Wild Greens

Emo and the Problem with Seth Cohen

by Holly Genovese

The new millennium brought us The O.C., and with it the idea that it was better to accept shitty treatment from a cute boy with a good comic collection than a solid relationship with a seemingly vacuous hunk. 

For girls in studded belts and band T-shirts, still lining their waterline, the idealized guys of teen TV were not all that great.  The leading men of Teen Dramas of the 1990s were the heartthrobs of 90210 or the insufferable Dawson from Dawson’s Creek. The O.C.’s Ryan Atwood, the bad boy with a heart of gold and a closet full of white tank tops,  fit the heartthrob mold. But Ryan Atwood was joined by Seth Cohen, and Seth Cohen was different. Seth was smart and competitive, into Indie rock, comic books, and “good literature.” There was a Ryan in every show, but at the time, Seth felt new. 

I’ve spent much of the pandemic revisiting old favorites―books, films, shows, and music. Culture that I felt I outgrew a decade ago, before I needed that familiarity, comfort, and warmth as I settled in for seemingly endless months on the couch. Even though it’s a teen show from the early aughts, I never really thought I outgrew The O.C., as much as I hadn’t felt compelled to haul out my DVD box set in years. But during the Texas Winter Storm, we lost both water and internet for over a week but somehow kept our electricity. This meant I was safe, but very dirty, hungry, uncomfortable and unfathomably bored. So I pulled out the DVDs. 

To my surprise, I was no longer team Seth or Ryan, and I was only rarely annoyed by Summer’s antics and instead frustrated by the boys. And I still loved Marissa, the hottest of all messes. I realized the character I most disliked was Seth.

Seth wasn’t a good person, not really. And he especially wasn’t a good boyfriend, or even friend, to girls. When the series starts, Seth had an over-the-top crush on Summer, a crush that in retrospect was creepy. He had never even really talked to Summer, but he named his boat after her, memorized her grade school poem, and idealized a fantastical image of her that never really existed. Even though Summer was quite the catch, it never quite seemed like Seth actually knew, or even liked, Summer. He much preferred the idea of her that he had imagined. For Seth, Summer was an object to acquire and not a person. 

And once Summer starts to reciprocate Seth’s feelings, he somehow gets worse. He seemingly cannot decide between new girl Anna and Summer, stringing them both along instead of dealing with his own feelings. In many ways, Seth feels like he “should” like Anna, the nerdy smart girl who shares his love of comics―who he contrasts sharply with Summer. Because, for Seth, girls in bikinis who love fashion cannot be smart or interesting themselves. During the whole pseudo love triangle, he even gives Anna and Summer the same gift, “The Seth Cohen Starter Pack.” which shows an impressive lack of tact and incredible narcissism. Seth is the center of the story, not Anna or Summer. 

The starter pack, if you’ve forgotten, included Bright Eyes’s “Lifted or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground,” The Shins’ “Oh, Inverted World, and  Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism” as well the novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon and the film The Goonies. Here, Seth reinforces the problems with early 2000s emo and pop punk, genres that The O.C. helped to popularize, in the form of a “gift.” In her defining essay, “Emo: Where The Girls Aren’t,” Jessica Hopper writes “It’s evident from these band’s lyrics and shared aesthetic that their knowledge of actual living, breathing women is notional at best. Emo’s characteristic vulnerable front is limited to self-sensitivity, every song a high-stakes game of control that involves “winning” or “losing” possession of the girl (see Dashboard Confessional, Brand New, New Found Glory and Glassjaw albums for prime examples). Yet, in the vulnerability there is no empathy, no peerage or parallelism. Emo’s yearning doesn’t connect it with women-it omits them.” (16). Even as Seth attempts to win both Anna and Summer, he doesn’t see them as human, but as possessions, reinforced by the music he gives them both. When taken together, the gifts double down on Seth’s need to “educate” the women in his life, women who mostly knew more than he did. He, for example, assumes Anna, who is equally obsessed with comic books, has not yet read the Pulitzer Prize winning Kavalier and Clay. His favorite bands, which many of us grew to adore, weren’t all so great about women. In Death Cab’s “I will possess your heart” Ben Gibbard sings  “How I wish you could see the potential/ The potential of you and me/ It’s like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can’t read.” How condescending can you get?

Seth constantly underestimates women. In the very first episode he is shocked that he could like the same music as Marissa, as if liking clothes and having *issues* means you cannot have good taste. Though Anna was brilliant, interesting, and homesick for Pennsylvania, Seth is convinced she would only move home because he broke her heart. And Seth’s shock and bitterness that Summer both got a higher SAT score than he did and got into Brown University shows that he feels entitled to have better taste, better scores, and a better future than women. For Seth, the nerdy kid who liked comic books and indie music was somehow inherently more deserving of high scores, women, and elite colleges than everyone else. 

To be clear. Seth wasn’t the only male lead of the early aughts to inspire awe simply because of his so-called good taste. It was an archetype that worked. Jess Mariano of Gilmore Girls, the alternative millennial girl’s dream guy, made up of clash lyrics and a painful obsession with Ernest Hemingway, treated women poorly. He didn’t talk down to them in the way that Seth Cohen did, but his casual disregard for his relationships with women-whether it be his girlfriend's Shane and Rory or his mother—was made acceptable because he liked books and punk (and let’s be honest—was played by Milo Ventimiglia). Dan Humphrey of Gossip Girl was more obviously a villain (he somehow turned out to be gossip girl after all), but was seen as the intelligent, observant writer from Brooklyn, endgame for Serena, even after it was revealed he was spying on her and her friends for 6 seasons. Liking books, good music, and avoiding sports was somehow seen as virtuous, a moral high ground that made sexism and cruelty acceptable.

I think a lot of us, who grew up watching The O.C.,  listening to Indie and Emo, and trying to be the cool nerd girl, thought that we needed to take the sexist crap from nerdy boys as if it was somehow less damaging than the stuff hyper masculine bros pulled. But in the end, it might have been worse.  At least you knew Ryan Atwood was going to punch someone. The toxicity of the cute, nerdy boy with “good taste” was hidden in plain sight. The nerdy boys of Emo and The O.C. felt they deserved women, women who they saw themselves as smarter, deeper, and better than. It’s no leap to see the ways in which this behavior could turn dangerous— or the ways in which countless teen girls turned these messages inward, until we saw ourselves as the objects in those emo songs. 

Nostalgia (or Zen and the Art of Time Travel)

by Dave Brey

Mushrooms 

by Carly Lewis

Rain boils on the red mudded moss of the mountain’s woodland floor with every pelted drop. I feel the cabin at my back blur behind the downpour’s sheets like a memory—thousands of miles away—but it’s just up the steep, backyard hill. The shifting stone I stand on holds up my vibrating body as I remember…That afternoon—feels like last year—I sat at the cabin’s kitchen table with three old friends. Twin flames smirked in mine and Eileen’s eyes, preparing to face God as we bit into bacon cheeseburgers…with one special ingredient. Secret. Ancient. All natural, never store bought. Some might call it spiritual, and they might be correct. I certainly felt spirited, tumbling out of that kitchen into the downpouring rain, hiking my grey sweatpants to my knees to catch a breeze through the gauzy humidity before sprinting into the verdant forest with Eileen’s hand gripped in mine. The trees inhaled and swallowed us into their coven—to shelter us from the storm. From whatever world there was in August 2020. Inhaled to exhale, inhale…exhale. It felt better to breathe when we were trees. Allowed to stand still with those old-timers who stood there for centuries, and had the rings to show off their achievement. Allowed to grow our own roots and tie ourselves to the earth that grew us. Now I tilt my head to the cool marble dome of sky, laced with the sketches of branches that wave down to me as “Strawberry Fields Forever” murmurs from the speaker in Eileen’s back pocket. My cheeks climb up to my eyes—a smile. Then a whisper: easy…this won’t last forever…  

Madame L. 

by Kathy Panek

When I reached the age of eight, mom decided it was time for me to begin piano lessons. I’m not sure whether I asked to learn or the decision was made for me, but there was a big old Schultz Upright Grand taking up prime real estate in our small living room and apparently begging to be played. Mom asked around about possible teachers and finally enlisted the help of the elementary school band director. Mr. B was fresh out of college, could play the piano, and was willing to come to our house to instruct me, a big plus. I don’t think he had ever taught anyone else to play, which I guess made me his first guinea pig. My lessons went smoothly for the first year until he introduced “stride” piano—an accompaniment style that incorporates alternating bass octaves and chords. This is quite challenging for a young student and I suspect mom had put a bug in his ear about the possibility of me learning a couple of her favorites that required the skill—The Missouri Waltz and The Tennessee Waltz. Soon, his handwritten, mimeographed copies appeared on the piano along with chord charts and other music theory materials. 

I believe it was at about this time that I began to balk about practicing. I enjoyed playing the piano but was not allowed to go outside to play with my friends after school until I had finished 30 minutes of practicing. How could I concentrate while a gang of kids played games and rode their bikes up and down the road in front of our house? It was absolute torture. I pleaded with mom to understand but she stood her ground while I cried and kicked the old Schultz.

Mr. B left our school a couple of years later making it necessary for mom to find me a new teacher. There were two piano teachers in our town and I don’t remember why she settled on Madame L. Her credentials were impressive but I’m not sure mom understood that at the time. Hungarian by birth, and educated at the Royal Academy of Music in Budapest, she had studied with composer/pianist Bela Bartok. During the day, Mme. L taught students at the Chicago Conservatory College, then caught the commuter train to the suburbs and spent evenings and Saturdays teaching half the students in our town. Ten-year-old me became one of those students. 

When I appeared for my first lesson, knees knocking, I noticed that Mme. L’s home was decorated in a very different style than that of most people I knew. The upholstery was done in red velvet and every last chair leg and arm rest had been covered in gilt paint—even her grand piano! (Years later on our first trip to Europe, my husband and I toured the royal palace in Vienna and found every room decorated with velvet and gilt. It was then that I realized Mme. L had tried to create a bit of imperial splendor for herself on this side of the Atlantic.) Apparently, my teacher had no time for filing cabinets because the closed lid of her grand piano was piled high with stacks of sheet music and lesson books. When the kitchen door swung open, we caught a glimpse of a wild color scheme that convinced us Mme. L must have been color blind— blue walls, purple ceiling, and red woodwork! 

Madame L, like her décor, was like no one else we knew. Her broken English was challenging to understand and her handwriting in our assignment books was difficult to decipher. When she received cash or checks they were immediately stuffed into the bodice of her dress. Her mantra was “count out loud” and she frequently reminded us that we were fortunate to be studying with her instead of the other teacher in town who didn’t make her students count. We were also informed that our pedagogical genealogy included some very famous teachers and that we were great, great grandstudents of Franz Liszt! We had him to thank for the finger exercises we detested.

She insisted on being addressed as Madame L, but for some reason we could not fathom she called me Marguerite for the first two years I was with her. Mom labeled my piano assignment book “Kathleen” and put the monthly tuition check in an envelope labeled, “For Kathleen,” but I continued to be “Marguerite” in Mme. L’s studio. Exasperated, mom finally confronted her and after that I became “Katty,” the closest she could come to pronouncing my name.

Because her schedule was so full, Madame L rarely sat down for a meal. Instead, she would disappear from a lesson for a few minutes and then reappear, still chewing a mouthful of something or nibbling on a chicken drumstick. During one of Mme. L’s absences, my sister was warming up with scales when she noticed one of the piano keys was sticking. Peering into the piano, she was surprised to see an old chicken bone that must have succumbed to the piano vibrations and fallen inside! Mom could only shake her head and roll her eyes when we described such occurrences.

Quirkiness aside, Madame L was a wonderful teacher. She helped me establish a practice regimen, and taught me to play the classics not only with accuracy, but with expression. I coveted the composer busts that we earned for demonstrating good practice habits and I soon learned that Mme. L was absolutely right about the counting aloud. She also broadened my musical horizons by escorting me to a recital by pianist Rosalyn Tureck at the college where she taught, presumably to encourage me to consider the school as my future destination. The solid musical grounding I received from her helped me find my niche in high school. As a freshman, I began my training as choral accompanist, a position I retained throughout my high school years, but to Mme. L’s dismay, I was spending more time practicing choral accompaniments and stage band music than learning the repertoire that was necessary for me to gain admission to a music college. Believing that the high school music teachers were using me, during my senior year she boldly marched into the school music department and presented her case. As a result of her advocacy on my behalf, I was given the opportunity to play a solo at one of the concerts and a piano concerto with the band. 

My days with Madame. L ended when I left for college in Wisconsin. In vain she had tried to persuade my parents to send me to the conservatory in Chicago, but mom and dad were adamantly opposed to their 18-year-old daughter commuting to the city every day. Before we all left for college, Mme. L invited her senior students and even our friends from the other teacher to have dinner at her house. Having no idea what to expect (cooking was not known to be on her list of accomplishments), we had a hilarious evening and saw a fun-loving side of our teacher that we had never experienced. As “insiders” we enjoyed introducing our friends, students of the other teacher, to the eccentricities of our beloved Madame L.

I’ve had other teachers since Madame L, but she remains for me the most influential and highly regarded. If even one of my students feels the same about me, I will consider my life’s work to have been worthwhile.