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the b-side
Thursday, October 27, 2016 — 3B
“
You’re an English major?
Well … what are you going
to do with that?”
Ah, I see. You’re relying on
notions of practicality
rather than considering
the
true
reasoning
behind why I study
what I do. That’s not
wise.
If
I’m
going
to devote my life to
something, it might as
well be something I’m
passionate about. I’m
not really interested
in the idea of earning
higher salaries in the
future or leaving college with a
more applicable and competitive
degree in the workplace.
Recently, I’ve been motivated to
think more about the purpose of
the humanities after a discussion
I had in one of my classes the
other day. We were talking about
budget cuts across high schools
and colleges all over the country,
grappling with the fact that the
first departments to be cut from
these institutions are, of course,
the humanities.
The
highest
post-college
salaries come from degrees in
engineering, computer science,
mathematics and the natural
sciences. Surprising? Probably not.
Our conversation in class started
to develop into one I think is worth
sharing.
What is the accessibility of
our work in the humanities?
That is, are the products of our
departments, such as literary
theory,
research,
language,
books and art understood by
populations
across
academia?
As a class, we pondered the idea
that maybe, for people outside
humanities departments, there’s a
divide simply because of a lack of
understanding.
Of course, if I were put in an
engineering course, I would not
have the slightest idea of what I was
learning. It’s a foreign language to
me. Granted, while discussing the
value of an engineering degree,
it’s not as difficult to figure out
how it could be used. There are
plenty of companies interested in
hiring students who
are well-educated in
that particular field.
From discussions I
have had with people
about the study of
literature and what
an
English
degree
provides in general,
I get the sense they
don’t
know
what’s
really happening in
the world of language
and literature.
The stereotype of a humanities
student
is
one
that
carries
around a lot of books all day and
is almost always writing essays.
That is fairly true, but there are
dimensions
of
meaning
that
I think no other departments
capture more fully than the
humanities. Recently, I heard
a student say that studying the
humanities is, in essence, getting
closer to the idea of what it means
to be human. In addition, we
understand our history more
clearly, as fundamental human
nature across time is, for the
most part, about the same. The
discussion
sparked
my
own
questioning of why people might
be missing the value of what
humanities is doing in an academic
setting, thus justifying sources of
funding to be reallocated to other
places. If people don’t understand
what is being produced from
departments that study humanity,
they aren’t going to recognize the
purpose.
The heart of this discussion
comes
from
understandings
of
rhetoric.
Merriam-Webster
defines this term as “the art or skill
of speaking or writing formally
and effectively especially as a way
to persuade or influence people,”
which I think, in a lot of ways, is the
central goal of my study of English.
We decided in class that rhetoric is
determined by culture. How are
we, as a culture, as a people and as
individuals, using our language to
persuade and instigate change?
Understanding
language
through the medium of writing
is also essential, as writing works
as an effective tool in almost
every profession. Often, students
who aren’t familiar or interested
in
humanities
courses
are
discouraged by how sophisticated
they feel language has to be used
to appear “intelligent” or for
writing to be considered “good.”
For the many who are not sold
on the idea that departments in
the humanities are worth the
investment, classes focused on
exploring the complex realms of
language, both foreign languages
or concepts with English, are
generally cut.
The idea of taking classes “for
a job” is baffling to me. The value
of learning is being hidden, or
perhaps replaced, by the need to
“train” for post-grad life. Students
are being molded into a product
that will be of high demand
in the workforce, rather than
developing a mind that is able to
think, question and challenging
existing ideas. It occurred to me
that if a department is cut because
it is considered irrelevant, the
foundation that learning is built
upon will start to break down.
Passion and interest lie on
one side of the spectrum, with
employability and competiveness
on the other. What remains
between both extremes is what
one decides is our purpose at
an institution such as this one.
Learning how to do a certain
job is not as important as simply
learning how to learn. My study of
English literature and language is
capturing the human experience
— one that in any job, with any
degree, must be understood.
Kadian is walking to class with
a bunch of books. To offer to carry
them, email bkadian@umich.edu
Is my major useless?
COMMUNITY CULTURE COLUMN
“What in the world are you gonna do with an English major?”
BAILEY
KADIAN
NETFLIX
Midnight Diner Dreams of Sushi.
Sometimes the best stories
take place in the most unlikely
places. This principle provides
the foundation for “Midnight
Diner,” the new
Japanese language
Netflix
Original
series
centering
around
Meshiya,
a small restaurant
tucked away off
the main streets
of
Tokyo,
its
proprietor known
as Master (Kaoru
Kobayashi,
“The
Great
Passage”)
and the patrons
who find themselves there
between midnight and 7 a.m.
when the restaurant is open.
And it’s during those hours that
the most compelling stories
are revealed about the show’s
miscellaneous characters.
The sympathetic Master has
only pork miso soup and a few
drinks on his menu, but will
make anything his customers
order as long as he has the
ingredients. Like his menu,
customers get more than what
they see when they dine at
Meshiya. Both regulars and
newcomers
alike
converge
at the small, almost hidden
location under the pretense of
a simple late-night meal. But
Master serves up his meals
with quiet comfort — exuding
an aura that invites customers
to share their stories with him
and with us.
Under the warm auspices
of Master, customers divulge
information about themselves
that they otherwise wouldn’t.
Perhaps it’s the sense of home
that’s cooked into his meals. We
first learn about them through
the food they order — a culinary
treat to behold in itself. As the
food sizzles over the stove,
the same sense of comfort
that
draws
in
his
customers
washes
over
us. The food is
served up with
the stories.
It
isn’t
so
much an action
or
pressing
challenge
that
spurs the story
as it is a chance
encounter
between
two
customers,
facilitated
by
Master’s
quiet
acceptance
and the restaurant’s intimate
atmosphere. Their individual
stories intersect at Meshiya,
where
the
true
narrative
begins.
While
the
series
itself
lacks meaningful action and
structural variety, it makes
up for it in heart. The premise
appeals to our basic humanity
— the feeling that we are
understood
and
welcomed
somewhere. That somewhere
is Master’s diner, which serves
as a character itself. The lone
counter encloses Master in his
kitchen, where he is surrounded
by his customers. They interact
with the diner as they would
with another character, sharing
their innermost thoughts and
feelings. As they go about their
lives, they continuously return
to the diner where their actions
and
experiences
are
given
meaning and context.
A taxi driver and former
actress encounter a radio host
one night in the first episode.
At first, the two have nothing
in common, as most strangers
do, but the woman orders an
unusual dish that strikes his
curiosity and he begins to dig
deeper into her life, uncovering
a past she wished to forget.
The understated emotion with
which the two characters touch
one another’s lives is reflective
of the significance of a series
like “Midnight Diner,” in which
the focus of the series is not
on the characters themselves,
but on how their serendipitous
interactions shape each other’s
lives.
It may not be the most
exciting series. The story and
its action unfold primarily
through the dialogue, making
for lulls in the narrative’s
development. But this allows
for
moments
of
poignant
commentary and specific detail
from the characters that bring
to life the awareness we often
lack for those around us.
Despite
the
cultural
specificity of “Midnight Diner,”
the series touches on a concept
that is familiar to all: food
and comfort. That’s probably
why the series was adapted
from the bestselling Japanese
manga series Shinya Shokudo
by Yaro Abe and later adapted
into a film directed by Joji
Matsuoka. There’s something
both compelling and accessible
about food that brings the wide
variety of stories in “Midnight
Diner” within reach of its
audience.
While
customers
come and go, Master, his diner
and his food remain a constant
— anchoring the series’ stories
with harmony and compassion.
SHIR AVINADAV
Daily Arts Writer
‘Diner’ serves up Japanese culture
A-
“Midnight Diner”
Episode One
All Episodes
Available to Stream
Netflix
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
It’s a bold move to name a
debut album 4 4 with track
titles like “Koh-It-T Us” and
“D a H J A” and it takes an
even more talented singer-
songwriter to deliver.
Marz Léon does just that.
An alternative R&B artist,
Léon released her nine-track
album in late August with the
intent to describe her personal
experiences
and
emotions
through a universal lens. In
an interview with The Fader,
Marz stated, “4 4 resembles
my guardian angels protecting
me
through
my
struggles
and helping to give me the
willpower
to
continue
to
pursue my passion, everything
that I love, and battles in
my life.” Since then, the Los
Angeles-based solo act has also
recently directed, edited and
released the music video for
her latest single, “S O R E E,”
herself.
4 4 opens with “Bipolar,”
an emotional and electronic
ode to heartbreak. With a
steady, satisfying bass line,
the first track leaves no stone
unturned with direct lyrics
like, “Heaven’s waiting for you
/ Don’t put him up there / Put
me up, don’t take him up,” and,
“You’ll leave me drowning in
your poison / Don’t leave me
open.” Léon lays everything
out on the table and segues
seamlessly
into
“D.Frncs
Interlude.”
The interlude is eerie and
less musically invested as it is
a reflection on Léon herself.
She speaks, “Perhaps / This
is the moment / When you’ve
been chosen / To lead an
army of broken soldiers / To
lead a group of sheep / Into
the lions’ den.” She preaches
parables to her listeners about
individuality, leadership and
personal
accountability.
It’s
powerful, short and makes
a lasting impact early in the
album.
“D a H J A” follows with
heavy vocals and dramatic
drumbeats
that
resonate
throughout
the
body.
Layering her own voice and
interchanging it with breathy
gasps adds a sensual element to
an otherwise steady song. The
bridge is strong and quick as
Léon sings, “Pretend that you
don’t hear me / Only I can feel
me / Now I’m thinking clearly /
Got to keep moving on.”
The second half of the album
strays towards synthetics with
“P a R a D I Z E.” Combining the
ringing of bells and electronic
elements
with
an
acoustic
guitar juxtaposes the sounds
that Léon works to incorporate
throughout
the
album.
“Strangerz” slows things down
and allows Léon to showcase
her vocals. It’s a response to the
opening “Bipolar” that spoke
about heartbreak and betrayal.
“Strangerz” reminisces on first
encounters and young love as
she sings, “We were strangers /
‘Til we became one heart.”
4 4 doesn’t just appease
Léon’s
existing
fans
—
it
pushes her into mainstream
listening. As she steadily gains
popularity, Léon will soon
reach more people than anyone
thought possible.
CATHERINE BAKER
Daily Arts Writer
Alternative R&B artist Marz Leon
has a new album that you’ll love
‘4 4’ will appease existing fans and push her into the mainstream
“4 4 resembles my
guardian
angels protecting
me.”
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
On almost every road trip I’ve
taken with my dad, whether it
was a 20 minute drive to a soc-
cer game, or a ten-hour trip from
Ann Arbor to Philly, I can always
recall listening to Bob Dylan’s
greatest hits. The six-set edition
sat on the floor of my dad’s CRV,
always an arms length away.
Without looking, my dad would
deliberately tell me which CD to
put in and which track to play, as
if he memorized the set list. The
moment the pluck of Dylan’s gui-
tar rung the speakers of the CRV,
my dad would be singing along.
I would sit in the passenger
seat, staring out the window, lis-
tening to Dylan sing the words to
“It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleed-
ing)” and “Subterranean Home-
sick Blues.” Quite frankly, I never
thought much of it.
“Now this is the original rap
… not like that rap crap your gen-
eration listens to now,” my hip-
pie father would tell me with a
chuckle. I knew his words were
earnest. I questioned how this
white dude from the ’60s could
be considered a “rapper,” but the
words of love, advocacy, protest
and peace rattled in the car, and
I was genuinely intrigued by
Dylan’s music.
Little did I know, this “white
dude from the ’60s” would be
the first ever songwriter to win
the Nobel Prize for Literature in
2016.
If I had only known how influ-
ential Dylan would be in both the
music world and the literature
world, I would have paid more
attention during the makeshift
studio sessions in our CRV. But
with Dylan winning this award
and, of course, me being more
mature, I could not help but go
back and genuinely listen to his
lyrics.
Recently, I sat on the floor of
my best friend’s bedroom. Noah
played “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m
Only Bleeding)” on his speaker
— a song I have not heard since
I was riding in the car with my
dad. The nostalgic words became
meditative as Noah and I sat
there in silence. We listened to
Dylan preach an introduction in
his rough singing voice:
Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s
balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too
soon
There is no sense in trying.
These lyrics might not reso-
nate with everyone. However,
from a writer’s perspective, these
words sunk into my ears as if I
were at a poetry reading. They
lingered,
provoking
intuitive
thought, meaning and feeling.
Since the announcement of the
award, I have been listening to
Dylan on repeat, not just because
I enjoy his sound, but also
because I hear his lyrics as prose.
I think of those car rides with my
dad and how insignificant they
felt at the time. But now, as an
aspiring writer and an avid music
listener, Dylan’s style has begun
to shape the way I see the cross
pollination of musical lyrics and
literature.
Regardless of my dad’s notion
that Dylan is a rapper, there is
no doubt in my mind that Dylan
is a writer. Yet, I question: If his
lyrics can be considered a prema-
ture style of rap, then can we con-
clude that rap is a form of poetry?
And does this apply to all forms of
rap, meaning that rap is a form of
literature?
Maybe that theory is a stretch,
but looking at Dylan through
this lens opens up a brand new
outlook on musical lyrics. Early
folk artists like Simon & Garfun-
kel or Woody Guthrie created
music that might also be seen as
some style of prose storytelling,
but where does that leave con-
temporary musical artists?
The argument with my dad
over rap could continue, with me
telling him that there are actu-
ally great rappers and artists
nowadays including some of my
favorites: J. Cole, Frank Ocean
and Kanye West. But the genera-
tion gap between my dad’s music
era and mine will probably never
unite.
The real answer here lies
within how we define literature
and whether or not musical lyr-
ics, despite the genre, can be
defined as literature. At the end
of the day, my dad and I could
definitely put Dylan as an early
marker for original poetic com-
position, even if he wasn’t a rap-
per. But what I have found most
profound are the barriers that
Dylan broke, the controversy
that will reside with his Nobel
Prize and the outlook on future
awards for literature and song-
writing.
ERIKA SHEVCHEK
Daily Arts Writer
Is Nobel Prize winner Bob Dylan a
rapper? My dad thinks that he is
Some hippies say the legendary folk artist was an early hip-hop pioneer
After Dylan won
the award, I had to
go back and listen
to the lyrics.
It’s all about the comfort food in Netflix’s new original series