Archive for 2025-06-01
- 0Finding Realness in “Fake”: A College Tale of Fear, Family, and Korn
When I first stumbled onto The P.O.D. Kast, a podcast chronicling the genealogy of nu-metal—mostly out of idle curiosity, plus a nostalgic tickle for late-’90s angst—I fully expected to spend the next hour smirking at the fashions, the haircuts, and the half-baked “angst” lyrics (because let’s be honest, that scene has long been dismissed as macho posturing locked in a time capsule). Instead, I wound up listening to Korn’s self-titled debut album at age 30: in one marathon session, I played it twice back to back; then, a few days later, I returned for another session with three complete playthroughs. It hit me like a sonic cattle prod—jagged, loud, unapologetic—yet beneath the distortion and Jonathan Davis’s snarled vocals I heard something I wasn’t prepared for: a call to drop the act, to stop performing fear, to stop hiding behind rehearsed words.
Picture this: senior year of college, late October, when I recorded a video application for a low-level programming job at Dish Network. Imagine a senior (director’s note: I was at the heaviest I’d ever been, fresh off months of compulsive eating after an ill-advised low-weight junior-year stint) sitting in my dorm room under a single desk lamp—so dim that the outlines of my poster-covered walls blurred into shadow. I read from a rigorously scripted rant about the “cutting-edge technological offerings” of satellite TV—complete with forced enthusiasm, the flourishes of memorized hand gestures, and set-piece bullet points. On tape, I sounded almost passionately engaged; in reality, I was terrified: terrified of graduating with nothing secure, terrified that I would disappoint my family, terrified of my own utter lack of conviction.
My voice that night was thin—borderline squeaky, the kind of awkward octave that suggests you’re trying desperately to overcompensate. My cheeks, swollen like overstuffed pillows from stress and late-night pizza binges, belied any shred of competence I was feigning. I still felt hollow, as though the person speaking on camera was only a marionette with tight strings. I chugged caffeine pills (one of my ersatz “antidepressants”) like they were vitamin C—each swallow a jittery confession that I was too afraid to look myself in the mirror, much less in the eyes of a potential employer.
Behind all of that was the wreckage of my parents’ divorce, which unfolded early in my freshman year and yawned wide for the next four years. By the time I was recording that video, I’d already begun to disintegrate into a creature designed to hit check boxes and chase passing grades—someone whose main survival strategy was to squash every trace of uncertainty.†† Fear had become the lens through which I saw every conversation, every test, every interview. †† In truth, I was a professional checkbox-chaser. If you handed me a form that said “List your accomplishments,” I’d comply with military precision—bullet points, standalone sentences, avoid the semicolons (they look too fancy).
With all that behind me, I discovered Korn for the first time nearly a decade after college. Jonathan Davis snarls (or begs; the emotional register blurs between exasperation and desperation):
“I think bein’ a person relies on one thing— Be yourself, let you come through. You’re too afraid to really be (Be yourself, let you come through). Someone who isn’t false and doesn’t care to be.”
It hit me like a jolt: this wasn’t a “you suck” anthem; it was a “you can still fix this” anthem. Most “you’re so fake” refrains collapse into either a sneer or a bored shrug—just a point-and-laugh. Korn’s “Fake” felt, instead, like an exasperated friend screaming over the din: “Drop the act. You’re better than this.” I imagined how that fearful, pizza-lathered senior-year me would have reacted to the refrain “Let it all go” (that guttural, half-scream/half-sing). I’d have cringed, maybe scoffed, definitely felt ashamed (“Sure, let it go—how exactly do I start?”). Yet I also sensed that, even then, a tiny sliver of me desperately wanted to believe it.
Of course, knowing Jonathan Davis’s own backstory—childhood abuse so wrenching that music became both therapy and lifeline—only cut deeper. It’s staggering to think: a person can cultivate so much pain, so much rage, and still choose not to harden into bitterness. Jonathan Davis’s voice is raw with both venom and empathy, like he’s saying, “I’ve been there too—but I also believe there’s a way forward.” That duality—bitter tenderness laced through brutal honesty—renders the music both brutal and heartbreakingly real.
Listening to Korn, especially “Fake,” made me realize that sometimes the most honest anger can make space for something real to grow. Like a sprout pushing up from the ashes—unexpected, but it happens. That’s hope. That’s renewal. That’s life after pain.
In the end, “Fake” isn’t a cure-all. It’s more like a mirror, showing you the parts of yourself you’d rather hide. For me, that meant confronting a college-era version of myself who believed fear was a valid reason to perform rather than live. And while I can’t say any single song “saved” me, I can say that when I finally heard those lyrics at age 30, I felt seen: told that my fear-driven performance wasn’t the only script available. That, if I chose to, I could let some of it go—if only a sliver—to start taking steps toward something resembling authenticity. Sometimes, a sliver is all you need to begin.
A visual metaphor of the older me sending a Korn-fueled lifeline to my college self. The poster glows like a spectral beacon — part real, part dream — guiding me through the noise. - 0Between Classes: A Journey into the Past through the Eyes of Gordon Alfredson
I sit at my desk with a sense of quiet anticipation, prepared to share with you a piece of writing that means a great deal to me—a piece written by my grandfather, Gordon Alfredson, born on June 26, 1930, in Meriden, Connecticut. His father was an immigrant from the rural area of Västergötland, Sweden, and though the man himself was a man of few words, the legacy he left behind can be felt in every sentence that follows. My grandfather was a man who carried himself with a quiet dignity, an engineer’s meticulous attention to detail, and a love of jazz music that colored his days with notes of improvisation and joy.
Though he never attended college, he was, in his own way, an educated man. He was the sort of man who believed in reading, in the value of civic discussions, and in fixing what needed fixing, both in the world and within himself. He belonged to a generation of working men—he spent his entire career at Ryerson, a steel company in his hometown—who took pride in their work and in the simple act of building something with their own hands.
It occurs to me that in these days, a time so different from his, some may regard men of his background as closed-minded, or even hostile to new ideas. Yet I believe his story shows another side of that world—a time when a man could be blue-collar and still carry a mind open to reflection, curiosity, and growth. My grandfather’s life reminds me that it was not always the case that lines were drawn so sharply between thinking and doing, between working with one’s hands and expanding one’s mind.
In his later years, when the habits of youth caught up with him—when he was forced to carry an oxygen tank with him everywhere—he made a point of stopping young people on the street to tell them not to follow his path into smoking. It was a gesture that spoke of a man who had learned, who carried the humility to admit his mistakes, and the strength to try to spare others from them.
And so today, with a sense of reverence and no small measure of gratitude, I share his words—a glimpse into a time of 1930s Fords, clouds of cigarette smoke rolling from windows, and a camaraderie that made the long days of school bearable. It is a window into a past that, for all its differences, still speaks to the best in us: that desire to reflect, to grow, and to remember what it was to be young.
May you find in this essay not only the voice of Gordon Alfredson, but also a reminder of what it means to live, to think, and to treasure the small joys that make up the story of a life.
Between Classes
A Hicks Prize-Winning Essay by Gordon Alfredson
Everything is serene. All but one person is quiet. Everyone is in expectation of a precious moment when they may escape this exhausting tranquility.
I am waiting. Waiting and waiting.
Many thoughts are revolving in my subconscious at this time each day.
I am still waiting.
I begin to believe that the moment I am awaiting will never arrive.
All of the questions which my subconscious is asking me are almost completely answered when a faint, faraway noise rouses me. The moment of great expectation has arrived; instantly, instantly I react to the sound and gather up all of my equipment and make a heroic dash for the doorway, hoping to be the first to reach the outer recesses.
The bell is signaling that the time is twelve twenty-five and that school is dismissed.
Gad, what a relief.
After placing my brain matter under a laborious strain all morning it is a heavenly feeling to have twenty-five minutes of freedom in which to do whatever I please before returning for my seventh period class.
As soon as the dismissal bell rings I rush like a picnicker being chased like a bull. Leaving the room behind I head for my locker where I gather up my coat and lunch. After acquiring these two necessities I hurry outside to rid my lungs of the hot, stagnant air which fills the rooms and corridors of our high school.
After treating my lungs to the fresh, clean air for a few seconds and looking over the woman situation, I cross the street and clamber into a car—specifically a nineteen thirty-six Ford—belonging to a friend of mine.
The weather up on the “hill” is cold on these winter days so a warm car is a comfortable place in which to eat, talk, and smoke.
Once in a comfortable position I open up the bag containing my lunch and peer into its mysterious depths, discovering sandwiches and an apple. I quickly take a bite of one of the sandwiches. It tastes delicious. Then and only then do I realize how hungry I really am. In no time at all the tasty, hunger-satisfying food is devoured.
While I am eating, five more of my friends arrive and seat themselves in the car.
In a few minutes papers and bags are thrown out of the doors and windows, soon followed by particles of sandwiches, cake, cookies, and fruit.
When these cleaning up operations are carried out, cigarettes are lighted. The first drag is the only one I enjoy. In a few minutes the car is filled with smoke, and finally with much arguing I persuade them to open the windows a short distance. The smoke pours out of the car. A passerby would think that the car was on fire.
The after-dinner smoke is followed by conversation. It ranges from gossip to intellectual discussions. Most of the talk is about members of the opposite sex and the likes and dislikes about members of the faculty, complaints about the excess of homework, and criticisms about courses and the management of the high school.
From discussions with these friends of mine and other students who show a lack of school spirit, I have arrived at the conclusion that if we had younger, friendlier teachers and principals and weren’t held down as we now are, a remarkable improvement in the all-important school spirit would be noticed.
I take part in all of these events in the car until approximately twenty minutes of one, when I excuse myself and reenter the high school.
I place my coat in my locker and then circulate about the corridors, looking over the feminine part of the sophomore class while on my merry way to visit my favorite female sophomore.
We stand around the corridor and talk for a few minutes and then I escort her to her homeroom before the tardy bell rings.
Leaving my friend’s homeroom I go downstairs to the basement, where I stand around in front of room eight with the other students waiting for period seven to begin. Practical jokers are numerous at this scene of feverish activity. Some are eating and a few innocent souls make a useless attempt to study but are soon forced to give it up by other, more joyous students.
One minute before the bell signals the beginning of period seven I leave the crowd and hurry upstairs to await the signal.
The bell rings, and the sophomores surge out of their homerooms. Amid the noise and confusion I meet my friend, and we converse until seventh period begins. Then I say farewell and depart for my now famous seventh period class.
School, even though considered boring and dull, has its bright moments and someday when I am old and decrepit I will look back on my youthful days and treasure these moments which comprise the joys of my high school life.