Division of Arts and Humanities

Where are today’s Newton and Einstein?

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 14 May 2025 20:25:08 +0000

Where are today’s Newton and Einstein? Rachel Sauer Wed, 05/14/2025 - 14:25

Iskra Fileva

�山�� philosopher Iskra Fileva argues that the present time is one of great achievements without outstanding achievers

We produce nothing if not academic papers. There are millions of academics in the world, and every year, they publish millions of articles. Some of the new work is good—and some, very good. Yet it is difficult to point to anyone after Einstein who has done something outstanding, something likely to be remembered for centuries. I am not the first to observe that our time can boast no Darwins, Newtons or Galileos. It is as though humanity, somehow and for some reason, can no longer birth great minds. But why? Did our talent well run dry?

It may be supposed that in lamenting the current state of affairs, we compare, unfairly, the output of the last several decades to that of the rest of history. If you pick at random a past 70-year period and look at who the important thinkers were, chances are you won’t find anyone you have already heard of. Why should the last 70 years be any different?

Iskra Fileva is a �山�� associate professor of philosophy who specializes in moral psychology and issues at the intersection of philosophy, psychology and psychiatry.

My answer is that the relevant comparison is not between achievements produced over periods of equal duration but between achievements produced by equal numbers of scientists and other thinkers. While human history goes back centuries, according to current estimates, 90% of all scientists who ever lived are alive today. The fact that all the great ones may come from the ranks of the deceased 10% calls for an explanation.

Perhaps the answer is that greatness is staring us in the face, and we don’t see it. Or we refuse to see it. Marcel Proust suggested once that we are loath to call living people “great.” The reason he gave was cynical, but one that rings at least partially true: We don’t envy the dead, and it is easier to put on a pedestal those you don’t envy. I would add that the dead are not competition for awards and recognition.

There may also be a legend-like aspect to the idea of greatness, and legends require exaggeration and idealization unlikely to survive a reality check. Death helps mythmaking, here and elsewhere.

But some people in the past became living legends (think of Einstein), and at any rate, many scientists have passed away in the last several decades, yet it is difficult to think of someone who joined humanity’s Great Hall of Fame during that period.

Short attention spans

Let’s consider an alternative explanation of what seems like an intellectual-giants drought, an explanation that has to do not with envy but with desire for amusement. It is possible that our attention span has become too short for anyone’s rise to prominence to endure. We may not want to spend much time on a serious author, either. That’s a problem, because greatness status cannot be attained in a single day. Thinkers from the distant past benefit from having had generations of less-distractable people study their works. How well would the great of old fare if they came back to life?

That’s a fair question. Interestingly, Robert Musil, in his remarkable 1930s novel The Man Without Qualities, suggested that distractibility and desire for novelty would have made it impossible for people in his day and age to pay attention to Plato for more than a short period of time. If Plato walked into an editor’s office today, Musil writes, he would become an overnight sensation and receive multiple lucrative offers from news outlets. Perhaps one of his older works would be turned into a film. But the shiny new thing would lose its luster before long, even if that thing happens to be Plato. Musil writes:

“The moment his return had ceased to be news, however, and Mr. Plato tried to put into practice one of his well-known ideas, which had never quite come into their own, the editor in chief would ask him to submit only a nice little column on the subject now and then for the Life and Leisure section (but in the easiest and most lively style possible, not heavy: remember the readers), and the features editor would add that he was sorry, but he could use such a contribution only once a month or so, because there were so many other good writers to be considered.”

This prescient passage may capture the spirit of our time better than it captured Musil’s own. Yet I can’t help but think that Plato would continue to be seen as great if he came back now. His return would just, inevitably, cease to be news.

The puzzles are too difficult

Another possibility is sometimes suggested: Progress has become too difficult. The low-hanging fruit has been picked, and the remaining puzzles outmatch human cognitive capacities.

"Would any one person living today have come up with Newton’s Laws of Motion? With Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection? It is not clear," notes Iskra Fileva, �山�� associate professor of philosophy. (Charles Darwin seen here in an 1881 portrait. Photo: Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

But I don’t find this hypothesis compelling either, though there is something to it. Whatever is known tends to seem easier to discover than that which is not yet known. Would any one person living today have come up with Newton’s Laws of Motion? With Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection? It is not clear.

What, then?

I wish to suggest that we simply work differently from people in the past, and our modus operandi militates against individual greatness. We live in an age of collective incrementalism. We absorb—often thoroughly—the preceding tradition. As a consequence, the work we produce lacks the independence of thought and the unity that continue to impress us in Newton’s and Darwin’s work centuries later.

In addition, we collaborate. There are hundreds of people working together on particle accelerators, brain tissues and large language models or who jointly carry out experiments (and who team up with other groups running closely related experiments). Together, we could have come up with the Laws of Motion or the theory of evolution. It is just that no one is likely to have done it singlehandedly. If there are no lone geniuses, this is likely because no one is working alone.

But work is getting done. I suspect that while future generations may not know the names and legacies of anyone living today, the achievements of our time will attain intellectual immortality, just in a different way. Since new developments are likely to continue to absorb the preceding tradition, the future will contain the present. Our ideas will survive in the work of our descendants, but they will lose their contours. Future people will turn them into fertilizer for their own thoughts.

Life isn’t a movie script

Why would we want individual great minds anyhow? Perhaps we need to change the human psychological propensity to romanticize the idea of the lone genius (to which the Nobel Prize committee caters, insisting on giving the prize to individual scientists, not teams). Or maybe we can keep the idea but put it in its proper place. It is, after all, a trope that works well in certain kinds of fiction. We like legends and heroes. We just shouldn’t expect life to resemble a movie script.

I suspect, however, that when lamenting the perceived lack of great minds, we wish not simply for more intellectual giants but for more breakthroughs. We may relinquish the idea of the lone genius—or put it, as I suggest, in its place—but we cannot give up our desire for progress. And nor should we. What of that?

I note in response that the incrementalism of today is actually taking us farther faster than individual greatness would. There was hardly ever a time in human history when so much headway took place in a few decades as in the last few. The world we live in is vastly more advanced than the pre-internet world of my early childhood. (Ray Kurzweil went so far as to suggest that knowledge production doubles every 12 hours.)

One may thus invert the initial question and ask: How are we making progress so quickly if no one does anything outstanding? And the answer appears to be that a myriad of small steps counts for more than a few big leaps. It is a bit as though, instead of intellectual giants, we have something reminiscent of the sight gag involving three kids in a trench coat stacked on top of each other. What’s remarkable is that the trio advances more rapidly than the one tall adult. (Stephen J. Gould in Full House: The Spread of Excellence from Plato to Darwin argues, relatedly, that while no baseball player today has Babe Ruth’s batting average, the league’s average is no worse, because the median player today is better than the median player in Babe Ruth’s time. What goes for baseball players may go for scientists.)

Slowing progress?

Still, some worry that progress has recently begun to slow down. This is the final point I wish to address. If the observation is true, don’t we, after all, need some more geniuses?

I will make two points in response. First, collective incrementalism creates a situation in which breakthroughs may be getting undercounted, because they don’t look like breakthroughs: They don’t happen all at once. Each begins as a 1.0 version and takes multiple attempts, so no new achievement goes very much further than the preceding ones.

Second, even if the rate of breakthroughs is slowing down, it is at best unclear that what we need to accelerate progress is more individual great minds. Perhaps what we need, instead, is better incrementalism and a better incentive structure for scientists, one that creates conditions that favor bigger leaps forward. Working on those conditions may be our best bet. It may also be our only bet since it is at best unclear how we may possibly go about creating the next Newton.

But that bet is good enough. This is my final thought. There are great achievements without outstanding achievers, achievements behind which stand multiple people that are simply pretty darn good.

This essay was reproduced with permission from the Fake Nous Substack. Iskra Fileva is a �山�� associate professor of philosophy and hosts the Philosopher's Diaries blog at Psychology Today.

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�山�� philosopher Iskra Fileva argues that the present time is one of great achievements without outstanding achievers.

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‘Just being visible is an act of resistance’

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 13 May 2025 23:23:22 +0000

‘Just being visible is an act of resistance’ Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/13/2025 - 17:23

Collette Mace

In acclaimed new novel, �山�� Professor Stephen Graham Jones explores ideas of ‘what an Indian is or isn’t’

When horror author Stephen Graham Jones was teaching his graduate seminar on monsters, he made sure to have his class spend some time on The Lesser Dead, a vampire novel written by Christopher Buehlman in 2014. He remembers thinking, “What’s the point of anyone else writing vampires ever again, when Buehlman has already done it so perfectly?”

Nevertheless, he decided to try doing just that. The idea he started out with was a single image of a small church with a dwindling congregation. At the end of the sermon, everyone leaves except for “one Indian guy sitting in the back, staring at the pastor through darkened glasses and (with) a jaded expression,” Jones says. With that and his self-defined challenge to write a vampire novel that had never been done before, his recently published novel The Buffalo Hunter Hunter—widely hailed as a horror masterpiece—was dreamed into existence.

Novels like this, which are centered around Indigenous stories and values, are important for many reasons, says Jones, a �山�� professor of distinction in the Department of English. Specifically, he sees writing by Indigenous authors as a reminder that “we, Indians who shouldn’t be around anymore, are still here. Just being visible is an act of resistance.”

In his new novel The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, Stephen Graham Jones, a �山�� professor of distinction in the Department of English, centers around Indigenous stories and values.

Jones likes to play into the narrative that Indigenous people don’t always match up with the stereotypes forced onto them in post-colonial America. In fact, he employs stereotypes as a narrative tool often in his novels, including in The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. He uses his pastor character, Arthur, as an embodiment of what he perceives to be American ideas of “what an Indian is or isn’t,” and distorts these preconceived notions to further the novel’s horror.

He also plays with the ideas of stereotypes and performativity later in the novel, when a non-Indigenous character abuses his power and knowledge by pretending to be Indigenous himself. Jones says this event was inspired by the short story “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” by Rebecca Roanhorse, which also examines stereotypes of what it means to be Indigenous and how society tends to accept caricatures of Indigeneity—mostly because of the stereotypes we’ve been fed in the media all our lives, Jones says.

The irony in both Jones’ and Roanhorse’s work is that the actual Indigenous characters are cast aside and told that they are, in fact, the inauthentic ones.

Stories within stories

Another distinctive characteristic of The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is that it’s a nest narrative. Readers get three perspectives throughout the novel, beginning with the Native character’s stories, which are recorded in a journal by the pastor, Arthur, and then read by Arthur’s many-time-great niece, Etsy. “Etsy wasn’t originally part of the story,” Jones says, “but I found that I needed her perspective in 2013 in order to really probe where I wanted to in the story.”

That’s one of his favorite things about writing horror, Jones says: The stakes in horror novels are high, and readers often know immediately where the central conflict lies. This leaves room in the text to take a deeper look and probe who and what makes good horror, and why it makes us feel that sense of fear, disturbance or unease.

Jones likes to explore inner turmoil and complications within his characters. For example, he wants it to be clear from the beginning that Arthur’s definitely not the protagonist in the story, and yet he wants the reader to be endeared to the pastor from the first journal entry. This again plays with the idea of Arthur’s position and preconceived notions of being an American “everyman,” illustrating how Jones can flip stereotypes on their heads to create additional nuances.

Research was a big part of the conceptualization of the novel. Jones knew he wanted to have a location central to the buffalo hunts of the early 20th century, and through both travel knowledge and online research, he landed on the real-life Miles City, Montana. Miles City served as a multicultural hub at the time, where many trappers and hunters sold their trophies, most often beaver and buffalo hides taken from the nearby Blackfoot reservation.

Good Stab, the Indigenous man at the back of the church, hails from that reservation. Jones also discovered that there was a strong Baptist presence in Miles City in the early 20th century and positioned Arthur as a Baptist preacher for that reason.

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In acclaimed new novel, �山�� Professor Stephen Graham Jones explores ideas of ‘what an Indian is or isn’t.’

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Historian reflects on lessons learned 50 years after Vietnam

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 06 May 2025 13:30:00 +0000

Historian reflects on lessons learned 50 years after Vietnam Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/06/2025 - 07:30

Doug McPherson

The April 30, 1975, fall of Saigon marked the end of the Vietnam War; �山�� scholar Vilja Hulden discusses the war, its beginnings and what we’ve learned

Of all that’s been said about the Vietnam War, perhaps it was this in 1964 from U.S. Sen. Wayne Morse that still stings, even today:

“I believe this resolution to be a historic mistake. I believe that within the next century, future generations will look with dismay and great disappointment upon a Congress which is now about to make such a historic mistake.”

Vilja Hulden, a �山�� teaching associate professor of history, notes that a crucial misconception about the Vietnam War is that the conflict was pro-Western South Vietnam against Communist North Vietnam.

Morse was speaking about the Senate’s vote to adopt a resolution that authorized President Lyndon B. Johnson to take "all necessary measures" to repel any armed attack against U.S. forces in Southeast Asia.

A few months later, on March 8, 1965, U.S. combat troops landed in Vietnam. By the end of the war, more than 58,200 U.S. soldiers would be dead. Some 25 years into the “next century,” dismay and great disappointment abound.

How could this happen—why did the United States enter the conflict?

“This is probably the most hotly debated question regarding the war—and there’s no simple answer,” says Vilja Hulden, a teaching associate professor in the Department of History at the �山��, who teaches a class called The Vietnam War in U.S. Culture and Politics.

“The broad background is, of course, the competition with the Soviet Union over the allegiance of developing countries, but why the U.S. decided to go all out to back South Vietnam and eventually to send large numbers of U.S. troops is far from clear.”

Hulden’s theory: “That each decision was made in a sort of a fog of arrogance and wishful thinking; that is, ‘If we do this, then the problem will be off everyone's radar, and we won't have to do more.’ But every step took the U.S. further in, and once you have significant numbers of dead Americans, it’s hard to back out and say, ‘Oops, those soldiers didn’t really need to die. We made a mistake.’”

‘It’s Tuesday’

Still, in the 50 years since the fall of Saigon, which marked the end of the war, the United States has learned many lessons. One, of course, is that having more troops or superior technology doesn’t guarantee victory. Another: Congressional oversight is important. In 1973, Congress passed the War Powers Act to limit the president’s ability to commit U.S. forces without congressional approval. Hulden adds another key lesson: Avoid committing large numbers of American troops. Doing so, she says, will cause the American public to care about what happens.

A Vietnamese woman carries her sleeping son onboard the U.S.S. Hancock during Operation Frequent Wind, during which the U.S. military evacuated people from Saigon before it fell on April 30, 1975. (Photo: National Archives)

“The prime example of that lesson—besides moving to an all-volunteer military in 1973—is the first Gulf War in the early 1990s. Very deliberately, that war was fought using airpower almost exclusively and not … boots on the ground.”

One crucial misconception about Vietnam, Hulden says, is that the conflict was “pro-Western South Vietnam against Communist North Vietnam.” Instead, she says, it was a “complicated civil war” with many South Vietnamese backing the communist side and conducting guerrilla warfare in the south.

“Lots of South Vietnamese, and probably also lots of North Vietnamese, just wanted it to be over. Hence, the bombing of South Vietnam and the dropping of defoliants like Agent Orange to get rid of jungle cover the guerrillas found useful.”

Repercussions of the war for American veterans—even those without post-traumatic stress disorder (a term that Hulden notes many veterans hate because they figure a reaction to what they saw and did in Vietnam is not a disorder but a normal human response)—manifest in how they were affected by their experiences in many ways. “As one veteran put it, ‘The person who returns is not the same person who left.’”

Hulden adds that the repercussions in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia have been massive—most concretely in terms of birth defects and other problems related to Agent Orange exposure and continuing injuries from unexploded ordnance.

“A not-so-fun-fact: More bomb tonnage was dropped on Indochina during the Vietnam War than the U.S. Air Force dropped during the entirety of World War II.”

And finally, there was the repercussion of the American public losing trust in its government.

Hulden says that at the start of the war, people had “a large amount of trust in the government, but … when … the government was not being straight with the American people, the shock effect was much larger. As one of my students noted, ‘These days, if we’re told the government lied to us, our reaction tends to be a shrug. ‘It’s Tuesday,’ was how she put it. But that was not how people thought back then; they expected the government to be honest and reasonably competent.”

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The April 30, 1975, fall of Saigon marked the end of the Vietnam War; �山�� scholar Vilja Hulden discusses the war, its beginnings and what we’ve learned.

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Top image: A CIA employee helps Vietnamese evacuees into a helicopter on the U.S. embassy in Saigon on April 29, 1975, a day before the fall of Saigon. (Photo: Hubert van Es/UPI)

Degree finally in hand, dancer leaps back onto �山�� stage

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 01 May 2025 22:11:47 +0000

Degree finally in hand, dancer leaps back onto �山�� stage Rachel Sauer Thu, 05/01/2025 - 16:11

Tim Grassley

�山�� alumna Jessica Fudim was two courses away from graduating in 1997; 26 years later, she’s earned her degree

When Jessica Fudim left the �山�� in 1997, she was two courses away from graduating. Despite being so close, she felt stuck in an unhealthy cycle of signing up for and withdrawing from her final degree requirements. Something needed to change, and she decided it needed to be her studies.

“I’ve learned as a parent, you can only do so much and sometimes you have to cut something out or make something smaller on your plate,” she says. “So, I went to the safe space of being near my parents (in California). But I felt a hurt in my heart about it.”

Fudim went on to have a vibrant career as a dance performance artist, creating and performing original work across the United States. An entrepreneur and, with her husband, a parent of two kids, she owns and operates two businesses: Jessica Fudim Dance and Jessica Fudim Pilates. Despite her successes, her unfinished degree felt like a shadow—an unresolved experience that she privately grieved.

Jessica Fudim portrays Medusa in her dance-theater solo "Venomous." (Photo: Peter Ruocco)

Fudim is not alone. �山��’s Office of Data Analytics notes that each year, an average of 23 students who needed to enroll for only one or two semesters return after five years or more to earn bachelor's degrees. Despite the relative frequency of people returning to the university to finish their graduation requirements, it still felt to Fudim like an impassable hurdle. Then, in spring 2024, after exchanging emails with �山�� friends, faculty and staff, Fudim decided it was time for her curtain call.

“My kids are 12 and 14, and I do feel like I want them to see me finish. I want them to know that I did that.”

A college experience across state lines

Fudim (DnceBFA’24) grew up in Sonoma County, California, where she developed a love for dance. In high school, her dance instructor, Lara Branen, invited Fudim and classmates to attend the summer-long �山�� Jazz Dance Workshop, which Branen co-founded. Many of Fudim’s classes were taught in �山��’s Theatre and Dance Building, including performances in the Charlotte York Irey Theatre.

Fudim fell in love with Colorado and �山�� specifically. “It was totally transformative for me,” she recalls. “It helped crystallize this knowing that I wanted to dance—that I am a dancer.”

After graduating from high school, Fudim enrolled at the University of California, Irvine, which she attended from 1991 to 1993. She didn’t feel at home in Irvine, though, and transferred into �山��’s Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) in dance program in 1994. There, she thrived and was often identified as an example student, full of talent and drive.

Unbeknownst to many of her classmates and faculty, though, Fudim’s balance of school, work and personal life began to fray from the outset of her education. While her father paid her tuition, Fudim at one point held three part-time jobs to cover her living expenses, including the now-closed Espresso Roma café.

“I wasn't living lavishly,” she admits. “I lived on beans, rice, pizza and free croissants from the café. I’m a worker bee by nature, but back then especially, I didn't do a good job applying my work nature in the right direction. I spent more time working at my jobs than doing my academic work.”

Because Fudim transferred from California, some of her classes from Irvine did not count at �山�� for credit. She found herself on a different graduation timeline than her peers in the BFA program, a social challenge that grew as more friends graduated and left town.

“I think I had another semester or two of work to do,” she says, “but I started to check out. I completed my BFA (capstone) performance, but I withdrew from some classes. I’m so embarrassed that I got Fs in a couple of classes. But I didn’t have the skills to know how to ask for help—to say, ‘I’m struggling and I’m not sure what to do next.’”

Fudim went back to California in 1997, hoping to complete her degree by finishing a few classes at a local community college. Those attempts did not work out. She also tried distance learning but withdrew. Eventually, Fudim moved on.

Medusa (portrayed by Jessica Fudim) with her children Pegasus and Chrysaor in "Venomous." (Photo: Kyle Adler)

“It felt like a bad break up. It felt sad—unresolved. I haven’t been back to �山�� since then.”

A phone call leading to an academic plan

After returning to California, Fudim decided to invest fully in her dance career and, over the next 20 years, experienced tremendous success as a solo artist and with her ensemble company, The Dance Animals. She held several dance residencies, co-directed The Experimental Performance Institute (EPI) at New College of California and, with the late Dwayne Calizo, co-produced, choreographed for and performed in the multimedia performance series “Crash Cabaret: Where Queers Collide” at San Francisco’s Roxie Theatre.

Her most recent solo show, Venemous, which reimagines the myth of Medusa, debuted to critical acclaim, and she considered bringing the show to Colorado and �山��. She initially contacted Erika Randall, professor of dance and a friend, about the possibility of creating an alumnus event.

After sending her initial email, though, she felt compelled to follow up. “I sent a second email that said, ‘I want to be transparent—I never fully graduated from CU. It's something that I've wanted to do, and I do feel really motivated at this point in my life to complete that degree. But I just want you to know that I can’t come to �山�� as an alumna. I'm not. I haven't graduated.’”

At that time, Randall was the College of Arts and Sciences associate dean for student success, and part of her duties as dean included overseeing one of the academic advising units that helps students return to �山�� and complete their degrees. Randall remembers reading Fudim’s email and decided to call.

“When we talked, she said, ‘I had no idea how much not finishing my degree had held a shadow over me and how much it would mean to finish it,’” recalls Randall. “I got really excited and said, ‘You should come back. You should come to our graduation. You should do the performance you had written to me about performing.’”

“That was definitely a turning point for me,” says Fudim. “She is so warm and genuine and so non-judgmental. It was this healing gift to just have her open her arms like that. I didn't even feel at that point that I needed to be courageous. It just felt like I was so excited to do it.”

Randall connected Fudim with Dawn Fettig, an experienced academic advisor with a deep understanding of �山��’s historic curricula and degree requirements. As part of her work with special populations, Fettig helps students figure out what courses they need to complete degrees.

To determine how close Fudim was to graduation, Fettig reviewed her transcripts, the university’s old “Permanent Record Card” and handwritten notes included in Fudim’s file. After combing through university documentation, Fettig recreated Fudim’s academic record.

“If I use the transcript as a chronological record, I can see what made sense for a student's progression in their degree,” notes Fettig. “For example, what might make sense for this student to take to complete the requirement? And is there a substitution?”

Fettig emphasizes that the college never waives graduation requirements, and she works hard to maintain the integrity of degrees the university confers. “The �山�� degree means something to our departments, to our faculty, to our staff and to our students,” says Fettig. “We figure out a way to look at their completed work and ask if it meets the spirit of the requirements as they were set at the time.”

For Fudim, this meant completing a geography requirement as part of �山��’s Minimum Academic Preparation Standards (MAPS) and a final departmental stage performance. Fettig found a course in California near Fudim’s home that would count for the MAPS credit. They also explored marking her degree’s stage performance requirement as fulfilled by her career experience and then substituting the required credit with another dance course she had completed at �山��.

“In Jessica's case, because her dance degree is a performance art, I did have to go back to the department and say, ‘This is a professional working in the field. I think she’s probably met this stage performance requirement,’” says Fettig.

What would Medusa say if she had a chance to speak for herself?

Jessica Fudim’s dance-theater solo, Venomous, looks at the classic Greek myth from Medusa's perspective and moves her story beyond that of a snake-headed monster.

What: Venomous

When: 6:30 p.m. June 5 and 6

Where: The Pearl Ballroom, 2199 California Street in Denver

Learn more

“She didn't have the class, but she has the experience. She also has other classes that we can use as a substitution” for the major’s requirements.

Together, Fettig and Fudim created a plan that fueled Fudim’s motivation to complete her degree. “Having someone who is in a position of knowledge like Erika and Dawn, who say, ‘Yes, of course you can do this. We have a way for you to do this. And this is awesome.’ I just trusted them—I believed them,” says Fudim. “It shifted my outlook.”

Graduation and healing

While Fudim did have the motivation to tackle her coursework, she still had to juggle a full schedule. “I have two kids and I run two businesses,” notes Fudim. “I do all of my own admin work, and my bookkeeping. My husband works the opposite schedule so that we can tag-team childcare. When I needed to study, I had to plan it.”

Fudim’s mother regularly covered childcare to make room for Fudim to complete her coursework. Many days, her family created a homework club in which they could complete their assignments around the dinner table. This reframed the time needed to finish coursework as an opportunity to connect through shared experiences. While Fudim is happy she received an A in her geography class, the grade plays only a small part in how this experience affects her.

Fudim officially completed her degree and graduated in fall 2024. The experience has widened what she believes possible, and she’s thrilled for fresh opportunities to continue making art, performing and teaching dance. Notably, she will return to Colorado this summer to perform Venemous at the 2025 Denver Fringe Festival June 4-8. While staying in Colorado for the show, she plans to visit �山�� for the first time since leaving in 1997.

“My dear friend and former CU Dance BFA classmate, Kate Weglarz (Thorngren) will be flying out for the show and to go walking down memory lane with me in �山��,” says Fudim. “I'm excited to return to my roots in Colorado, and to share where I am now as an artist.”

Finishing her degree brings a sense of resolution and a lesson in persistence. “I feel like the primary reason I completed my degree was to create healing,” says Fudim. “It wasn’t closure. It’s opened me back up.”

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�山�� alumna Jessica Fudim was two courses away from graduating in 1997; 26 years later, she’s earned her degree.

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Top image: Medusa (played by Jessica Fudim) welcomes the audience in "Venomous." (Photo: Kyle Adler)

Recognizing a century of boats against the current

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 23 Apr 2025 19:17:08 +0000

Recognizing a century of boats against the current Rachel Sauer Wed, 04/23/2025 - 13:17

Collette Mace

The Great Gatsby remains relevant for modern readers by shapeshifting with the times, says �山�� scholar Martin Bickman

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

The final words of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel, The Great Gatsby—published 100 years ago this month—are among the most known and appreciated in American literature.

Martin Bickman, a �山�� professor of English, notes that the intentional vagueness of The Great Gatsby helps readers of all generations connect with the characters.

And according to Martin Bickman, a �山�� professor of English, this line and the novel’s conclusion reflect the age in which it was written and neatly ends a novel that seems to capture the American psyche.

But why is The Great Gatsby considered the Great American Novel? Not because it’s great or because it’s American, Bickman explains—although it is both. This novel has remained relevant from generation to generation because it shapeshifts with the times, continuing to carry themes that Americans are bred to notice.

Questions of the American dream, wealth, class standing and ambition are central to American values in both 1925 and today. And while these themes look very different to the modern American, Bickman says the intentional vagueness of the novel helps readers of all generations connect with the characters.

To understand this, Bickman, a CU President’s Teaching Scholar who has taught a course called American Novel, cites “reader response theory,” a framework he emphasizes is critical in the study of literature. According to reader response theory, the reader of a text to take must take an active role in constructing the meaning within the text; if readers look only at a novel through the perspective of the author, that neglects much of the text’s meaning.

For this reason, no text can be interpreted the exact way by two different people. Readers approach texts differently as a result of their position in the world, and the experiences that have shaped them inform their understanding of what they read. The text then becomes a blank canvas for what readers project onto it, Bickman says

Seeing ourselves in Gatsby

What does this have to do with Gatsby? According to Bickman, the title character is just two-dimensional enough to serve as a perfect projection screen for readers of the novel. He’s mysterious, allowing the narrator, Nick Calloway, to cast his own assumptions about the world and the wealthy onto him, as well as vague enough to allow the reader to project their own internal thoughts and biases onto him.

As well as having characters that reflect the reader in personality and perceptions, The Great Gatsby also reflects classic American messages that are relevant today.

Because of his intentional ambiguity, Gatsby as a character can reflect what the reader thinks of many different things, including the elite, the rich and even the quintessential American dreamer.

This is how The Great Gatsby becomes a chameleon, remaining relevant in era, despite its age, Bickman says. As well as having characters that reflect the reader in personality and perceptions, the novel also reflects classic American messages that are relevant today.

The green light on Daisy’s dock, for example, represents the unattainable hopes for the future that stem from the inability to transcend the past. This feeling is still present, and most likely always will be in a country that believes in the possibility of a glowing future as long as we just work hard enough to get there—such is, in essence, the American dream, Bickman says.

It also showcases the all-to-frequent pain of the American dream. Although Bickman says the billionaires of today had no equal in Fitzgerald’s time, the uneasiness surrounding the callousness of the rich is on full display in Gatsby. Daisy, for example, named for the beautiful and delicate flower that Gatsby sees her as, is just as cruel and selfish as any of the men around her. She was the one driving the car, after all.

However, as she comes from “self-earned” money, and as someone who has seemingly “won” at the American dream, does she get a pass for her selfishness? In a way, she seems to, at least for the moment. And as time moves on, and the rich keep getting richer and the poor keep getting poorer, it seems that the original questions of whether the rich can be callous changes to whether the rich can be cruel—a key difference in how the world works, according to Bickman.

“It’s a real pathology now,” he says, “I mean, these people are cruel. The richest of the rich in the 1920s were nothing like today’s billionaires.”

So the lessons of The Great Gatsby remain relevant, Bickman says, suggesting that modern readers should take a deep look between the lines and wonder what Gatsby can show us about ourselves.

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'The Great Gatsby' remains relevant for modern readers by shapeshifting with the times, says �山�� scholar Martin Bickman.

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Top image: Warner Bros.

Holocaust victims to be memorialized on campus

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 16 Apr 2025 17:23:18 +0000

Holocaust victims to be memorialized on campus Rachel Sauer Wed, 04/16/2025 - 11:23

Holocaust Remembrance Day, or Yom HaShoah, to be observed by a public reading of the names of Jews killed in the Holocaust

Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, will be observed on campus again this year with a public reading of the names of European Jews murdered by the Germans and their allies during the Holocaust.

Weather permitting, the reading will take place on Thursday, April 24, from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m. at the Dalton Trumbo Fountain Court in front of the University Memorial Center.

The event’s organizers encourage the campus and broader communities to participate in the readings. Prospective participants may sign up here.

The U.S. Congress established the Days of Remembrance in 1980 as the nation’s annual commemoration of the Holocaust. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., which opened in 1993, leads the nation in observing Days of Remembrance and encourages observances throughout the United States.

Holocaust Remembrance Day

What: Public readings on Yom HaShoah

When: Thursday, April 24, from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.

Where: Dalton Trumbo Fountain Court in front of the University Memorial Center.

The main event takes place at the U.S. Capitol, often attended by the U.S. President. In Israel, the Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Day (Yom HaShoah in Hebrew) is a national day of commemoration on which the 6 million Jews murdered in the Holocaust are memorialized.

It begins at sunset on the 27th of the month of Nisan, the first month of the Jewish calendar, and ends the following evening, according to the traditional Jewish custom of marking a day. Established in 1953 by a law from the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, it falls close the anniversary of the 1943 Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.

The central ceremonies, in the evening and the following morning, are held at Yad Vashem, Israel’s official memorial to victims of the Holocaust.

During Yom HaShoah ceremonies in the United States, Israel and elsewhere, people read the names of Jews murdered by the Germans and their allies during the Shoah.

“The events of the Holocaust are given meaning only by remembering the individuals who died during that time,” Rabbi Sharon Sobel writes. “We gather as a community, we remember the names of those who died, and we affirm their lives by how we choose to lead our lives. So, names, indeed, are very powerful. ... we honor those who came before us and those who perished during the Holocaust by giving our names—and their names meaning through our actions and aspirations and the way we fulfill them.”

The �山�� event is presented by the Program in Jewish Studies. It is co-sponsored by the �山�� Department of History, Department of Women and Gender Studies and Center for Humanities and the Arts.

For more information on the Days of Remembrance and Yom HaShoah commemoration, please contact Professor Thomas Pegelow Kaplan, the Singer Endowed Chair in Jewish History, at thomas.pegelow-kaplan@colorado.edu.

“In our rapidly changing domestic and global political situation and the various devastating ongoing wars, especially in Israel and Gaza, these commemorations have again taken on yet a different meaning,” Pegelow Kaplan said.

“This event will also once more amount to a small contribution towards addressing charges of antisemitism (‘structural’ or not) that are still leveled against CU not only by right-wing non-Jewish and Jewish groups, but even by officials in or close to the federal government.”

Pegelow Kaplan noted that April 24 is also the anniversary of the start of the Armenian genocide, “and we will most certainly mention it and other mass crimes and mass death, especially in Gaza/Israel.”

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Holocaust Remembrance Day, or Yom HaShoah, to be observed by a public reading of the names of Jews killed in the Holocaust.

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Voices of the Andes: Sharing Quechua stories and culture through modern media

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 16 Apr 2025 14:21:08 +0000

Voices of the Andes: Sharing Quechua stories and culture through modern media Rachel Sauer Wed, 04/16/2025 - 08:21

Cody DeBos

In new audio storytelling project, �山�� scholar Doris Loayza works to preserve the traditional tales and lore of the Peruvian highlands

In the highlands of Peru, Andean cultures have thrived for millennia. There, Quechua, the most widely spoken indigenous language in the Western Hemisphere, is more than just a means of communication—it’s a medium of cultural heritage, stories and traditions.

As a predominantly oral language, Quechua has historically been underrepresented in modern media. To bridge this gap, Doris Loayza, a teaching assistant professor in the �山�� Latin American and Latinx Studies Center, is on a mission to preserve and revitalize Quechua storytelling. Her project, “Producing and Distributing Audio Stories in Central Quechua of Peru,” aims to capture the voices of Quechua speakers and share their stories with a broader audience.

Doris Loayza (center, brown jacket), a teaching assistant professor in the �山�� Latin American and Latinx Studies Center, is leading a project to preserve and revitalize Quechua storytelling.

By recording these stories in audio form, Loayza and her team aren’t just connecting with millions of native speakers; they’re also honoring the oral traditions that have kept Quechua alive for centuries.

“We have so much to share and contribute in our own language, because our languages are the repository of our knowledge and our ways of relating with the world,” she says.

Connecting heritage and modern media

Across the Andes—primarily in Peru, Bolivia and Ecuador, with smaller pockets in Columbia, Argentina and even the United States—some 8 to 10 million people speak Quechua. For Loayza, Quechua is more than just a language; it’s a connection to her heritage.

Preserving Quechua stories and traditions is deeply personal for her. Growing up in the central Andes of Peru, she learned the Central Quechua variety from her mother.

“I always loved hearing and telling stories in Quechua,” she recalls. “Growing up, we always listened to the radio, especially the local radio. Today, I still love radio, and now podcasts.”

While earning a master’s degree in Latin American Studies at NYU, Loayza focused her research on Quechua radio in the Andes and learned the Southern Quechua variety. After graduating, she discovered the Colectivo Quechua Central, a volunteer group of native Quechua speakers who publish an online newspaper to promote reading and writing in Central Quechua.

“I reached out and proposed the idea to make audio versions of their newspaper stories, focusing on local cultural topics like food and identity, and then sharing them in a podcast format to distribute to radio stations in the central Peruvian Andes and on social media,” she explains.

Grant supports language education

Doris Loayza, teaching assistant professor at the Latin American and Latinx Studies Center and affiliated faculty of the Center for Native American and Indigenous Studies, along with co-project directors Joe Bryan, Leila Gomez and Ambrocio Gutierrez Lorenzo, has won a two-year, $149,925 National Endowment for the Humanities grant to develop course modules and educational resources about Quechua and Zapotec language and culture as part of efforts to expand and strengthen the Latin American Indigenous Languages and Cultures program.

“The group welcomed the idea, and thanks to support from �山��’s Center for Native American and Indigenous Studies, we recorded the first episode this summer in Peru.”

The challenges and joys of storytelling

The lengthy process of recording and distributing audio stories in Central Quechua began with a discussion of where to perform interviews—and what to talk about. For the pilot episode, Loayza and the Colectivo settled on stories about tuqush, the Quechua word for “fermentation.” Tuqush also is an important traditional food in the central Andes, prepared from potato pulp or maize.

“We started in Lima, where thousands of migrants from the central Andes speak the language and are fervent consumers of tuqush,” she explains, “which is known as the penicillin of the Andes because it is a natural antibiotic.

“We got off to a great start because, during our first interview, we were eating tuqush while we were recording, which made the interview really intimate and enjoyable.”

She later traveled to Chavín de Huántar in Peru’s Ancash region, the site of one of the most ancient cultures of the Andes, to reconnect with members of the Colectivo and record nearly 20 more interviews.

“We have so much to share and contribute in our own language, because our languages are the repository of our knowledge and our ways of relating with the world,” says Doris Loayza of her "Producing and Distributing Audio Stories in Central Quechua of Peru" project. (Photo: Doris Loayza)

“One big challenge was finding time to get together because the members of the Colectivo have their own jobs and commitments where they live,” Loayza says.

The team also ran into some pleasant “trouble” when their arrival in Chavín coincided with the first day of a weeklong fiesta.

“I had just started an interview in Chavín when the brass band arrived,” she recalls. “Of course, we had to stop and dance with them at the entrance of the town.”

That wouldn’t be the only memorable moment of the trip. In her hometown of Llamellin, Loyaza interviewed the couple who rent her parent’s farm in the highlands.

“He told me that he still makes tuqush there, but that it was hidden because people used to steal it. He gave me instructions on how to find the site of a stream where potatoes were buried in a hole beneath the water,” she says. “I was excited to find this place on a hot sunny day in the highlands because it was on my father’s land. It meant a lot to me personally.”

After completing the interviews, Loayza and members of the Colectivo began editing the recordings and distributing them to local listeners.

“I learned so much about food, vocabulary and their storytelling style,” Loayza says. “The Andean people, especially Quechua women, are great storytellers. They are so proud to tell their stories.”

Sharing Quechua with everyone

With the successful launch of their pilot episode, Loayza and the Colectivo aim to continue editing and distributing the recorded stories, making them accessible to a wider audience of Quechua speakers.

The Quechua audio stories will also play a role in educating the next generation of students at �山��, Loayza says: “With Professor Leila Gómez, we are working on developing a new curriculum to include the Central Quechua variety of these podcasts in our classes and teach it along with the Southern variety that we currently teach.

“Being able to offer both varieties to our students will enrich and expand the cultural understanding of the Quechua culture.”

Loayza adds that she hopes these audio stories will inspire others in Peruvian highland communities to start their own recordings, further preserving the language and its cultural significance.

“It is so important to connect and learn from other indigenous languages and cultures,” she says. “We all have similarities and particularities. Everyone on this team is excited to share their knowledge, enthusiasm and time so that this project continues.”

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In new audio storytelling project, �山�� scholar Doris Loayza works to preserve the traditional tales and lore of the Peruvian highlands.

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Art and transformation are inherently connected, prof says

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 08 Apr 2025 16:02:54 +0000

Art and transformation are inherently connected, prof says Rachel Sauer Tue, 04/08/2025 - 10:02

Bradley Worrell

For artist and professor of printmaking Melanie Yazzie, making art is about much more than creating something aesthetically pleasing

For Melanie Yazzie, professor of art practices and head of printmaking in the Department of Art and Art History at the �山��, art and transformation are intrinsically connected.

That’s because she describes her art as being much more than just about creating aesthetically pleasing work—it’s a medium for sharing social, cultural and political experiences shaping the lives of native peoples in the United States and beyond. Her artwork—which takes the form of paintings, printmaking, sculptures and ceramics—is shaped by her personal experiences, as well as events and symbols from her Diné (Navajo) culture.

For Melanie Yazzie, a �山�� professor of art practices and head of printmaking in the Art and Art History, art and transformation are intrinsically connected.

“I think when you’re really digging deep inside yourself and you make a work about something that’s really important, maybe it’s a certain theme you are trying to get across, when someone else sees it and gets it and is affected by it, that’s when you really see the power in artmaking,” she says. “It can transform you as the maker and also the person who sees it.”

Yazzie says her artwork follows the Diné dictum “walk in beauty”—the idea of creating beauty and harmony. “There’s always positive and negative in the world, a sort of yin and yang. In Navajo culture, walking in beauty is really about walking a balanced path and trying to stay in a positive frame of mind,” she explains.

That doesn’t mean avoiding controversial subjects in her art, but she says it does color the approach she takes.

“When I was younger and in grad school, I made artwork that was very much in your face,” Yazzie says. “And in a sense, I was preaching to the choir. People who understood what I was saying would stay and listen, but what I realized with that work was that the people I wanted to reach dismissed (my work) as just, ‘she’s an angry woman or she’s an angry person of color.’”

Today, much of her work straddles the line between abstractionism and representationalism, with recurring motifs of abstracted animal and plant forms, as well as people—notably women—who are rendered in a spectrum of colors. Yazzie says casual gallery viewers have described some of her paintings and prints with words such as “beautiful” and “whimsical” and even “silly.”

For those willing to inquire, however, there are deeper meanings to many of her works, which can tackle such serious issues as the horrible treatment of Native Americans in boarding schools run by the U.S. government from the 1880s to 1920s or the unsolved murders of indigenous women today.

“In a sense, it’s like using honey to draw people in and then educating them,” Yazzie says of her artwork today. “It’s a much slower path, but I’ve seen it over the years making bigger strides than when I was shouting ‘injustice.’”

Particularly with her earlier works, but even in some cases today, Yazzie says some people who “very rigid” in their views don’t appreciate her art. While it’s not always easy to hear, she credits her upbringing on the Navajo nation in northeastern Arizona with keeping her grounded and confident.

“Since a very young age I was brought up among Navajo people and around really strong women role models. That was my foundation,” she says. “So, when people were sometimes rude or racist, I would think back to my grandmother, who only spoke Navajo, and she would explain (their outlook) to me by saying people will sometimes act like bad children, and they don’t understand how to behave, so you have to show more patience with them and have a kind heart.”

Sharing personal experiences

Artwork has allowed Yazzie to tap into and share deeply personal experiences, such as a series of paintings she did after she was first diagnosed with Type II diabetes and was for a time at risk of losing her eyesight. Those paintings were notable for featuring small numbers in “thought bubbles” in the background of various works, capturing her blood sugar highs and lows on a given day.

Yazzie says gallery patrons who are diabetic oftentimes picked up on the hidden numbers. She has enjoyed talking with them about why her numbers were particularly high or very low in certain paintings.

“I think when you’re really digging deep inside yourself and you make a work about something that’s really important, maybe it’s a certain theme you are trying to get across, when someone else sees it and gets it and is affected by it, that’s when you really see the power in artmaking,” says Melanie Yazzie (with her sculpture "Strength from Within"). (Photo: Melanie Yazzie)

“That type of conversation is something that you can only have with someone who understands that illness. And it was beautiful, because for the people who saw the work who were diabetic, it was like a secret language between us,” she says.

She adds, “People sometimes make diabetes like it’s something shameful, but when we talked about it in a public setting, they (patrons) felt embraced and included. That artwork is about creating a space of healing and acceptance.”

And while she is proud of her Navajo cultural heritage, Yazzie says she takes pleasure in the fact that she makes art that people would not normally expect from an indigenous artist.

“I think there are stereotypes of what people—even in my own Navajo community—would classify as being Native American artwork, and I think a lot of times I go against that,” she says, noting she generally eschews paintings of pottery work, tepees or male warriors on horses. “And I think that’s one of the things that makes my work really strong is that it’s unique and different and not fulfilling stereotypes about Native American artwork.”

Through the years, Yazzie’s art has been featured in more than 500 group and solo exhibitions around the world. Her work can always be found at the Glenn Green Gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Just as being an artist can bring transforming knowledge to others, Yazzie says artists need to be open to transformation in their own work and how it is presented. She learned that lesson for herself recently, when people who follow her work asked if she could make her art more accessible, which led her to a new direction as an artist.

“I’ve started doing jewelry pieces and scarves. That idea came from collectors and others who were saying, ‘I have one of your paintings or prints and I wish I could carry it with me when I’m going to see the doctor or because I’m having a hard time now,” she says. “In the Navajo tradition, jewelry is worn for protection and to bring about good things. So, this came about from people who say my work brings them hope.”

Balancing the best of both worlds

Yazzie says she’s been creating art for as long as she can remember. Still, her career path wasn’t always set in stone. Her parents, who were both educators, encouraged her in her formative years to follow their path, as they had some concerns about whether being an artist was a viable career.

“In any community, it’s really a struggle to make a living as an artist, and so I think they were just worried about that,” she says. For a time, she seriously contemplated becoming an English or Spanish teacher, but eventually decided to pursue a career in the arts, a decision she says her parents ultimately came to appreciate.

“My father would always tell me, choose something that you are really passionate about and that you love. And many people say that: that if you do something you love it never really feels like work. That was my experience. I just found that artmaking and being in the artist community really fed me in ways that other things didn’t.”

Today, as a professor at �山��, Yazzie says she is able to combine the best of both worlds as an artist and an instructor.

“Being a professor and helping students share their stories and experiences is deeply rewarding,” she says. “I think it’s wonderful to be able to help create a strong human being who is speaking their truth through their artwork.”

Even for �山�� students who have no interest in pursuing a career in the arts, Yazzie strongly encourages them to take classes that engage their creative side.

“My advice would be: Take an art class, a writing course, a music class, or anything in the creative realm,” she says. “It opens up parts of you that help you see the world in a more well-rounded way, and I think that is the power of a liberal arts education.”

"Remembering Brittany"

"Growing Stronger"

"She's Singing"

"Simon Joe Benally is Looking for a Rich Girlfriend"

"Speak Truth"

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For artist and professor of printmaking Melanie Yazzie, making art is about much more than creating something aesthetically pleasing.

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Dropping perfectionism and embracing purpose and joy

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 07 Apr 2025 15:22:31 +0000

Dropping perfectionism and embracing purpose and joy Rachel Sauer Mon, 04/07/2025 - 09:22

Pam Moore

�山�� alumna Julie Chavez reflects on her new memoir, which chronicles her journey through a mental health crisis to finding a new motto: ‘Be adequate’

When Julie Chavez (Span’00) graduated from the �山�� with a major in Spanish language and literature, she didn’t see herself becoming an author. As a self-proclaimed “lifelong reader” who blogged for fun, she’d been told many times that she should write a book.

Although flattered, Chavez, who lives in Pleasanton, California, with her husband Mando Chavez, a 1999 �山�� graduate, and their two sons, was comfortable in her role as a librarian at her sons’ school. And besides, she says, “I didn’t know what I wanted my story to be.”

�山�� alumna Julie Chavez (Span’00) describes learning to advocate for herself and let go of her perfectionist tendencies, embracing the motto “be adequate,” in her memoir Everyone But Myself.

That is, until her story found her.

When anxiety and perfectionism culminated in a debilitating panic attack and a paralyzing sense that she was always falling short no matter how hard she tried, Chavez’s world irrevocably changed.

After navigating many obstacles to accessing mental health services, working with a therapist to put her own proverbial oxygen mask on before tending to her family and finally learning to advocate for herself and let go of her perfectionist tendencies, she emerged with a new motto— “be adequate”—and the idea for the book she needed to write.

Told with humor and honesty, Chavez’s new memoir, Everyone But Myself, released last year and named a Washington Post noteworthy book and a USA Today bestseller, chronicles her journey from the depths of a crushing mental health crisis to a life filled with joy and purpose. Chavez spoke with Colorado Arts and Sciences Magazine to explain the story behind the story.

Question: What motivated you to write Everyone But Myself?

Chavez: I knew that if I was going to write a book, it would have to have value for readers. Even though I loved writing, I didn’t see myself as a fiction writer and I didn’t think I had a story to tell.

But then I had my annual review with my principal. Over the prior year, my mental health had taken a nosedive, and I thanked her for having shared her own struggles with me during that time. Her candor really helped me through what I call my ‘mid-mom crisis’—which I later learned is something that many over-extended working moms struggle with as our elementary grade kids grow into humans who don’t need us intensely as they once did.

She said, ‘That’s what you should write your book about.’ That was when I realized that my story could truly be helpful for someone else.

Question: Who is Everyone But Myself for?

Chavez: I wish it hadn’t taken debilitating anxiety for me to finally understand that my self-care and creating boundaries around my own happiness was not only good, but necessary.

So, I wrote this for all the readers who see themselves in my story. It’s for the perfectionist moms, the anxious moms, the moms who, in trying to do their best for their families, have inadvertently abandoned themselves.

In her memoir Everyone But Myself, �山�� alumna Julie Chavez chronicles her journey from the depths of a crushing mental health crisis to a life filled with joy and purpose.

It’s also for all the moms who feel they don’t ‘deserve’ help. I love my life and my family so much. I feel grateful that I get to live a relatively comfortable life. And yet, even with all the privilege I’ve been afforded, I was taken aback at how aggressively and how quickly my mental health declined—and how hard it was to find a therapist when I needed one.

We tend to put our suffering on a ‘sliding scale’ or to minimize it by comparing it to other people’s problems but the truth is, when it’s hard, it’s hard, and it’s OK to ask for help.

Question: What challenges did you encounter on the road to publication?

Chavez: The book you have in your hands is my fourth rewrite. I can’t tell you how many times I asked myself whether it was worth it.

I started writing in the spring of 2019 and by the end of the year I had 30,000 words, which I thought was a book. It wasn’t. Then, I attended a class on publishing, where I learned that without a platform, it would be extremely difficult to find a publisher, particularly for a memoir.

So, I started working with a hybrid publisher, who recommended a rewrite. Meanwhile, [publisher] Zibby Owens’ Book Club published an essay of mine, which was an excerpt from the book, which did really well. Zibby ended up taking me on as one of her first acquisitions, and I parted ways with the hybrid publisher.

Following advice from Zibby’s team, I started a fresh rewrite. Instead of a memoir, it was an essay collection, but it just didn’t work. So now, I had an agent and I was starting with a blank page, which is actually kind of backward. Usually you get an agent once you have a fully written manuscript. I finished that version in December of 2022 and the book was published just over two years later.

Through it all, I had to re-learn the same lesson I learned in the pages of my book—that I had to keep showing up, remember my “why,” and not be too attached to the outcome.

Question: What has surprised you over the course of your publishing journey?

Chavez: There’s been a surprising number of women who have said, ‘You are telling my exact story.’ So many have said that after reading my story, they understand what they’re going through, which has been wonderful.

That was always my hope—that my book could be a friend to them and to open the door to the kinds of conversations we need to have.

But my favorite thing is when someone says they’re giving it to a friend or asks me to sign it for their sister.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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�山�� alumna Julie Chavez reflects on her new memoir, which chronicles her journey through a mental health crisis to finding a new motto: ‘Be adequate.’

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Tales as old as time … yet we still love them

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 04 Apr 2025 15:36:10 +0000

Tales as old as time … yet we still love them Rachel Sauer Fri, 04/04/2025 - 09:36

Rachel Sauer

With yet another Snow White adaptation currently in theaters, �山�� scholar Suzanne Magnanini reflects on the enduring appeal of fairy tales

Once upon a time—this time, in fact, and many of the ones that came before it—there was a story that never grew dull in its telling.

It possibly leaped the porous cultural and national borders of narrative, carried by caravans or ships or ethernet cables and planted in the ready imaginations of successive generations of story lovers—those who tell them and those who hear them.

Maybe it’s the story of a young person who ventures into the unknown, where they encounter magic and beasts of all sizes and a resolution specific to the tale’s time and place. Maybe there really even are fairies involved.

Suzanne Magnanini, a �山�� associate professor of Italian and chair of the Department of French and Italian, notes that fairy tales' malleability helps them remain fresh and relevant over centuries of retellings.

And we never seem to tire of hearing about them.

The recent theatrical release of Disney’s live-action Snow White—one of countless retellings of the tale over more than 400 years—highlights the place of honor that fairy tales occupy in cultures around the world and in the hearts of people hearing them for the first time or the thousandth.

One of the reasons they remain fresh through countless years and iterations is their malleability, says Suzanne Magnanini, a �山�� associate professor of Italian and chair of the Department of French and Italian. “The Italian author Italo Calvino, who also edited a seminal collection of Italian folktales, writes of fairy tales as being like a stone fruit, where you have that hard core center that is always the same—you’ll usually recognize a Sleeping Beauty story, for example—but the fruit can be radically different around that.”

Stories of time and place

As a researcher, Magnanini has published broadly on fairy tales, including her 2008 book Fairy-Tale Science: Monstrous Generation in the Fairy Tales of Straparola and Basile. She began studying fairy tales while working on her PhD, finding in them a fascinating dovetailing between her interests in monstrosity and otherness.

“As a scholar, I take what’s called a social-historical approach,” she explains. “I’m really interested in all those little details that link a tale to a very precise place in time where it was told, and I’ve written about the ways in which fairy tales are used to elaborate on and think about scientific theories of reproduction that hadn’t really been nailed down at the time—questions that were still being circulated about whether humans could interbreed with animals, for example, and would that produce a monstrous child?

“You look at a some variations of Beauty and the Beast, like Giovan Francesco Straparola’s story of a pig king, where it’s a magical version of these questions, and maybe what’s actually happening is that fairy tales are a way to think through the anxieties and interests of the time.”

Fairy Tales at �山��

The ATU Index is one of the search elements that Suzanne Magnanini and her students are including as they develop the database for Fairy Tales at �山��. The project aims, in part, to improve access and searchability of the more than 2,000 fairy tale collections that are part of the Rare Books Collection at Norlin Library.

The project is a partnership between undergraduates and graduate students under the direction of Magnanini and Sean Babbs, instruction coordinator for the University Libraries' Rare and Distinctive Collections, as well as Hope Saska, CU Art Museum acting director and chief curator, who has trained students in visual-thinking strategies. The project is supported by Undergraduate Research Opportunities Program, the ASSETT Innovation Incubator, the President’s Teaching Scholars Program and the University Libraries.

Fairy Tales at �山�� will host a showcase of CU's fairy tale collection from 3:30 to 4:45 p.m. April 16 in Norlin Library M350B. Learn more here.

Though fairy tales may be spun in response to what’s happening in a specific time and place, they also often address concerns that aren’t specific to one location or culture but are broadly pondered across humanity. “Andrew Teverson has written that fairy tales are literature’s migrants because they can move across borders, they can move across boundaries and then make themselves at home and assimilate to a certain extent in different cultures,” Magnanini says.

For example, the Brothers Grimm heard a tale called “Sneewittchen” (Snow White) from folklorist Marie Hassenpflug, as well as from other sources, and included it as tale No. 53 in their seminal 1812 Grimm’s Fairy Tales. However, says Magnanini, there was a similar tale called “The Young Slave” in Giambattista Basile’s 1634 work Pentamerone. In fact, Snow White is type 709 in the Aarne–Thompson–Uther Index (ATU Index), which catalogs and describes common motifs and themes in fairy tales and folklore around the world.

Not so happily ever after

The origins of many fairy tales can be traced as far back as ancient Greece, Rome and China, Magnanini says, which speaks to their ability not only to help people of particular times and places explore their anxieties and questions, but to address the feelings that have been central to the human condition almost since our species emerged from caves.

“When I think about fairy tales, I think about number of characteristics that make them really appealing across time and space,” Magnanini says. “If you think about it, the protagonists are almost always young people heading out into the world—much like our students are heading out—leaving home behind, having to make their way in world, facing challenges. That experience can be very transformational, so in a way these stories are all about metamorphosis and change.

“A lot of times that’s when you’re living your life in Technicolor and all the emotions are new. So, even if you’re no longer in that moment of life, fairy tales tap into experiences like the first falling in love, the first adventure from home. And they often end right after the wedding, so you don’t see someone having to do their taxes or being like, ‘Oh, my god, I’ve been in this relationship for 30 years and I’m bored.’ I think part of the reason we don’t get tired of fairy tales is because they capture this fleeting time in life.”

“If you think about it, the (fairy tale) protagonists are almost always young people heading out into the world—much like our students are heading out—leaving home behind, having to make their way in world, facing challenges," says �山�� scholar Suzanne Magnanini. (Photo: Disney Studios)

While fairy tales, particularly as they’ve been interpreted and simplified by Disney, are stereotyped as having “and they lived happily ever after” endings, fairy tales pre-Disney more commonly ended with justice served, Magnanini says. For example, the version of “Snow White” in the 1812 Grimm’s Fairy Tales ends with the evil queen being forced to step into a pair of red-hot iron shoes and dance until she dies.

“A lot of people will say, ‘Oh, it’s the happy ending that’s the appeal of fairy tales,’ but it’s important to remember the vast majority of fairy tales end with the deliverance of justice—something really unjust has happened, someone has been discriminated against, there’s some evil in the world, and justice is delivered,” Magnanini explains. “People who study the formal aspects of fairy tales always talk about how the ‘happy ending’ is found in justice.

“Disney Studios has a tendency to remove the ambiguity from these tales and remove most of the violence—simplifying them in a lot of ways. If you read the French version of Beauty and the Beast, Charles Perrault’s version, there were other siblings in there; there was a complex family structure with complex interactions and a lot of really heavy issues—the family must deal with economic disaster.”

In fact, the field of fairy tale scholarship addresses everything from feminist interpretations of the stories to the ways in which children use fairy tales to help navigate psychosexual rites of passage. Generations of authors have told and continue to retell these familiar stories through different lenses of gender, sexuality, geography, racial identity, economic status and many, many others.

“What makes these stories different, and what I think is a big part of the appeal of fairy tales, is the magic or the marvel,” Magnanini says. “For it to be a fairy tale, scholars would say there has to be magic in there—not just the presence of magic, but magic that facilitates the happy ending by allowing the protagonist to overcome whatever obstacles are in the way of what they desire, maybe the marriage, the wealth, the happy ending. There’s something so satisfying about that, because it doesn’t happen in your quotidian day-to-day life. I mean, imagine if you met a talking deer.”

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With yet another Snow White adaptation currently in theaters, �山�� scholar Suzanne Magnanini reflects on the enduring appeal of fairy tales.

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Top image: Disney Studios

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