2B — Thursday, October 29, 2015
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
By now it was dark out, the
entrance sign illuminated by a
string of lights. It had rained
earlier that day and lone clouds
still hung in front of the bright,
nearly full moon; it was the
kind of night you’d expect were-
wolves to transform — and that’s
not an exaggeration. It was hard
not to take the ominous hint and
begin worrying again.
It suddenly dawned on me that
it may not have been the best idea
to tell all of the actors we were
reporters.
The main area was a large field
that resembled a movie set: a ticket
booth, haunted house, a ghoulish
tree for photos and a food trailer
glowing yellow, all dispersed along
the edges. With half an hour until
the trail opened, we naturally
headed to the snacks: cider for
$1.50, cider and a doughnut for
$2.50. The actors, all teenagers
with painted faces, were gathered
there, too.
A
freshman
from
Eastern
Michigan University, dressed as
Frankenstein, said he enjoyed
working at the Terrorfied Forest;
it was a good weekend job. He was
able to spend the money he made
from scaring willing individuals
and save what he made from his
day job.
Frankenstein said he’s never
scared when he’s in the forest
waiting for passersby. I under-
stood this more later when I
walked through — as the trail is lit
by red lights — but at the time, I
was skeptical.
Young girls with caked-on
red cheeks and freckles said
they worked in the Fun House,
which people could pay extra to
go through before the trail. They
said that some people are scared,
some flirt and many crack jokes.
The nun said she had heard all the
“nun puns” in the book. The most
common: “I’ll have nun of that!”
People of all ages began arriv-
ing. By the time we left that night,
the parking lot would be full. The
actors explained that the week
before Halloween was peak week
for the haunted trail: costume
parties had only just begun, but
people were in the spirit.
Lights Off
A single doorframe, propped
up like the forgotten remains of a
burned-down building, marked
the entrance to the Terror-
fied Forest. A costumed woman
stood in the shadows as Emma
and I approached, her smeared
white makeup catching the glow
of the orange lights overhead. In
her hands was a hatchet.
“Are you two with a group?”
she asked. Maybe I imagined it,
but she seemed to smirk at the
question, her charcoal-rimmed
eyes glinting. If the smokey-eye
look was intimidating on a nor-
mal basis, this chick took it to a
whole new level.
“Um,” Emma said, stalling.
Survival tip number one: Never
go alone.
We locked eyes with the
couple next to us, high school
kids on a Saturday night date,
willing them to take two col-
lege students under their wing
for the night. It was a low point,
but fear makes people do crazy
things, like sleep with the lights
on for a month after watching
a scary movie (this is why you
should never watch “Silence of
the Lambs”). Besides, we were
being practical — it’s all about
strength in numbers. No Uni-
versity of Michigan-educated
person would venture into the
creepy woods alone.
“Do you mind if we come
with you?” I blurted. The girl,
bless her, nodded enthusiasti-
cally, agreeing with our group
mentality or maybe just taking
pity on us. Her boyfriend gamely
agreed, possibly hating us for
tagging along. (Boys, take note:
A haunted forest is not a roman-
tic date. Your girlfriend will be
terrified, possibly crying, want-
ing to get out of there as soon as
possible. If you want a fun fall
activity, stick to scary movies
and pumpkin carving.)
At the entrance to a haunted
forest — a forest that the ticket
lady warned takes 30 to 40 min-
utes to travel through — manners
were not our highest priority. So
when the hostess told us to line
up single file to enter, we pushed
the boy to the front.
The door thudded behind us,
drowning out the woman’s cack-
le. “Don’t touch anything and it
won’t touch you back!” she said.
In nervous silence, we walked
along a narrow trail, guided
by hanging red bulbs on low-
slung branches. Leaves whipped
around our feet in tiny torna-
dos, hiding roots, making us
step carefully in the darkness
and ignore our instinct to run.
Though
my
awareness
was
piqued for any type of movement
— a sinister shadow lurking
behind a tree, the ominous snap
of a twig — I couldn’t help but
notice the beauty of the woods
in the nighttime. The moon was
nearly full, flooding the forest
with light; it was almost peace-
ful, being outside and away from
the bustle of campus.
For a while, there was no
movement. We kept walking,
winding through the woods.
We knew that there were about
80 terrifying employees waiting
for us in the forest — but where
were they? I started to enjoy
myself, thinking of our tour as
a midnight nature walk. This
would go great with some hot
apple cider.
Survival tip number two:
Never let your guard down.
As I peered around the bend,
a throaty snarl erupted from
behind a tree. A wolf-creature
sprung onto the path, half
crawling and jumping toward
our group. We screamed and
stumbled, running up a ramp
that led to a shed pulsing with
strobe lights.
The wolf-creature left us
alone, but the shed — and the
other makeshift shacks that
would follow it on the trail —
brought a new terror: the fear
of being in a confined space of
horror, with a lurking mon-
ster and nowhere to run. (In
“Silence of the Lambs,” this is
the situation that frightened
me the most; in the final scene
of the movie, detective Clarice
is unknowingly trapped in the
basement with Buffalo Bill, a
cannibalistic serial killer, with
the lights off.) At this point, the
four of us abandoned all formal-
ity, clutching each other’s shirts
as we entered the shed.
“This is the last thing I need
right now,” Emma said, groan-
ing. The room was filled with
swinging
black
tubes,
like
punching bags, their move-
ments warped and disorienting
from the blinding strobe lights
overhead. Everything was puls-
ing. We wove through the tubes,
gripping each other tightly, our
vision blurred and jaunty — was
that movement a person? Or
was it just us in here? — when a
stranger’s voice shrieked from
the corner of the room. He stag-
gered toward us, moving fast
and in slow motion at the same
time, his manic clown grin flash-
ing between the tubes. We bolt-
ed through the door at last, the
lights blinking behind us.
The trail became our friend.
It held its own horrors: red-
neck zombies jumped out from
behind a battered car, setting
our
eardrums
ringing
with
blows of their shovels on metal; a
deranged girl wailed and chased
us, her hands grabbing at our
ankles; a man with only half a
body was suspended in a tree,
screaming for help. Still, we pre-
ferred to be scared in the open
woods, where escape was easy
and the moon offered solace,
rather than be trapped in dark
haunted houses.
Survival tip number three:
Always bring a flashlight. From
its exterior, the final stop in the
Terrorfied Forest looked no dif-
ferent from the other shacks we
had walked through. We entered
the house cautiously, tugging on
each other’s shirts. The room
became a narrow hallway, a
twisting maze, growing steadily
darker and darker. Soon it was
pitch black; the only light came
from the ceiling, a tiny sliver of
moonlight, shrouded by leaves.
An eerie silence took over
as we walked in the blackness.
With one hand I gripped the
shirt of the high school girl, with
the other I skimmed the wall,
feeling for passages and corners.
“This must be what it feels
like to be blind,” Emma said,
behind me. Suddenly, a loud
smack from in front: we’d hit
a dead end. The high school
boy chuckled, brushing past to
backtrack. I tried to control my
breathing. If Harry Potter could
make it through the Triwizard
Maze as a 14 year old, we could
get our adult selves out of this
trippy house.
Finally, after what seemed
like hours of dead ends, we
found the back door. We spilled
out into the moonlight, laugh-
ing about the maze and the trail,
walking easily to the distant
glow of the ticket booth and
huddles of friendly faces.
Before leaving, Emma and I
posed for a picture with one of
the characters, holding signs
that read, “I wet my pants at the
Terrorfied Forest.” (Whether
this was true or not can’t be
disclosed.) We waved as we
walked back to the car, thank-
ing the staff, wishing ticket
holders good luck.
Somewhere in the woods, a
low snarl replied.
HAUNTED FOREST
From Page 1B
Dear Gillian,
I met two great girls. One of
them is from a different cultural
background; the other one shares
mine. On one hand, I like spending
time with the
girl
who’s
from
my
own
culture,
because
it’s
just
familiar
and
natural.
On the other
hand,
I’m
crazy
about
this other girl.
I fear that my
approach to win her affection might
be unsuitable to her cultural beliefs,
and I really don’t want to make
mistakes to ruin all the good feelings
she may have for me right now. I
don’t know how to proceed from this
point. Idefinitely do not want to be a
jerk who’s intentionally developing
relationships with multiple girls,
but I also can’t seem to make up my
mind.
Thanks Gillian!
— Force Awaken
***
Dear Force,
Without knowing the colorful
details of your culture differences,
which could be as slight as East
Coast meets Midwest or as
momentous as East Jerusalem
meets West Bank settler, it’s hard
to know how to guide you. Do you
need advice on wine selection
(never California with an East
Coast sweetie) or with how best to
fry falafel? Fortunately, the liberal
arts are overflowing with wisdom
on your situation.
Egyptian-American playwright
Yussef
El
Guindi’s
“Pilgrims
Musa and Sheri in the New
World” resembles your dilemma.
The play, which premiered in
2011, tells the story of Musa an
Egyptian
immigrant
working
as a taxi driver in New York.
Musa
finds
himself
choosing
between Gamila, his put-together
and proper Muslim, Egyptian-
American fiancé, and Sheri, an
American late-shift diner waitress
whose conversation lacks not only
a filter but an off button. The play
takes place in Musa’s bedroom
after a cab ride transitions into a
drink at his apartment. In Musa’s
personal pilgrimage of identity,
Gamila represents the sensible
and comfortable choice and Sheri
the
exciting
and
unfamiliar.
Sages have dispensed the advice
to “explore the unknown” since
time immemorial; it is said to
expand your horizons, broaden
your perspective and alter the rest
of your geometric assumptions.
Beware, however, of confusing
genuine
affection
with
the
excitement of novelty. You don’t
want to exoticize the girl’s cultural
identity and have it become the
locus of your attraction, which is
where Musa may have gone wrong.
Another pitfall to avoid is
chasing the forbidden for its own
sake. From Neanderthal-Homo
Sapien hook-ups to our globalized
world of 2015, love across ethnic,
racial, religious or even genetic
backgrounds
has
flourished
despite being forbidden (à la Romeo
and Juliet) or outlawed (e.g., the
anti-miscegenation
laws
and
constitutional bans on interracial
marriage of the several states). But
just as a book ban might briefly
increase sales without improving
the work, a love ban might
manufacture temporary attraction
without regard to its endurance.
Make sure you don’t just want it
because you can’t have it.
Another worry of cross-cultural
cuddlers is that they might be
judged by the less enlightened (As
any bat mitzvah’d girl can attest,
the first question out of grandma’s
mouth when you mention your lab
partner Jake, is: “is he Jewish?”
often with a follow up about the
charms of the medical profession).
Tevye, the patriarch in “Fiddler
on the Roof” — a book, musical
and film set in 1904 Czarist Russia
— like you Force, weighs his two
options on the one hand. And on
the other hand, when his third
daughter, Chava, announces she
is going to marry her Marxist-
Atheist (and in any event non-
Jewish)
lover
Fyedka,
Tevye
struggles
between
acceptance
and tradition (one making for
much a better refrain in musical
theater). “On the other hand, our
old ways were once new, weren’t
they? On the other hand, they
decided without parents. Without
a matchmaker!” Eventually, Tevye
runs out of hands and, despite tacit
sympathy for her inner strength,
cannot bring himself to accept his
daughter’s cultural rebellion.
The
Judeo-Christian
God
seemed more tolerant of marrying
a gentile back in the good Old-
Testament days. Moses’s older
sister Miriam questioned his
marriage to a “Cushite woman,”
which is translated as “Ethiopian”
in the King James Bible. The
woman interpreted to be his wife,
Zipporah, is described elsewhere
in the same way. In Numbers 12
the scripture reads “And Miriam
and Aaron spoke against Moses
because of the Ethiopian woman
whom he had married: for he had
married an Ethiopian woman.”
God then punishes Miriam with
a temporary bout of leprosy for
criticizing Moses’s decision to
marry outside of the tribe. Take
that, haters.
It is surely noble to be the
one to step up and tear down
anachronistic
boundaries
—
Moses, Chava, Romeo/Juliet (OK,
maybe not the Neanderthal …)
not only are true to their romantic
selves, but also advance the world’s
progress toward tolerance and
cross-cultural
understanding.
Likewise with the New York City
Ballet’s Arthur Mitchell and Diana
Adams, Black and white dancers,
respectively, in the pre-civil rights
era who kicked up a powerful stir
entangling limbs in their intimate
duet in Balanchine’s Agon. So
if your Force is Awakening for
the right reasons, you can take
your place among the great taboo
busters of history and the arts. But
keep in mind, Romeo and Juliet
killed themselves, Chava went
to Siberia and Moses was barred
from the Promised Land. And the
Neanderthal is extinct.
In Zadie Smith’s novel, “NW,”
the characters blend and layer
an array of ethnic, racial, socio-
economic and national identities
in an outer corner of London. A
central character, Leah Hanwell,
grew up poor in the North West
neighborhood with one English
and one Irish parent. Her husband,
Michel, is a French man of West
African descent who works as
a hairdresser. In the detached
stream of consciousness style of
the book, Leah muses about her
marriage in the objective third
person as she lay with Michel in
their bedroom. She compares their
physical beauties (“The man is
more beautiful than the woman”),
touches upon the history of how
they came together and what
they’ve learned since: “They were
married before they noticed many
small differences in background,
aspiration, education, ambition.
There is a difference between the
ambitions of the poor of the city
and the poor of the country, for
examples.” Here it was not the
obvious differences in upbringing
or heritage that differentiated
Leah and Michel, but qualities and
values that came out after knowing
and loving each other for a while.
So, my good Force, I’d advise
you first to read “NW,” because it’s
a great book. Next I’d say seek to
understand the differences between
you and the girl who shares your
culture and, conversely, look for
the commonalities between you
and your more seemingly foreign
love interest. As Zadie shows us,
connection is complicated. Don’t
let initial familiarity or its opposite
be the deciding factor, but get to
know each on a deeper level.
As
for
worrying
about
messing up the way you go
about courtship, FA, just be a
keen observer and ask questions
to learn how she interprets
different gestures or messages.
Guard well against pretending
to understand her culture when
you don’t have a superficial
clue. Have you seen in “I Love
Lucy,” the groundbreaking 1950s
sitcom, when Lucy conflates
the traditions of Mexico, Spain
and even Brazil in her hilarious
attempt
to
recreate
Ricky’s
happy
boyhood
surroundings
in his native Cuba? Differences
and
misinterpretations
make
for great comedy, but if you end
up with some ‘splainin’ to do,
don’t worry: The updated emojis
finally have faces along the full
spectrum of skin color and iconic
cultural references.
Send an email to DearGillian@
michigandaily.com describing
a quandary about love,
relationships, existence or their
opposites. Gillian will attempt
to summon the wisdom of the
arts to soothe your troubled
soul. We may publish your letter
in the biweekly column with
your first name (or penname).
CULTURAL CURES COLUMN
Dear Gillian:
Cross-cultural love
EPISODE REVIEW
When Gina Rodriguez cries,
I cry.
Never has this been truer
than the
second
season,
which
is as
absurdly
fast-paced
as ever. In
“Chapter
Twenty-
Five”
alone,
Jane Villanueva (Gina Rodri-
guez, “Filly Brown”) prepares
for her son’s baptism, deals
with Petra (Yael Grobglas,
“Reign”) getting pregnant
from her ex-husband Rafael’s
(Justin Baldoni, “Everwood”)
stolen sperm and balances
motherhood with her desire
to go to grad school, all while
still juggling two love inter-
ests who are impatiently wait-
ing for her to choose between
them. Frankly, the episode is
overstuffed.
Still, all the convoluted
plot mechanics melt away in
the final scenes, when Jane
reads a speech written by her
grandmother Alba (Ivonne
Coll, “Glee”). By flashing back
to show Alba and Xo (Andrea
Navedo, “One Life to Live”)
each reading the speech at
their own daughter’s bap-
tisms, the show emphasizes
the bond that Jane shares
with her mother and grand-
mother. It’s almost impossible
not to tear up as Rodriguez
cries delivering it.
Elsewhere, the show
remains refreshingly commit-
ting to upending drama ste-
reotypes, like keeping secrets
hidden. When Xo pushes Rog-
elio (Jaime Camil, “The Poor,
Rich Family”) away because
she’s jealous of his chemistry
with his ex-wife, Alba immedi-
ately slaps some sense into her
and forces her not to let petty
insecurities get in the way.
When Rafael finds out about
Petra’s turkey baster insemi-
nation, he tells Jane almost
immediately, and they find a
way forward.
For all of the self-awareness
and narrative efficiency that
“Jane the Virgin” has, though,
its real strength lies in that
final baptism scene. Playing it
straight and taking characters’
feelings seriously has rarely felt
so honest.
- BEN ROSENSTOCK
THE CW
B+
Jane the
Virgin
Season 2, Ep. 3
Mondays at 9 p.m.
The CW
GILLIAN
JAKAB