I first ran into Omar when we were both little monsters at a Lady Gaga concert. Tightly wrapped in chains and fluorescent yellow Caution tape, Omar’s enthusiasm and joie de vivre drew me towards him. He told me he was a 19-year-old film student at the Columbia College of Art who loved art in all its forms, and who hoped to make it big. The confidence with which he spoke made me believe that Omar knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life, and how exactly he was going to do it.

But what I didn’t know was that Omar was facing a dilemma. Months prior to the concert, he had begun questioning if he loved film enough to continue, or if he should pursue his ultimate dream: A career in fashion. Torn between going through with his original plans and taking a leap of faith, Omar was trying to sort out his innermost desires and understand the consequences of whichever option he chose.

Since then, the little monster has become a fashion star. During a summer gathering in July, Omar ran into 21-year-old Gordana Rasic, founder of Chicago-based GOCA Designs. Inspired by her drive and creativity, Omar made the trip to the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign that weekend where he and Rasic discussed designs and planned their first event: a show at the RAW Artist exhibition.

It was there that Omar met Kristen Miccoli, an up-and-coming photographer based in Chicago. Impressed by her work, Omar and Rasic invited Miccoli to collaborate on photoshoots featuring Goca’s collections. Miccoli’s introduction was, according to Omar, the key to GOCA’s initial rise as she demonstrated the professionalism necessary for the label to gain respect and credibility.

Now Omar, as Vice President and Creative Director of GOCA, has made fashion a lifestyle. Between attending classes as a full-time student and spending time with his family, Omar is always on the run. Whether he’s brainstorming designs for GOCA’s next collection or booking events and venues, the little monster I know journeys all over Chicago, living his dream even if the going gets tough.

But Omar’s used to tough. Originally from California, he was born into a family of 5 brothers and 2 sisters. Omar’s parents, both immigrants from Mexico, worked night and day to provide for their children. The family lived in such dire circumstances that Omar’s mother made a point of locking the fridge so no one would be tempted for a snack. Despite the harsh conditions, the Villalobos siblings did learn many hard-earned life lessons, especially about hard work and appreciation.

“If we were good, every week [my siblings and I] would get 25 cents for allowance money, which we’d use to buy toys at the flea market that treasured for such a long time,” Omar remembers. “We earned them out of pure hard work, and when you live like that you learn to grab onto every opportunity and never let it go.”

The same philosophy drives Omar to leave home at seven or eight in the morning, only to return at eight or nine at night. His weekdays are packed with classes, homework, and meetings. Weekends are reserved for events, mixers, and shoots to put GOCA’s name out in the open. It’s an exhausting lifestyle and Omar’s had his fair share of crises, but he does everything to make sure his dreams come true and so his hard work for GOCA is noticed.

“Even when you’re too tired to stand, you need to find some kind of energy within to attend all of these events. Not just to find new talent, but to also meet people,” says Omar. “All industries revolve around networking, but especially creative fields like fashion because it’s so hard to become a big name. You have to find models, photographers, and more.”

“I’m so grateful to have met the people I know. I don’t see them as acquaintances, I see them as good friends of mine and that’s how I want to keep it.”

Omar’s ability to build such a team has contributed to his success, especially in the wake of social media marketing. The rise of social networks like Facebook has levelled the playing field in the fashion industry. Now, professionals and amateurs alike can post their creations online for all to see, making them more accessible.

The result, according to Omar, is that talent alone isn’t enough. In a world where designers are easily discovered, success demands “60% talent, but 40% network”. To keep up with the competition, designers have to become a jack of all trades and learn skills – especially those related to marketing and business – outside the creative realm.

“Most of my work is actually administrative,” explains Omar. “I obviously still need to design, but if I wasn’t business-savvy I wouldn’t be very marketable.”

“It’s honestly a balance of creativity and personality; you have to be willing to talk to everyone and do everything that is asked of you. If you aren’t up for learning more than how to design, then you won’t be able to keep up with everybody else.”

So far, that philosophy has done well for Omar. In the beginning of October, Omar and Rasic were selected to present their collection at Latino Fashion Week where they received rave reviews. To top it off, GOCA was featured in the Spanish-language newspaper Hoy, testament to Omar and Rasic’s hard work and entrepreneurship.

As GOCA becomes more prominent on the fashion scene, so too does Omar’s personal emphasis on teamwork. But aside from Rasic, Omar also refers to support from a more personal source as instrumental to his success: His family.

The fact that Omar’s parents even supported his foray into fashion is huge given their familiarity with poverty. Their encouragement demonstrates the amount of trust and belief they have in Omar, motivating him to continue working hard. Though one of Omar’s main goals is to transform GOCA into a fashion powerhouse, his ultimate dream is something very different: To one day tell his parents that they no longer have to work.

“Both my parents have been working since they were 16 to support themselves and their families,” Omar tells me. “One day, I want to be so successful that I can look at them and say ‘you don’t have to work anymore, I can take care of you so go relax and enjoy life.’”

In Omar’s eyes, nothing would make him happier than to see his parents break free from their hardships and not have a worry in the world. Following the end of Latino Fashion Week, Omar got a glimpse of this dream when he presented a copy of Hoy to them.

“After a couple really busy months, I finally came home. My parents were sitting in the kitchen and I placed the newspaper on the table in front,” says Omar. “There was this moment of silence as they stared at the copy; I wasn’t sure how they would react.”

“Then suddenly, my mom comes over and gives me a hug. And then my dad stands up and does the same. To me that meant more than words. My dad is a very reserved man who doesn’t really express his feelings, so to see his eyes water when he realized that his son’s designs were on the front page of a newspaper…well, that was one of the happiest days of my life and I hope there’s more to come.”

Keeping that memory in mind, Omar currently spends his day planning GOCA’s next big show in March and an additional show with the University of Chicago. The events never seem to end, signaling the start of a busy year for Omar and GOCA. But despite the non-stop commitments and continuous morning to night workdays, all that matters to Omar is that his dream is very much alive.

“Before meeting Gordana, I never thought things could work out this way,” says Omar. “I thought I’d spend years in school and then graduate working very small jobs for fashion labels with no guarantee that I’d get far. That’s how it usually is, and that’s what I thought my future would be.”

Clearly, if there’s one thing the little monster has learned it’s that anything is possible.

Check out GOCA Designs at www.gocadesigns.4ormat.com. For more updates, follow Omar on Twitter at @PapaGOCA and Facebook.

The sauce flavors come from different culinary traditions, like Indian curries or Mexican chipotle. Spicy Buffalo, Jerk Honey BBQ, Sweet and Spicy Plum and Cosmic Curry each offered distinct pleasures. Though I am not a huge fan of buffalo sauce, their version is buttery, smoky and spicy. The honey jerk bbq was delicious, sweet but not cloying and with a hint of heat. Cosmic Curry was spicy and savory, almost like a reduced panang curry. The flavor is addictive but you can’t eat more than a couple at a time (unless you prefer the spicy things in life). Sweet and spicy plum was a bit bland, but it was pleasant anyway.

My first visit whetted my appetite for more flavor, so I was excited to go back and try a different set of sauces. I liked the honey jerk bbq enough to try three more jerk-based sauces: fire jerk, mango jerk and honey jerk. Fire jerk sauce was delicious, with an intensely peppery bite. Mango jerk had little mango chunks and a fruity aroma, and the taste delivered a tropical punch. The honey jerk sauce was distinctive because it filled my mouth with the fragrance of honey and only then delivered a kick of jerk spices. I was disappointed by the forgettable sesame sauce, which was a boring version of Korean sesame chicken.

If you want the full experience, you have to order the fries on the side. The fries were addictive, with subtle seasoning that can only come from being fried in the spice-laden chicken frying oil. A combo, with ten wings, fries, and a drink, comes out to $7.99 before tax (only a dollar more than just wings!). WATW also makes shrimp and fish in all the flavors, and though I have not tried it myself, I hear good things about the fish in particular.

This is a take out only spot, so ambiance is non-existent. The employees are friendly and helpful enough if you have questions. You will probably want to drive there and I would recommend going at night since traffic would make it quite the journey. Thankfully they’re open until at least midnight every night except Sunday, and until five in the morning on Saturdays. So after a long night of studying, find a (designated) driver and snap up some wings to boost your energy. Call ahead and order, or wait there if you do not mind the pervasive smell of fried food.
Wings Around the World, 510 E. 75th St. 773-483-9120. flavorstoinfinity.com

Each sandwich comes with homemade potato chips in Cajun BBQ or Parmesan Chive flavors while the menu also includes salads, sides and all the regular campus café drinks and pastries. All sandwiches are served on fresh French bread that has the perfect balance of crisp and chewy, a necessity in a neighborhood where only the bread differentiates sandwich shops.

On separate occasions, I have ordered the roast beef and roast turkey subs from their selection of about ten sandwiches. The roast beef sandwich was tasty, with flavorful tender beef, caramelized onions, horseradish and Dijon mustard. I could have done without the roasted red peppers that also came on it, but overall the sandwich was tasty.

Similarly, the roast turkey sandwich with honey mustard, cucumbers and brie spread was fresh and light, yet satisfying. Although I would have preferred real cheese instead of spread. The meat was juicy and thickly sliced and contrasted well with the thin ribbons of cucumber. It reminded me of an English tea sandwich.

The chips that come with every sandwich are savory and addictive. Usually I don’t like barbeque chips, but these were salty, spicy and smoky without the fake hickory taste. The parmesan version is good but I think I’ll stick with BBQ in the future.

The sandwiches come out to $6.05 including tax and chips, making them a good deal. Unfortunately, the shop only takes cash so come prepared lest you miss out on this hidden sandwich gem.

The Folklore Society, an organization of University of Chicago students, ran the Folk Festival. “We are the longest running RSO on campus,” said Spider Vetter, stage manager of the Festival. While there was an audience present for the opening night of the Festival, it wasn’t a large one. “We had a lower attendance number, probably because of the snow,” said Vetter. However, compared to the Festival’s turnout during the blizzard of 1967, the turnout was a good one. “The blizzard of 1967 happened during our 7th Folk Festival and no one came except for Buddy Guy,” said Vetter.

This year’s Folk Festival had all of its performers but one present. Byther Smith was scheduled to play on Friday night, but he ended up not showing. “He seems to have gotten lost. It was worrisome trying to find out what happened to him,” said Kate Early, publicist for the Folk Festival. Despite Smith’s absence, his three-member blues band played on, with Billy Flynn leading them on electric guitar. Either way, the crowd seemed to enjoy the performance, staring with entranced looks on their faces while listening to the deep, soulful blues, or nodding their heads to the upbeat, swinging dance music the band played. The band featured songs from CDs they produced such as “Billy’s Blues” and “Blues in Love”.

Representing the South side of Chicago were the Evening Light Brothers, an a cappella group from the Church of God at 46th and Drexel in Chicago. Singing religious tunes and traditional gospel music, the Evening Light Brothers were an opening act that definitely got the crowd excited. The six members of the Evening Light Brothers poked fun at each other as soon as they stepped on stage in their Sunday suits, looking as if they were about to sing for mass, joking and laughing, creating a comfortable atmosphere. As the group began singing, they encouraged the audience to clap along. Pretty soon the whole crowd was bobbing their heads, dancing in their chairs, and clapping the rhythm (or trying to) to the gospel tunes. The Evening Light Brothers took their name from a verse in the scriptures, and told the audience, “Our hope is to light up someone’s life”. Friday night their goal was achieved, as everyone was smiling and clapping to the Brothers’ music.

Another Southsider who performed at the Fest this year was John Williams, a fifth time returnee to the Fest. However, this Festival was a little bit different for Williams. “I’ve never played on a Friday. It’s also my first time soloing here. I’m usually part of a quintet or trio,” said Williams. On Friday, Williams was a one-man band, switching off instruments between songs, and sometimes during. Williams performed on a concertina, button accordion, piano, and the Irish flute. Playing traditional Irish music, Williams filled the gaps between pieces with some history about the Irish tunes. Creating dance music on his accordion with crescendos, accents, and suspenseful rests between beats, Williams’ foot could be seen tapping to the beat while he moved his upper body, as if dancing, with his eyes closed in concentration and passion. Williams also played lighter songs, such as the “Perdition Piano Quintet”, a tune he wrote for the movie “Road to Perdition”. Williams did not want to leave the stage, as his response to the “five minute warning” was, “I got a parking spot in Hyde Park, so I’m gonna play some music”.

At times humorous and at times heartbreaking, Unveiled brings to life the stories of five Muslim women through the voice and body of one – Rohina Malik. A Chicago-based playwright and performer, Malik is a Muslim-American who immigrated to the United States from London when she was fifteen. She takes fierce pride in her South-Asian heritage and explores Muslim culture through her art.

Dressed in a dark dress and black hijab and armed with a powerful voice, Malik brought her performance of Unveiled to the University of Chicago on Wednesday, January 26.

In Unveiled, Malik inhabits five women and relates their encounters with racism, ignorance and hate in a post-9/11 world. Each woman brims with a distinct personality and a distinct story. She talks directly to the audience, breaking the barrier between speaker and audience, and offers them tea as an invitation into her story. The stories originate from both Malik’s personal experience and the experiences of other women.

In the first story, Malik is Maryam, a Pakistani woman who immigrates to Chicago and finds her love of art nearly destroyed by the racist jeer of one man. Fear and disbelief paints her face as he screams, “Take that shit off your head!”

“Silence is sometimes a crime… Your words, they have power.”

Throughout the play, the hijab plays a central role. As Shabana, a young rapper living in London, and Layla, a thirty-some-year-old woman personally affected by the terrorist attacks of 9/11, Malik fiercely defends each woman’s right to wear the hijab. Though a target of anger and hate, the hijab is each woman’s identity – a symbol of her devotion to her faith and culture – and to abandon it under the pressure of a paranoid world is to abandon her God. It is an act of weakness.
Indeed, Malik argues that it is also un-American.

Unveiled portrays both the best and worst of humanity, examining the hatred that cuts deeply into society, the resilience of the human spirit and the unyielding hope in all of us. “Silence is sometimes a crime,” Malik says as the mother of Noor, an Arab-American who is victim to a violent hate crime. “There is no shame in the truth. . . Your words – they have power.”

And that is the central message of Unveiled.

Malik aims to speak openly about the tremendous effects of 9/11 on Muslims and non-Muslims alike, bringing home the fact that we are all human. The only thing separating us is racism. Those who succumb to it are blinded by hate, fear and misunderstanding. But if we peel away those layers of darkness and remove the veils from our hearts, we will discover a new power within ourselves: The power to love, to forgive, and to understand.

“Four hostile newspapers are more to be feared than a thousand bayonets.”
— Napoleon Bonaparte

Bylines in Iraq are matters of life and death. As “the long war” — as it is increasingly labeled by the Pentagon — grinds on past its fourth anniversary, foreign correspondents and their local colleagues live in an environment of fear and intimidation. Sebti, an Iraqi reporter for the Washington Post, who, like many locals, does leg work for Western journalists, said in an interview for Dangerous Assignments, a journal of the Manhattan-based Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), that he is placed in “double jeopardy” by his occupation. Insurgents view him interchangeably as a “spy,” “infidel,” and “profiteer.” He has little doubt about what will happen should his cover be blown: Since 2004, he says three translators for American firms living in his neighborhood have been murdered. Sebti refuses to divulge his occupation to neighbors, and his paranoia compels him to take different routes to work every day. What would ordinarily be considered extraordinary circumstances for any stateside reporter are commonplace for media workers in Iraq.

On May 29th, CBS News correspondent Kimberly Dozier was injured, and her camerman and soundman were killed, by a car bomb that exploded while they were traveling with a U.S. military convoy. After three months of being held hostage by Iraqi insurgents, freelance reporter Jill Carroll was released unharmed on March 30. Sadly, the fate of dozens of other journalists who shared Ms. Carroll’s misfortune tends to resemble that of Steven Vincent, another kidnapped American freelancer who was murdered along with his translator in August 2005. Since the commencement of hostilities in Iraq over three years ago, 97 media workers have been killed. Such circumstances are by no means unique to Iraq. Journalists occupy an increasingly precarious position, working in a post-9/11 world fraught with transnational terrorism, geopolitical uncertainty, and governments intent on controlling the information to which its population has access.

Though reporting is a hazardous occupation, the trends of the past two years are particularly alarming. For journalists, 2004 was the most dangerous year over the past 20 years: 53 individuals died on the job. Despite a decrease in the overall number of deaths in the industry in 2005 (47), the proportion of media workers that were murdered rose to three-fourths from two-thirds the previous year. This tally doesn’t take into account instances of kidnapping, imprisonment by authorities, or forced closures and intimidation of media outlets. Countries on every continent are involved in restricting and intimidating the press, including two of the world’s largest: China and Russia.

China’s government may have embraced free-market capitalism and opened its economy to the outside world, but the authorities still maintain a stranglehold on their population’s access to information. Internet access to news is filtered with the convenient aid of Google, and undesirable articles bring serious repercussions, as evidenced by the imprisonment of New York Times researcher Zao Yan since 2004. Endemic rioting across the Chinese countryside, such as the December 6th, 2005 demonstration in the village of Dongzhou, where clashes between security forces and protestors led to the deaths of at least three people and the arrest of 13 more, is downplayed in the state-controlled print and broadcast media. Currently, 34 reporters are being held by China’s government, two-thirds of the 125 reporters worldwide who have been thrown in prison for their activities.

It was because of my hair.

After spending 2 years growing out my hair, I let 10 inches of it be chopped off in a matter of seconds. Its destination: Locks of Love.

Locks of Love is a non-profit organization that creates custom hairpieces for children suffering from chronic hair loss. This hair loss can be due to a number of diseases, including alopecia areata, scalp burns, and cancer. In many cases, children lose not just their hair, but their self-confidence and ability to resume a normal childhood as well. By providing them with wigs, Locks of Love creates a pathway toward normality and acceptance.

Locks of Love began its operations in the garage of a Florida nurse and has since grown into a nationally renowned charity. Using hair from willing donors, the organization receives up to 2,000 individual donations a week.

As much as 80 percent of the hair, however, is deemed unusable because it is gray, too short, or otherwise damaged. Unusable hair is then thrown away or, more commonly, sold to wig manufacturers to offset the charity’s own manufacturing costs. Many people view this transaction as a scheme for personal gain.

The charity’s efficiency has long been a topic of controversy. Since its inception in 1997, Locks of Love has produced around 2,000 wigs total. It reports receiving up to 2,000 donations per week, but up to ten ponytails are needed to create one hairpiece, according to its website. Theoretically the charity should be producing 10,400 wigs a year, or 135,200 wigs to date. Even if the difficulties of a new charity and the amount of unusable hair are taken into account, there is still a noticeable dearth in the number of wigs produced.

One cannot help but wonder, where is all the hair going? Perhaps more importantly, where is all the money going?

Locks of Love does not produce wigs. Rather, it sends donated hair to Taylormade Hair Replacement, a manufacturer in California, and pays $1,000 for hairpieces that normally retail for $3,500 or more. Locks of Love then sells those hairpieces at discounted prices to disadvantaged children. It is a costly operation that sustains itself by selling unusable, and perhaps usable, hair at a profit. Whether the charity is selling just enough hair to offset costs or more for profit is a question yet to be addressed.

Financial suspicions aside, there remain many assumptions about the charity that prove to be false. Most cancer patients, for example, cannot apply to Locks of Love, as their hair will grow back. Instead, Locks of Love primarily serves children suffering from alopecia areata – an autoimmune disease that damages hair follicles and results in continual hair loss. Also, wigs are not normally given for free; rather, they are sold on a sliding scale, based on the recipient’s ability to pay.

It was amid this maelstrom of doubt that I chose to donate my hair to Locks of Love. I do not know if my hair will reach the children for whom it was intended, but Locks of Love has made a very real difference in hundreds of children’s lives, and regardless of bad press and abounding skepticism, I choose to believe in the charity’s ability to help that small percentage. I choose hope.

Try this as a little experiment: turn on the TV or a major news website. What do you see? Chances are, you are witnessing Kate Gosselin cry on TV, Tiger Woods return to golf, or the latest reality TV show that wants to turn YOU into a star. Usually, you don’t follow such programming (I know I don’t). But now that you’re sitting in front of the TV, you ask yourself, what do all of these things have in common?

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the inability of the middle-class American to keep up with their own dreams of financial stability in the midst of skyrocketing inflation, wage stagnation and a new apex of social inequality and wealth distribution. These words aren’t mine—they’re iterated and proved by economists and analysts much more qualified than I. But more poignantly, in the ashes of the mortgage boom, and in today’s weak economy, the American Dream has changed. Arguably, the sublime mediocrity we were seeking in the middle of the last century—the home in the suburbs, the white picket fence, the housewife greeting her working husband with an apron and a tray of frosted cupcakes as he walks in after an hard day’s work—has been glossed and whitewashed over by much shinier ideas. And some of those ideas involve lights, cameras, and action.

For a case in point, I give you the most popular television show on TV for the better part of the decade, American Idol. With ratings easily in the Top 3 since its debut (see Nielson TV ratings for exact quotes), and given how much TV the average American watches (up to 8 hours a day, also according to Nielson), there’s no question that mainstream TV can give us some leads on the pulse of the American psyche. One day, as I myself contributed to this statistic by watching an old episode of auditions online, there was something one (somewhat desperate) contestant said in front of the judges that really grabbed me. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, and when asked why he was so nervous, he said something along the lines of, “Well, look at this. All these lights and people. And here I am in front of you, in the Kodak Theatre. This is the American Dream!” One judge agreed (who happened to be Ellen DeGeneres). “It absolutely is,” she said.

And he wasn’t the only one. I can’t tell you how many others auditioning said they were doing this “for their family”, or “to give their children a better life”. One heart-wrenching story, from a father of an autistic child who was auditioning, had the hope that, maybe if he went far on the show, he could finally afford the proper medical care for his son. The point is these weren’t just musicians or thrill-seekerswaiting for their big break. They were pastors and oil-rig workers. They were ordinary Americans, and some of them were out of ideas.

Perhaps there was a time when fame and fortune were sought by those trapped in small towns, or dreadful jobs like Marilyn Monroe at the factory assembly line. But in our age of live fast and die hard, something tells me that time is over.

Call me old-fashioned and naive, but I thought the American Dream was about one thing, first and foremost—work. Just unglamorous, unadulterated work, and the idea that you proved yourself through it.

“I can’t believe this is happening! It’s real!” Idol contestants would say, over and over again. It may be happening, for a short while, but as most of these people are bound to find out, it is far from real. How did we get here? How did the get-rich or die-tryin’ mentality come to represent the American Dream? While there are no easy answers, the TV will always give us some clues. And some of those clues tell us that we’re starting to mortgage too much of what we’ve built for a few minutes under the blinding lights of second-rate stardom. And when those lights do go off, we come to realize that the theatre we stand in—the one where we’ve attempted to pursue our narcissistic desires—has been empty all along. Maybe, I think, it’s time we start on a journey that is about more than just ourselves.

Many students at the University of Chicago will never leave academia. We recognize that one day, we may be sitting in our TA’s chair and (if we’re lucky) standing behind our professor’s podium. However, to get there, we need to publish… and publish… and publish. The question becomes, publish what exactly?

The “major” questions have been written about extensively, but more obscure research questions have the danger of being irrelevant. So one has to choose, either follow the well beaten path and risk repetition, or go out on a limb and risk triviality. I reference mainly the humanities, but the fundamental issue applies to all academic fields. Topics which are considered important seem stale. But by avoiding those topics, they may never be resolved.

I recently encountered a perfect example of this conundrum at a Shakespeare Conference in downtown Chicago. At the beginning of April, Shakespeare scholars from around the globe gathered in our Windy City for three days of presentations, workshops, and seminars. University of Chicago Shakespearean legends, David Bevington and Richard Strier, were in attendance. And, by the good graces of the lovely ladies of the Shakespeare Association of America, I too was able to indulge my passion for the Bard, despite my lowly undergraduate status. While wandering the halls of the Hyatt, overhearing conversations in the ladies room, and watching weary PhD candidates struggle to look engaged by the speakers, I found myself intrigued by the people around me. There seemed to be a divide between the current generation of established scholars and their protégés. As the day wore on, I grew increasingly confident that such a divide existed. Finally, when I sat in on a seminar on the sonnets, an intergenerational interaction flared up and highlighted the underlying difference between the established members of the field and those who were still working to join them.

The seminar consisted of eleven academics, aspiring to advance their status in the field of Shakespeare scholarship, who responded to a simple prompt: “Shakespeare’s Sonnets in Context.” Their papers varied greatly in topic, from an examination of the notion of justice, to a discussion of how to teach sonnets in the modern high school classroom. Some papers were focused on form, such as one that examined the role of the couplet. Others took more content driven routes, including one that discussed imagery that combined imagination and physiology. Altogether, it was a whirlpool of scholarship steeping in Latinate words, and I was drowning in it.

Now, I have read all the sonnets. I have even read literary criticism on all of the sonnets. And yet, I was feeling sheepishly lost until the discussion was opened to the entire room and an elegant and assertive silver-haired lady softly posed the question: “Why did none of you choose to broach the historicity of the sonnets?”

Of course, context need not be historical context, but I wondered the same thing. Why had none of them chosen to write on the traditional questions of context? The central mystery of the sonnets revolves around the identity of the Young Man. Was he real or merely a fictional subject? Were the sonnets an honest expression of love (or at least obsession) by our favorite poet or merely another demonstration of his creative genius? When one considers the sonnets and context, historicity is the burning question.

However, not a single seminar participant chose to broach it. And a member of the older generation wanted to know why not. Did they consider the question answered? No, they did not believe the field had come to a consensus. Did they not find the question interesting? No, they denied that as well. Of course the Young Man’s identity was of interest. What was it then?

Slowly, as they responded with their gingerly phrased answers, I gathered that it came down to a desire to distinguish themselves. While they recognized that the question of historicity was important, they felt that the conversation had already happened.

They felt pressured to contribute something “new” to the field and in their eyes new meant different. It is easier to contribute something “new” if you skip over the questions that scholars have spent generations teasing out. Why bother asking the obvious?

At this, I bristled; the silver-haired lady did as well. The question of historicity and the Young Man’s identity is important. It is unavoidable in any study of the sonnet sequence. Just because the question has been asked before does not mean it should not be asked again and again until it is answered. Is that not the purpose of academia? To have each generation of scholars approach the same questions until we can approximate answers to the unanswerable?

Of course, generating new questions is important as well. But I object to the trend of carving out a piece of academic real estate so obscure that no one can challenge it. Sure, no one will contest the findings, but no one will utilize them either. Especially with a thoroughly studied topic such as Shakespeare, if no one has already asked the question, it is likely not worth asking. If no one has answered the question, the greatest contribution one can make is to attempt to answer it.

So I pose this challenge to the aspiring academics here in Hyde Park: try to answer the difficult questions, the questions which have lost their gloss, the questions which have been agonized over by minds more well-stocked and agile than yours. Don’t flee to the frontier, but pitch a tent and battle for the heartland. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

Every once in a while, and especially in this great city of Chicago, you’ll hear someone talking about the American Dream—on the subway, in a café, at Saks Fifth Avenue. You’ll hear it manifest in many forms, ones which may not seem very obvious at first, but will all, upon reflection, inevitably touch that tireless optimism that refuses defeat or surrender. Here are some entirely fictional, entirely plausible, scenarios:

(Middle aged family man on L) My daughter got accepted to NYU, and she really wants to go, but it’s obviously much more expensive than a state school. Lets out a sigh. Things are really tight now at work and his wife Sharon is pregnant, but how do you say no to your daughter’s dreams? No, we’re gonna figure this out. Maybe a second mortgage.

(Girl on cell phone at Saks) Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. I want that Chanel bag. No, I need it. I definitely need it, so I’m buying it. Just look at it, it’s so cute. My creditors are going to kill me, but, ugh, screw them. I hate creditors, they’re so lame.

(Iranian immigrant speaking to a friend at neighborhood café) Yes, of course there are challenges to life here. Of course you miss home sometimes, your mothers cooking, all of that. But in America you can be…whatever you want. The idea that you can let go of all your fears and disappear into the crowd. Such a thing could only happen in this country.

Make it work. Don’t say no. You are what you do. There’s something incredibly refreshing about the kind of perseverant let’s-eat-our-cake attitude Americans have, one that I personally haven’t been able to find anywhere else. And yet, there’s something very sinister happening to their dreams, and (at the risk of sounding melodramatic) it’s happening as we speak, rumbling beneath our feet.

Now, I’m not a historian, but by all accounts, all the American history professors I know would agree that at the end of Second World War, things were good for American families. Now, these families are likely white and wearing very starched clothing. I realize that. I say this with full acknowledgement of the many faults of the social order of the time when it came to women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights, and the anti-smoking lobby. That said, the 1950s may seem slightly drab, if not incredibly hokey time to live, where the most subversive thing one could find was Elvis gyrating his hips to “Hound Dog”, but consider this: A family could own their own home and live comfortably on only one parent’s full-time salary, send their kids to college when college was still affordable under said one-parent income, and taking care of one’s own arm and leg didn’t cost an arm and a leg.

Well, 60 years later, and things have changed profoundly. I’m not an economist, but if you can show me how, over the last 30 years, wages haven’t remained virtually flat, inflation on an unrelenting rise, and health care and college tuition (two of the most significant expenditures for the middle class family) absolutely ballooning, I’m gonna have to – to quote President Obama – take a look at your math. And neither of us would want that because I’m actually not very good at math. Put that with figures of distribution of wealth, and the picture gets a little scarier.

Since the 70s, the wealthy have been getting wealthier, with the result that now, in 2010 income inequality is at an all time high, even trumping the Great Depression (this is a study conducted by an Economics Professor at USC).

This is something I’ve been thinking about for a while now, and I think the question that intrigues me most of all is, what now? What do do-or-die, don’t-fuck-with-me Americans who don’t have Van Goghs hanging in their Madison Avenue penthouses have to say now?
Well, as it turns out, they’ve got ideas of their own. Stay tuned, folks.