Anonymous sources close to Monday Monday report the time—the one we’ve been dreading—has finally come. The Monday Monday “big reveal” is here. And given that I’ve already broken just about every other journalism rule ever invented, I might as well not bury the lede.
My name is Annie Adair, and I am Monday Monday.
The final Monday Monday of the semester has long served as a way for the mystery writer to explain the method to their madness. I would like to do that, as well as to participate in the tradition of contributing to the collection failed headlines that never came to fruition as a last ditch way to promise you I, really, truly am funny.
For those of you tuning in for the first time, you can read my greatest hits on The Chronicle’s website, at the links here, here, and here.
For some of you, this grand revelation of my secret identity may come as a shock. For others, especially those familiar with the more sadistic yearnings of my brain or those who I explicitly told because I knew you wouldn’t deign to read The Chronicle otherwise, this column should serve as a culmination of the inevitable.
I wrote this column as a semester long shot at myself. I never wrote about an institution at Duke I didn't find myself admiring at one point. In doing so I became the villain Duke deserved, but not necessarily the one it needed. But like any good villain, I seek the validation of others and to reveal my master plan just before the hero—in this case, the sweeping shame of anonymous criticism by my peers—comes and swoops me up. So here’s the exact two reasons why I did it.
Monday Monday bequeaths upon its writers—and its readers—perhaps the most important lesson that a university can teach someone: to have a sense of humor.
My Monday Monday plight wasn’t totally borne out of revenge, though that certainly had something to do with why I applied. More important to me was the ability to inject a sense of self-deprecation and humor into a student body that takes itself wholly too seriously.
The beauty of anonymous writing arises from the ability to cover anything. No topic is too far or too controversial when your name isn’t attached. So, I really leaned in and went for it. I made fun of my closest friends and the organizations they hold dear. I poked the institutions that helped me get to where I am today and skewered the people I idolized the most.
I found that the people with the greatest sense of humor also had the greatest willingness to listen. Those who saw past the jokes and into the truths that underlined each column got the most takeaways. I wrote the columns—“Me Too,” “Rush,” “Campus Enterprises”—to highlight the fact that things Duke holds dear, that I hold dear, are in no way perfect.
We shouldn’t kid ourselves into believing Duke is a perfect university. And quite honestly, I doubt any of us truly do. But sometimes we get so wrapped up in our organizations and activities that we fail to step back and observe something greater. We should be able to concede that maybe, there is a problem with the way Duke Student Government conducts itself or how quickly we’re willing to demonize a certain basketball player. I was too cowardly to say my criticisms in person. So I found solace in addressing them under the guise of humor, anonymously in the school paper.
But more urgent than the satire is the issue of fake news. It is, apparently, not the founder of Politifact’s dream to have his daughter craft her own fake news. But in an instance of beautiful irony and like any good defiant child, I decided I didn’t care. So began my love letter to Scott Dikkers, to The Onion, to my father and to the school I loved so much by writing about things that could, oddly enough, kind of plausibly happen.
We live in an age many have declared the “post-truth era.” Circumstance has emboldened our nation’s highest officials to reject realities as they see fit, piling on untrue assertion one after the other. We as citizens are exposed to “alternative truths” based on unsubstantiated claims that eventually find solace in radical circles entrenched in both red and blue. We’ve created an atmosphere of dissonance and distrust towards any ideas that don’t perfectly line up with our own.
I wrote fake news to encourage people to pursue the truth in whatever they do, instead of ignoring it. Racism, classism, sexism, mental health and a whole other bevvy of uncomfortable topics can’t be addressed if people aren’t willing to speak up. Too often do we ignore the truth—whether it be in our academic or social lives—because it can make us uncomfortable. But by addressing these issues bluntly and head on, we create an atmosphere of openness and acceptability where people can actually solve issues.
Upon completion of this final column, I will likely never have the opportunity to so publicly decry so much. And quite honestly, nobody will surprised if I become a cog in the wheel of the lobbyist-industrial congress sweeping over D.C. right now and ultimately contribute to the macro issues I highlighted in my columns. But my hope is that in ten, or twenty, or fifty years when I inevitably lose myself to the sweeping tides of partisanship or a seven figure salary that I can look back to my writings and remember to dig deeper to reach the truth.
Either that, or my future enemies will pull up these columns Stephen Miller style, point to them and say “that dumb, unfunny b***h.”
Annie Adair is a Trinity senior and Spring 2017’s Monday Monday. Business inquiries and/or threats should be left at the entrance to the Blue Zone Graveyard after 3 a.m. on any given Tuesday.
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