (the host accidentally substituted oil for water, but decided to go with it), a strange concoction of vegan quiche, bran muffins, homemade guacamole and locally made corn-chips, and a plate of store-bought cookies.

We discussed Lolita, or that was the intent. The discussion ended quickly when Candace, the woman who initially started the group, discovered that one of the members was a Republican. And from there, the book club turned into an intervention.

Then it was revealed that this member was not only a Republican, but also a Christian—a proud Christian.

Candace had to step outside for some air.

During the rumblings, I did meet two women who became two of my closest friends.

For that, I am grateful.

The Ad

CL > cincinnati > all community > groups

Fun Book Club for Women (Northside)

Hey. My name is Holly, and I am trying to organize a book club for women between the ages of 21 to 35. I think it would be fun to get to know some new people who love books and like to discuss them over food and drink. I am thinking we could meet every other month, but if people want to meet more often that should be fine too. I think for the first meeting we could go to Northside Tavern for some drinks to get to know each other and decide on books to read. Please email me if you are interested in joining this potentially awesome and fun group and I guess we can go from there.

The Response

I returned to the monthly book club meetings for almost a year (mostly for fodder), but the Republican never did.

I hope she found a new group. If not, maybe she could try this one.