From royal to, well, not royal
Carissa Wiens
It was incredibly energizing to spend my Sunday being excited about a historical event that wasn’t The Bachelor (which doesn’t really count). I had my PVR set to record Meghan and Harry’s interview with Oprah days before and had the wine chilling in the fridge for much longer than needed.
Even though I was originally looking forward to a good scoop of gossip from this prime-time interview, I quickly realized within the first five minutes that this historical event was nothing to be giddy and delighted about. It was a very serious event that brought to light the travesties that take place within the British royal institution.
Meghan and Harry tactfully shared about the pain they experienced being senior members of the royal family. The interview was shocking. It was heartbreaking. The hurt was very real, and I don’t think we should quickly move on from this. I think we should look at this interview as a victory in shedding light on the racism and highly problematic lack of compassion taking place within the royal institution and how the victims stood up for themselves.
Open seas and open roads: the real path to enlightenment
Steve Hartwig
I spent almost a week on Vancouver Island and regained my desire to get out of the city for good. In the city, I have to work hard to be present when I just want to get away. The world slowed down as the crowds and pressure cooker of the Lower Mainland faded away. While the timelines and expectations of family, school, and work were still present, the environment was so much more laid back, allowing me to sync with island time. The salty air brought back the freshness I miss while living pressed up against the mountains of the eastern Fraser Valley, inhaling the smog and stress of the city as it blows inland. I walked around the older, blue-collar town stripped of its industry and understood the importance of the family-run diner, boutique coffee shops, and locally branded clothing store. With the new normal of working and studying remotely, I have little reason to remain in the toxic city. I’m mobile and planning my escape.
Country music complaint
Chandy Dancey
I always thought I liked country music before I heard my boyfriend’s taste in it. (Sorry, honey.) Unfortunately, now I have to make a distinction: I love older country music and hate country-rock. Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, and Loretta Lynn are all oldies but goldies by my standards. I think blues and bluegrass are parent genres to country, and I love when they’re evident in any instrumental. It gives it that twang, baby. And twang isn’t sequestered to old-timey country music either; Orville Peck’s got plenty of it. Sure, the subject matter of old country songs is melancholic — mostly along the lines of, “Dang, my dog’s run away” or the ever-so-popular iteration of, “Dang, my baby’s run away.” But country-rock isn’t much better, what with its recycled lines about rural keywords like trucks, beer, and blue jeans. Country-rock is like the pop of country — it might be catchy, but it also feels empty.
Another aspect about country-rock that irks me is how it feels disingenuous. You have millionaire singers sympathizing with and pandering to the working class that they’ll never be a part of. Bo Burnham said it best in a country song he wrote for his comedy set, “I write songs for the people who do / jobs in the towns that I’d never move to.” Pop might be vapid, but at least pop stars don’t try to pretend they can empathize with a soulless nine-to-five or blue-collar concerns.
Finding pleasure
Andrea Sadowski
My resolution for this year was to learn how to love myself. I have struggled for years with self-confidence, self-worth, and self-love. I have constantly put my own pleasure, happiness, and care on the back burner, as these activities are not “productive.” As a Christian, I was often taught to put myself last and that God didn’t care so much about our happiness as He did our holiness. This year I am going to attempt to break these deeply ingrained beliefs by having as many “Fuck YES” moments as I can.
Pleasure doesn’t just mean having mind-blowing orgasms — that same rapturously ecstatic, euphoric, deliriously blissful feeling can be found through many different routes. Finding different topping combinations for homemade pizza has given me copious amounts of pleasure. (May I recommend topping your next pizza with a homemade pesto sauce, shaved brussel sprouts, artichoke hearts, and caramelized red onions.) It could look like hiking to the top of a mountain only to joyfully scream and jump around at the sight of a view so beautiful you want to tattoo the mountainous landscape on the inside of your eyeballs. Or even just laying in bed while spooning a charmingly chubby, purring cat and rewatching Bob’s Burgers for the fourth time fills me with pleasure. So, here’s to allowing more pleasure into our lives.
(Elyssa English /The Cascade)
Steve is a third-year BFA creative writing/visual arts student who’s been a contributing writer, staff writer and now an editor at The Cascade. He's always found stories and adventures but now has the joy of capturing and reporting them.
Chandy is a biology major/chemistry minor who's been a staff writer, Arts editor, and Managing Editor at The Cascade. She began writing in elementary school when she produced Tamagotchi fanfiction to show her peers at school -- she now lives in fear that this may have been her creative peak.
Andrea Sadowski is working towards her BA in Global Development Studies, with a minor in anthropology and Mennonite studies. When she's not sitting in front of her computer, Andrea enjoys climbing mountains, sleeping outside, cooking delicious plant-based food, talking to animals, and dismantling the patriarchy.
