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Grammar matters: Dear Evan Hansen and the appeal of the passive voice

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         A wise woman (Rebecca Bunch from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend) once said “nothing was ever anyone’s fault”. The universe is a jerk. We are all just passive players in this large game of life, bent to the will and whims of the unknown forces of fates. We are traumatized and tired, and we should not be faulted for our blunders. Evan Hansen, the titular character of the popular musical by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, seems to be the perfect embodiment of this sentiment. The story of Dear Evan Hansen was comforting: Evan, just like us in at least some points of our lives, found himself in a mess of bad decisions that were not entirely in his control. Throughout the musical, Evan and those around him were all victims of their circumstances and traumas, and the musical established a soothing, hopeful tone that reassured both their characters and their audience that their pain and struggles were valid and understood. They used a grammatical tool – the passive voice – to bring about a sense o
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A dot Ham v A dot Burr: Narrative foils in the American dream of Hamilton: An American Musical

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            Always think twice before a murder. That was one of the most profound lessons Hamilton: An American Musical taught me. There is always a chance that the duel between you and your nemesis will become the climax of an internationally acclaimed musical. You will spend the majority of two hours and forty minutes narrating said nemesis’ life while simultaneously getting roasted to bits by the entire show. It happened to Aaron Burr, it might as well happen to you too. In the original Broadway show of Hamilton: An American Musical , the sets, colors, costumes, and songs to convey the juxtaposition of Hamilton and Burr’s belongingness on stage, as their presence symbolized the driving and hindering forces of the American dream. Hamilton as a character embodied the essence of the American dream: the idealization of an American society where everyone, despite their backgrounds and identities, can be successful with hard work and determination. This narrative is integral to the id
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The art of being different in Miss Saigon: Under colonialism, there is one acceptable way to be a woman of color - to die tragically

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Miss Saigon was one of the few musicals I got the (dis)pleasure of watching live. I didn’t cry a single tear. I was too busy being furious. Highly acclaimed as it is in West End and Broadway, Miss Saigon reeks of colonialism and white savior complex, a white narrative from and for white colonialism. Even though Kim and Chris are both set up to be different from the rest of the characters, their Otherness cannot be more opposing yet are strikingly similar. Kim was othered not only from the other Asian characters – shone by the light of purity, innocence, and femininity – but also from the audience whose sympathy she was supposed to garner. Chris was othered from the characters – as one of the only white men in the show – but he was one and the same with the people who are watching him. Kim is a virtuous character, but at the same time, she is a fallen woman. Her narrative ties neatly into the virgin–Madonna-whore complex, a complex born from the misogynistic idea that women can eith
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Things went unnoticed

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I.                    The maze behind school: She stood in front of “the maze”: an ancient labyrinth where hazardous traps guarded invaluable treasures. An adventurer, she had ventured into such place countless times, each escapade more dangerous than the last. She was used to battling powerful monsters and avoiding gruesome ambushes. She sneaked her way into the tight opening. Her pace quickened with the heavy footsteps of armed men. Ducking behind a big carton box, she put a hand on her chest and smiled excitedly. They were walking straight to her trap. Leaving the bandits tumbling after each other into a deep hole on the ground, she ran to the opposite direction.   By the time she rounded the final corner, she was panting, but not without a little triumph. Maneuvering her way around a heap of old logs, she squealed in ecstasy when the other side of the maze finally came into view. Her pace quickened and she started to run. With a half-giggle half-huff, she bust
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Stuck in a Box - Illustrated Diary of a Pandemic

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I.                     Introduction When talking about depression, Ann Svetkovich described it as “a state of being “stuck,” of not being able to figure out what to do or why to do it” (Svetkovich, 20). She also talked about the concept of an impasse: a state, mental or physical, that opens into anxiety, uncertainty, and generally a form of confusion and immobility. In the context of the current pandemics, the world is, in fact, in an impasse. With people staying at home, productions and life are put on a standstill without a guarantee when it will end. In contrast to an impasse is the idea of movement and creativity, defined by Svetkovich as a form of movement that   maneuvers the mind around an impasse, even if that movement seem backward or like a form of retreat. Creativity encompasses different ways to move and be functional in a world that does not allow the person to do so. For me, the impasse started when I got an email from Vanderbilt University on March 12 th , saying
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The invisible song

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The Invisible Song Yolanna lies awake. It is the same sound. Gentle. Steady. And calm. The sound of an invisible piano seeps through the wall of her bedroom, spilling into the silent dimness. It starts when she turns her light off, and has not gone quiet as the night droned on. Yolanna turns, now staring at the wall. Her finger thrums on the bedframe: tock, tock, tock – to the beat of the no-name song. Her eyes are heavy. And there’s a kink in her neck. She should sleep. But the invisible sound is there.  And Yolanna keeps her eyes open. ~o~ Boxes sprawl on top of the wooden floor, some opened, some tightly sealed. The house is barren, white walls and white blinds. The windows are closed, covered in a thin layer of dust. It smells like cardboard and abandonment.   “Achoo!” – She sneezes. And grimaces. – “Ugh.” “Bless you” – She says, just so that the studio apartment feels less empty. The front door is closed, and the sky is grey
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