Exploring the modern language of sex

Signifying Nothing: How the September 11 attacks killed American consumerism

9/11 was aesthetic. Some of my strongest childhood memories are of those burning towers. I grew up in Brooklyn, though did not see the destruction in person. Yet nobody could escape the images. They were plastered across television, in the paper, and magazines. Most Americans did not know anyone who was killed, but this event was about all of us.
Safety is the basis of American consumerism. That is why shootings in shopping malls, movie theaters, airports and wealthy neighborhoods always get more press than those in trailer parks, housing projects and industrial zones. We need to be safe to consume, but we also consume to be safe.
On vacations, we shop because we can. We have surpassed the dangers of savagery and can now enjoy civilized leisure time. And when we sense impending danger, we flock to supermarkets to stock up on the necessities, afraid they will not be available later.
Of course, the security that consumption lets us feel is an illusion. Nothing feels more real, more grounded than going out and purchasing an object, but what about buying an idea? Nike sells motivation; J. Crew sells style; Coke sells happiness. American productive fervor has passed.
On 9/11, al-Qaeda hit us where it hurt most—the World Trade Center. It was a building that represented “trade,” but dealt with numbers instead of objects. The attacks challenged our constructions and beliefs and signified a religious war. Only an unassailable sense of what is “right” can provoke war and drive nations to mutual destruction.
It is not a coincidence that we call consumer products “goods.” They have become religious icons, objects of worship that comfort us in the day-to-day. They are our “daily bread.”
The institutions that make up our culture seem silly and arbitrary, but they form our collective consciousness. A special sense of ease comes from walking around a CVS. It is a store full of objects I do not really need, the chain itself a brand that doesn’t represent class, culture or intellect. I should hate everything about it. However, chain pharmacies are religious temples. They are little havens of reliability that claim all the answers to our problems. CVS is my home.
After 9/11, without a clear enemy, we did not know how to respond. All we could do was entangle our deep and serious sympathy for the victims with the images of American nationhood.
My family first got cable after the attacks. Allegedly, it was because the main TV antenna in New York topped one of the towers, but maybe it was just an excuse to saturate ourselves with images. As a child I was obsessed with TV—nothing seemed more real than “Lizzy McGuire,” “Invader Zim” or “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody.” I got immersed in the idealized lives of the characters from “Seinfeld” and “Friends.”
Parents always lament their children’s aversion to yards and sidewalks, outside games and real-word interactions. “When I was a kid,” they say, “you couldn’t pay us to stay indoors.” When my parents were kids, they only had the A-Bomb. If it was going to hit, they were all goners, so they might as well stay together. But with terrorism, death isn’t for everyone—only the fear. And when they were kids, there weren’t as many fantastic visual alternatives to the outside world.

Signifying Nothing: The inaccuracy of a GPA: Why I rejected my spot on the dean’s list

Intro to Gender and Women’s Studies: A. English Renaissance Drama: A. Modernism/Modernity: A-. Intro to Math Reasoning: A-. Age of Satire: A. Literature of Adolescent Sexuality: A. Introductory Astronomy: A. Intro to Analysis: A-. Those were my grades for the 2013-14 academic year.
Bowdoin students tend to treat GPAs like salaries. We avoid asking about other people’s grades, covet good marks for ourselves and judge the less successful, all while pretending that “grades don’t really matter.”
Our entire liberal arts education teaches that grades are inconsequential, that “intellectual engagement” and “the Common Good” are the pillars of our education. Bowdoin’s culture around GPAs perfectly mirrors the upper-class culture we’re learning to occupy. We say that grades, like paychecks, “aren’t everything,” and yet they are the engine of our day-to-day lives: they get us out of bed, drive us to class, and keep us up late at night.
As with money, pursuing grades may seem innocent and personal unless you think about the broader system of value. GPAs, like the capitalist market, proliferate on inequality. What’s the point of getting an A if other students don’t?
The Sarah and James Bowdoin Scholar list isolates a group of “successful” students. By doing so, the list embeds and celebrates academic inequality.
With its extensive resources and reputation, Bowdoin should set an example to those developing their educational institutions. I spent last summer in Kathmandu, Nepal, where every student—from kindergarten through college—is ranked according to performance on standardized exams.
The tests are generally in English and students prepare by memorizing answers from poorly written textbooks. At the end of 10th grade, each student must take a test called the “School Leaving Certificate,” and scores becomes public knowledge. The idea is that only the very best, the cream of the crop, succeed in the difficult Nepali economy.
We often lament the “brain drain” from the developing world. But by applauding the “high achievers” in our own institutions, we propagate a system of stratification that inhibits progress and encourages cultural abandonment.
Many of us fund organizations to supply developing countries with school supplies and insist that “anyone can succeed” with the right resources. Yet within our academic institutions, we pass off internalized discrimination as encouraging intellectual achievement. We maintain the illusion that grades are objective standards rather than indications of inequality.
Where do academic standards come from, anyway? Why am I a Sarah and James Bowdoin Scholar? Maybe I’m just better than most at convincing my professors to value my labor. The dean’s list isn’t so much an award for intelligence as one for cooperation and conformity. Grades are a pretty silly measure of intellect. They’re symbols several degrees removed from the student they claim to represent.
A GPA is the end result of academic labor filtered through the judgments of various professors and affected by countless uncontrollable factors. Many Bowdoin students struggle with learning disabilities, family crises and language barriers—how can we measure every intellect the same way?
But anyway, why were my grades good? Well, I had a rough year. The sophomore slump hit me hard, and I was frequently disillusioned by Bowdoin’s social environment. I used studying to cope with unhappiness. Instead of seeking genuine satisfaction, I forced myself to do three things every day: sleep, exercise and study. My grades don’t represent a healthy and well-balanced lifestyle; they represent self-denial and seclusion.
I also did well because I like what I study. English and math thrill me. Well, great, so doesn’t the Sarah and James Bowdoin list honor my academic enthusiasm? No, it degrades it. This list brands me as a grade-producing machine, and supposes that I need a narcissistic incentive to be academically engaged.
In painting grades as an incentive, the list acknowledges that GPAs signify nothing more than their own symbolism.
And if becoming a Sarah and James Bowdoin Scholar is a reward for engagement rather than an incentive to work hard, why does it need to exist? Shouldn’t academia and original thought be rewards in themselves?
I have a confession. I desperately want people to think that I’m smart. Ironically, this column—like Marlon Brando’s 1973 rejection of the Academy Award—seems a more self-absorbed plea for attention than the prize of the list itself.
Part of me hopes someone submits this to Upworthy. I can see it now: an article going viral with the title “College Student Rejects Spot on Dean’s List. Read His Bold Column.”
Sure, I want to be smart. But I know that everyone reading this—everyone at Bowdoin and anyone who cares about thinking—can have original and exciting ideas. So I’m rejecting my place on the dean’s list.

Signifying Nothing

Exploring the modern language of sex

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

September 26, 2014

What does it mean to have sex? How about “participate in sexual activity” or “engage in sexual intercourse”? These phrases carry meanings that you might not expect. “Having” sex suggests possession. When people physically pleasure each other, are they handling an object? Well, maybe, if that thing is a phallus. But if “sex” is in the penis, can two women not do it? If you’re “having sex,” must there always be a man?

What if a man says he “had sex with a woman”? In the construction of this sentence, sex is something the man does by himself, alongside a female. His partner might as well be a Fleshlight. It seems sex is not something you do but something you have. People can have sex with each other, but the “sex” is their own—our gender and sexuality exists regardless of who’s around.

Maybe sex is a feeling. But if sex isn’t action, how does it start and end? Maybe we don’t understand it. “Having” is static but we use “sex” to signify motion. “To have sex” is intransitive, but it insists on possession.

Objectifying sex makes it a tool, and tools exist for specific purposes. The noun “sex” suggests that we use “sex” for something. Sex can produce pleasure, power or babies. But couldn’t it exist for itself? Fixating on ends removes us from the present. Even if we get what we want, the intricacy of sexuality in real life differs from the ideal.

Sexual behavior becomes a treasure hunt, with “sex” as a prize. In our society, the practice and symbols of patriarchy insist that men earn this prize and women keep it. Sex as a gendered transaction is dangerous. Because they find self-worth in possessing the sex object, many men have abused and commodified women. Language is one of many factors that cause sexual violence. Diction influences action.

In both speaking and writing, “to have sex” feels wrong or inadequate. Sometimes, it’s the most acceptable phrase. But “having sex” makes awkward writing. Sometimes, only “fucking” works.

“Fuck” is a beautiful word. It’s mildly shocking and taboo, but still comforting and familiar. “Fuck,” like what it signifies, is universal, even if it doesn’t belong in polite conversation. “Sex” ends on an “x.” The word constricts its speakers, cuts short. “Fuck” is an expression. It can be the sudden outburst of a stumbling pedestrian or the drawn-out sigh of a student remembering an assignment. According to Woody Allen, “Sex releases tension; love causes it.” Let’s revise that: “sex” makes you inhale; “fuck” lets you exhale.

Linguistic and semantic details may seem insignificant, but words structure our societies and define our identities. The most common words often hit the hardest. When writing, I struggle with third-person pronouns. “He,” “she,” “s/he” or “they” can affect an entire paper. Language is identity. Words let us find and express ourselves. No intercourse is isolated—language and sexuality are related processes of self-discovery—social context creates meaning, and words create context.

“Fuck” is egalitarian. “He” can fuck “her,” “she” can fuck “her” or “we” can just fuck. Even if we can’t define “sex,” we intuitively understand “fucking.” It’s the label that we need, and it defines itself. So forget about having sex. Control the language that controls you. Relish the verb, not the noun, the action, not the object and the fucking, not the sex. In the words of Afroman: “Fuck on the bed, fuck on the floor. Fuck so long you grow a fucking Afro.”

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