The Fashionably Uninformed of St Andrews

How a culture of performance and ignorance creates monsters

I once overheard someone say, “I just don’t really care about what goes on in the world.” It was delivered with a shrug and charged with all the drawling absentmindedness of a modern-day Marie Antoinette who, from her high tower, drowns out the plight of the masses far, far below her Flabelus-adorned feet. Although in the case of Marie Antoinette, she was genuinely, wholly, and completely ignorant. Our three-street aristocrat, however, is not — she’s completely OK with ignoring the information she has near total access to. A famine in Gaza? Let them eat cake, and drink Spoiled Life matcha.

I’ve gotten to know you all very well every other Thursday morning, during which I hand out the latest issue of The Saint. You regard the bundle in my hand — one which seeks to inform, offer up a few puzzles, and act as one of the few checks on the institution looming over us all — as if it wraps a dead fish. This is not to say that, maybe, you just can’t be bothered with solicitation at 9am, or that The Saint is without its flaws —  rather, it’s the disdainful rejection of a free newspaper that I find particularly disconcerting. A few weeks ago, when one of my fellow editors asked a passer-by if they would like a copy of The Saint, this person declined and instead said that they prefer “not to keep up with all of that.” If this is your attitude towards student journalism, I can’t imagine, when it comes to larger media outlets, that your thoughts are at all more charitable. 

I fear that many of you hear the word “journalist” and instead think “whiner.” You consider headlines and news breaks tasteless attempts to rain on all of your out-of-touch parades, displaying enough reality to muddle the illusion concocted through your very unrealistic looking glasses. But it’s not only how you see that’s the problem — it’s also how others see you. Between the wax dripping down the thrifted candlesticks and the Louise Carmen notebook of slam poetry, you appear to possess all of the aesthetic charm expected in a French salon. But I’m not fooled by your hyper-stylised Pinterest boards — I know there’s a significant chance that you didn’t even bother to mail in your ballots during last year’s election, and may not even have a clue who holds the seat majority in Parliament. 

I will say, to your credit, that your ignorance is not something you flaunt. It never makes an appearance on the front steps of Aikman’s, and it’s certainly not used as a quirky pick-me party trick either. In this town, it is enough to wear floor-length trench coats and hand-roll your own cigarettes for people to assume you know what goes on in the world around you. You say you want to detail cultural critiques like Joan Didion and write the next best Gothic novel like Mary Shelley, in which case you must know that Joan Didion wouldn’t have gone to Haight-Ashbury if not for the countercultural hippie movement, and Mary Shelley wouldn’t have been so drawn to the gothic if not for the 1815 eruption of Mount Tambora. They are worthy idols — and two individuals who sought inspiration from the world around them. But you don’t need the world — perhaps the emotional turmoil of your on-again-off-again situationship is inspiration enough. At least take my advice on this front: Before volunteering to contribute to whatever student-run satirical magazine pops up in town next, make sure you are at least aware of what exactly is being satirised first.  

Perhaps, in the throes of the oversaturation of information in today’s world, we forget the profound privilege that it is to know anything at all. We attend one of the world’s most prestigious and rigorous institutions and therefore have constant access to libraries, lectures, museums, research opportunities, academics, and every major publication out there. We happen to exist during a particular time in history when there is an abundance of information at our fingertips — a condition which fashions your ignorance both difficult to conceive of and impossible to excuse. 

On the other hand, to be able not to know is also a privilege in and of itself. I’ll admit that in a town as beautiful as this — one where time seems to stop and the medieval streets seem untouched by the many centuries-worth of international strife — it’s difficult to conceptualise even the possibility of any exterior ugliness. From your South Street flat, the photographs you see of families escaping California wildfires and birds’-eye views of Sudanese mass graves exist in a far-off corner of the world, which only matters in the 0.05 seconds it spends occupying your screen before you scroll past. 

And I’m sure that, should you witness it first-hand, it probably would have an effect on you. But is it really that you would need to witness this trauma yourself to actually care about whether or not it’s happening to other members of the human race? In other words, are you so wrapped up in your own life that you can’t bother to give a s**t about what goes on beyond your own cushy corner of the universe? Maybe ask yourself that next time you just don’t want to get involved. I bet those faraway people wish they didn’t have to either. 

But these problems don’t need to creep up on you directly for you to feel their impact. Consider this an unwelcome newsflash: The world’s problems will involve you whether it matches your Instagram feed or not. Climate change will cease being a background concern when it’s too hot to wear your vintage Ralph Lauren sweater in November, and the rise in tariffs will manifest in the prices at your local cafe skyrocketing to double what they used to be. Once your time in this town comes to an end, you’ll find that you’ll no longer be able to wave off life’s turmoil with a giggle and a curtsey. The world’s tragedies will suddenly hone in on you from every direction, and you won’t be able to click your heels together and ignore them any longer. Toto, I have a feeling we aren’t in St Andrews anymore. 

So, while you still can, be sure to write this article off as the vindictive word vomit of a student journalist who feels cheated out of kudos. Although let the record show, I’ve never written anything for recognition. Most journalists don’t. When we welcome public scrutiny, self-endangerment, and meagre wages, willingly seeking out the career is the result of a kind of reluctant obligation. It’s nowhere near as glamorous as existing off of some mysterious source of income (i.e., Daddy’s credit card), but, believe it or not, someone has to care. I also didn’t write this to ruffle anyone’s vintage maxi skirts, either. The people whom I wrote this about probably have no idea that I’m even talking about them. But to all of you fashionably uninformed who have made it this far, maybe this is an article finally worthy of your attention — it is about you, after all.  

Illustration by Eve Fishman