Cover by Lesa Jae
extrovert gone quiet
redefining identity in the happiest country in the world
by Ayoola Fadahunsi
Illustrated by Angelina So
In one of the happiest countries in the world, I turned inward, a quiet countenance taking over my typically jovial spirit.
The first few weeks of my spring study abroad experience were spent in my apartment—my bed, couch, and kitchen were my most visited spaces. It seemed that introversion started to creep into my being the moment I touched down in Copenhagen, Denmark. While change is uncomfortable for some, I usually jump at the opportunity to embrace adventure and meet new people. But, after a fall semester of trying to please others at the expense of my mental health, in this new place I subconsciously withdrew from actively engaging with those around me.
I have always been a chronic people pleaser, spending my childhood trying to fit into my new identity as a Nigerian-American after moving back to the United States. Growing up in the suburbs of Virginia Beach, I was an outsider with a thick Nigerian accent and foreign lived experiences. And the years spent as an outsider looking in caused me to need validation from others to feel secure in my being. I wanted to be acknowledged.
As a bullied child, I thought extroversion was the answer. I would do anything to be seen in a positive light. In the heat of middle school bullying, I became an investigator of the actions of others, closely watching those who seemed happy, and slowly transforming myself into them. I watched intently, observing their actions, choices, and motivations. Like a chameleon, I shifted, changing my spots to blend in—to camouflage. And in high school, I became whatever the situation called for. The people who were included in conversations and surrounded by friends seemed happy and extroverted. Thus, I became the social butterfly, ready to speak or lend a listening ear, ever cheerful and ever-present.
In Copenhagen though, my ability to maintain this act crumbled, and I was forced to reconsider my understanding of happiness. Removed from my typical environment and habits in the United States, I reckoned with the one-sided nature of my associations with happiness and acceptance. What was happiness? Who determines if I am happy?
***
The World Population Review has named Denmark the second happiest country in the world, and the country typically stays in the top three happiest nations in each yearly ranking. So when I embarked on my study abroad
Letter from the Editor
Dear readers,
This past weekend I cooked a full dinner for my roommates for the first time. It was a continuation of our new Sunday night tradition—the eight of us squeezed around a much too small, scratched up dining room table inherited from the tenants before us. We had looked forward to days like this for years; when we could trade our takeout boxes and plastic forks for mismatched ceramic plates and silverware. I cooked dishes that I had no qualification to make, scrambling to piece together family recipes that I had never watched my parents make closely enough. Hours later, we had produced a meal not perfect, but beautiful nonetheless, that made me long for dinners at home.
This week in Lifestyle, our writers too reflect
journey, I was unsure what to expect—sure there were bikes, fairy tales, and the Little Mermaid statue, but I did not know what happiest country would mean. I predicted that happiness meant dynamic and vibrant personalities, the same personalities I associated with happiness growing up, the same personality I constructed for myself.
The Danish people I encountered, however, were reserved in public spaces. I realized this as I familiarized myself with mundane interactions on public transportation during my first few weeks. As I met my Danish apartment mates and Danish friends from church, this reserved nature was consistent. I always thought happy meant extroverted, yet in those first few weeks, I had to contend with the notion of happy yet reserved.
***
The terms extrovert and introvert were coined by psychologist Carl Gustav Jung. Jung maintained that these two personalities were defined by the desire to either turn into oneself or to turn outward. An extrovert is thus defined as someone who is sociable, unreserved, and seeks out and enjoys social interactions with others. An introvert is defined as a person who is reserved, tends to be introspective, and enjoys spending time alone. Jung goes on to describe these turning points as an individual channeling energy into and gaining energy from the outside or inside. While the terms “extrovert” and “introvert” were coined in the early 1900s, the term “ambivert” showed up in 1927 and translates to “turned both ways.”
According to Jung’s definition, I embodied characteristics of the typical introvert in Copenhagen. Being away from America and the extroverted identity I formulated for myself allowed me to look inward.
on rituals. Our managing editors come together to write a collection of stories on fall traditions, while Zoe gives a rundown on her apple-driven road trip through New England. Nina also meditates on nature, writing about a place in rural New Mexico and the wildfire that consumed it. Pooja talks about finding friendship during her admission to a hospital for mental health concerns. In A&C, Eliot discusses Janelle Monae's afrofuturistic discography, while Isa reflects on her first love through Clairo’s “Bags.” In post-pourri, our writer unpacks the science behind typos. Finally, in Feature, our writer reflects on being an extrovert, and how that changed when she went abroad to Copenhagen. To top it off, our crossword lights up this issue, just in time for daylight savings.
This weekend was a foretelling of many Sundays to come. Family Dinner, as we call it, is a chance for
As I reflected on my identity, I worked to confront my desire to be accepted by others and its impacts on how I presented myself to those around me. Isolated from the type of happy I had thought was the ideal, I began to see my extroversion through a new lens, one that was rooted in a harmful attachment to people-pleasing as a means of gaining admittance. I had gone from looking at others in grade school to studying myself. Alone in my apartment, overlooking Stadsgraven canal, I began to wonder if I was an extrovert by nature or if my vibrant personality developed as a coping mechanism for loneliness.
In middle school, I had actively turned outward, seeking solace in those around me as I pieced together an amalgamation of my ideal personality. In crossing the Atlantic Ocean, my shapeshifting became lost along the way, and I refused to bring that baggage with me. Peoplepleasing had been detrimental to my mental health, and I found comfort in Copenhagen without the external pressure to be social—people seemed reserved and content. Happy yet reserved.
***
My observation of the Danish people I met allowed me to settle within myself. As the months went by in Copenhagen, I began to better understand the complexities of the personalities I met. Most of the Danish people I encountered both in passing and in close friendships were indeed happy, but their happiness took on a different form than I was used to. They were happy yet authentic
Taking Danish language and culture classes allowed me to understand these nuances more. Our Danish professor explained to us that for many Danes, they have the same friends they met during their childhoods and
us to sit together, and even if just for a moment, separate ourselves from the whirlwind of our lives. As the weather begins to cool, and I search for an extra bit of comfort, I am reminded of how much I have to be grateful for, and how thankful I am to have people to share parts of home with. I hope you find the same notes of home in this week’s issue of post-.
Cooking for my family,
Tabitha Lynn Lifestyle Managing Editor
focus more on the quality of relationships as opposed to the quantity. Moreover, they placed deep value on tightknit communities. Danish friends also affirmed this notion. I noticed that, perhaps because of this intentional attitude toward friendship, Danish people did not feel the need to be overly extroverted in public, especially with people they just met. In contrast to how they were in the United States, my interactions in Denmark were simple, but real— autentisk.
When I found a Nigerian Church in Denmark, I was both shocked and excited. I was eager to find a sense of home while abroad and an entryway into understanding more about Danish identity through its intersection with a culture I was already familiar with. I was able to connect with Danish-Nigerian peers, who have now become like sisters, without the typical vibrant small talk I thought was necessary. Our interactions were genuine and honest; we all presented ourselves in a way that I now associate with both looking outward and within.
Looking back, I wonder if the change in my interactions was a result of my changing mindset or the culture in Denmark or a little bit of both. From elementary school to my freshman year of college, I was on a quest for joy among peers, and I lost a sense of authenticity to who I was in the process. In fact, I removed individuality from the equation and sought to be palatable to others. My personhood was dependent on how others perceived me and how they felt in my presence. In Copenhagen, I worked to be palatable to myself, I wanted to perceive myself.
When I acknowledged that it was time for me to turn inward and decide exactly who I wanted to be, I embraced introspection. Solo adventures to Thorvaldsen’s Museum, bike rides through Christianshavn, indulging in cinnamon buns at Sankt Peders Bageri, sitting in front of Nyhavn, and embracing hygge in front of the Baltic Sea all allowed me to find comfort in my own presence. It was finally time to familiarize myself with Ayoola, time to observe her choices, actions, and motivation. Copenhagen granted me the time and space to observe what mattered most.
Post-study abroad, I returned to Brown with a renewed sense of confidence and belonging. I was no longer an outsider to myself, and this shift in mindset brought me the ultimate happiness. I get to determine what makes me happy, what I choose to place value in, and how I want to present myself. And while working toward authenticity is a difficult task, I am eager to keep on changing and learning as I turn both inward and outward.
I have asked many people to describe my personality type, and when they decide I am an extrovert, I tend to agree with them. But I also acknowledge that the binaries between extroverts and introverts are not as rigid as they seem. Where I fall in this category will be up to me, and in how I seek to express myself within and outside the bounds of definitions.
the grinch hospital
feat. Ben & Jerry's
by Pooja Kalyan Illustrated by Rosa zha
Wednesday, February 7. Just discharged from the ER. Now somewhere new again: the “Grinch Hospital,” a psychiatric hospital near Brown University. It is not called Grinch Hospital, yet it feels ‘Grinch-like’ with its dull brick outside, beige walls, and white tile. Don’t get me wrong, there are paintings and artwork that line some of the walls, but something about it still feels eerie.
Colorfully painted hallways. Except the paint is chipping.
Therapists and doctors. Except no white coats, no familiarity to “medicine.”
Colored pencils and stress balls. Except no smiles in sight.
Different isn’t always good. It didn’t feel good here.
In the muggy room, I gaze down, folding origami: one lonely person in a circle of lonely people. I was sent to Grinch for a partial hospitalization program. This makes three hospital visits in the past week, and the doctors are still trying to figure out what to do with me. I glance up at people no younger than 18 and no older than 23, all of them quiet in their seats.
I explain my feelings in group therapy and share advice with others. Therapists ask me to speak less. They say others need a chance to speak too. “Why should I even be here then?” I murmur under my breath. I can just talk to my dog and he’ll gladly listen. I keep that part to myself.
Silence.
More silence. Forced conversation.
Fake laughter.
Two and a half hours go by, then lunch.
I head over to get a Ben & Jerry's ice cream from the vending machine.
I am about to click B1 when I turn to see “Miranda Ella.”
Bright red curly hair, silver rings, and ornate ear piercings.
Baggy black shirt and khaki joggers.
Colorful Converse sneakers that say: “You are beautiful.”
“What flavor are you getting?” I ask.
“Hmm. Classic Cherry Garcia for sure,” she says, giving me a mischievous smile. “You?”
“That’s usually my go-to, but this time I want to try The Tonight Dough.”
We carry our lunch and ice cream to one of the round tables in the middle of the hospital dining hall.
“So, why are you here?” I ask between bites of food.
“Well, I dropped out of college because I hated it there. Got into a huge fight with my mom. People thought I was crazy. Now I’m on a gap year, but I’m planning to transfer to my twin’s school, Grain College.”
I smile, and she smiles back.
“Trust me, I know the feeling. I went delusional for 10 days after insufficient sleep seven days prior. Now I’m here.” Miranda Ella’s eyes go wide when I say that. “It’s okay, you can laugh. It was stupid of me,” I say with a chuckle.
We exchange laughs and continue chatting about what brought us to Grinch, most of our anecdotes encompassing our experiences as young women going through hardships and health struggles. We have a lot in common: We both love yoga, argue with our parents,
“It’s good to meet a writer with an actual job.”
“Your hole is so clean.”
make art, have been told we’re crazy. We are 21 years old, laugh a lot, have strong opinions, and wear mischievous smiles.
After finishing our savory food, we move on to dessert. We crack open the lids of our mini Ben & Jerry’s, giggling about how little the therapists actually understand us, joking about running the sessions ourselves.
“You seem like you would fit in well at Brown or RISD. Why don’t you apply there?” I ask mid-bite.
She laughs before saying, “I don’t have the stats for Brown.” She stops smiling, realizing I’m serious. “Wait, you don’t think I actually could get in, do you?”
“I totally think you would get in,” I say, “especially with your story. Plus, you can cross-enroll and take as many RISD classes as you want! No such thing as failing either.”
“Really? I had no idea!” Miranda Ella is beaming by now.
Miranda Ella, who is a quiet and shy person in the group session, turns talkative with a bubbly and sassy persona. We have different stories, but we find comfort in each other. This place feels so isolating, so removed from reality. We found a way to smile through the pain of being there.
“Oh, lunch is over. Better not be late to the next session,” Miranda Ella proclaims to me.
I give her a sly smile, both of us hating the idea of going back, but at least loving our newfound safety net of friendship.
We walk back into the square gray room, empty circle of chairs waiting to be filled by nine other kids like us. We smile at each other before taking our assigned seats on opposite sides of the room.
I pull out a piece of paper and begin folding. Miranda Ella plays with her rings.
We both look down, withdrawn.
We look up, chairs now filled. No smiles in sight.
Silence. Sweet. Lonely. Silence.
about fire
ode to a place still there
by Nina Lidar
Illustrated by Nicole Molina
Afterward, the breeze stirred the ash and the ash settled back down. The breeze tried again. And again. And—whooohhh. When the flakes lifted, something small and bright and green trembled under the new caress of the mildest rays.
+ + +
Toward the end of my first year in New Mexico, we stood atop the hill at the spot we called the Cross, and I opened my eyes as wide as they’d go. I let the panorama—with its glowing greens and rising dust and the turreted school cushioned by pines—fill me up. Next to me were three friends, and we draped our arms around each other and felt the pebbles roll under our feet as our bodies knocked and swayed. This is one of those special moments. Can you believe we live here? It’ll never get more beautiful than this. Our laughter laughed with itself across the tree-furred walls of the canyon. When we laid lay down, the big rock stood tall behind us like a wave pregnant with water. We found the divots where the rock cupped our heads; it sloped into the earth and held us close. Up above opened another vast plane, blue sinking into a belt of apricot and ripe plum. The long slender fingers of the ponderosa pines whispered and tickled at the fringes of our vision. Sometimes they would drop a single spinning green needle. Sometimes the needles would drop in couplets and triads and quartets. We’d pluck
them out of each other’s hair when we stood, the blue plane sliding up and over us like a pulled shade. We’d offer the original wearer the rescued bouquets in a grand kneeling gesture.
We were never alone up there. A rustling chorus of hushes and chirrups and brushes and mournful, long notes pulsed from secret corners of the trees and brush. Quick red-feathered breasts flitted between forest shadows. Hair-thin legs tickled mine, big and round. If I held still long enough, the little bugs understood me as a new mound in their topography. They’d touch down on my shoulder for a rest before slipping back into the airstream. Down by my feet, powderpost beetles swung their brown humpbacks back and forth as they climbed pebble mountains and scaled great rutted walls of bark. I learned to watch them quietly. All we were doing was breathing the same air in the same seconds of the day.
I knew to seek hilltops after that. The spots where the earth gathers itself into a crest and pushes into the weightless part of the sky. Where the world below becomes vast and patterned. On hilltops, life is private and wildly resonant. Bathed in light and oxygen.
+ + +
Toward the end of my second year in New Mexico, we flocked, all 100 of us, to the flat and gentle trough of the river. We slipped our arms from shirtsleeves and slung them over arching branches. Pants piled into heaps. Our fine hairs raised and bristled where the breeze touched.
Blue grama grass leaned over the riverbank and dimpled the wet glass surface. Where we trod, the fronds pressed to the ground and splayed like paper fans. Dusty chartreuse starbursts poked up between our toes. They scratched at first; then the feel of them eased against our skin. Beneath them, the sandy soil molded to our naked feet.
We slid and swooshed into the water. It lapped as high as our hips, licked up to our chests when we walked upstream. The fresh cold made us gasp until our blood and the steady air reminded us we were warm. Plumes of mud flowered from the river’s floor where the current tripped a rolling stone or the crawfish pranced or we shuffled and kicked. Our arms gestured high and droplets flew around us like crystal flies.
Bright white light touched our faces and all of us glistened.
+ + +
And after that I knew to seek lowlands, too. Where the ground is closest to itself, where the world is framed by taller things. Where the grass flashes in verdant relief under the long rays of sun, and where I can flatten myself against the blades’ cool scratches. Where water flows and buoys. In lowlands, gravity is
steady and fluid and strong.
+ + +
When a shadow stole the river’s glisten from our faces, we stirred and shifted.
We swept our shirts from the branches and pushed our legs through stiff pantholes, and behind us, the river stilled. The grass stayed crouched even after our feet had tripped back up to the road.
+ + +
The fire started in the sky. Its exhales covered the sun. When we looked up, it pushed against our stinging eyes with hard gray palms.
+ + +
On the first day away we were told that we’d be back soon. Don’t worry. We stacked our duffels into a drywalled corner. It got a little out of control. It’s being taken care of. We looked out of the windows and saw that the swath of air beyond had surrendered its color. No birdsong vibrated through the panes—only the sound of motors gurgling oil down miles and miles of the paved exit strip. Seated at the edges of plastic chairs, some nodded and some clenched their jaws and some tapped their feet as the hard-faced woman talked over the tremor in her voice.
We ate watery corn and pale pasta for dinner, all of us arranged in rows in front of plastic card tables. The gray pressed from our eyes down into our chests. Our breath felt thick and overlarge.
+ + +
On the second day, we dug our duffels from the pile by the drywall and the buses rumbled us away. Pushing against the back windows was a curtain of gray.
It’s bigger than we thought. We’re no longer sure how long it may take to contain.
The flames crowning the top of our hill leaped and huffed and snarled and bore over our school with ferocious orange might.
+ + +
The fire burned and burned and burned. The sun rose and strained to peer through the heavy thick. It did this 32 times and the blanket of trees was stripped from the canyon. At the Cross, there was nothing to stir the strange gray snow from the split stumps and empty ground. Where did the powderpost beetles go when they saw the pyre?
+ + +
Time whirled us up and out and away from New Mexico. The Cross fell back, back, back behind ranges of ridges and wide sky. The river lengthened and thinned into a line, and then thinned into dissolution. Over the hill and its flats, the smoke hung like a lid, and then it fell away too. We scattered like cottonwood seeds on the wind; we touched down and our roots probed into new soils. Between us, peaks swept up and pierced through puffs of clouds, and seas of tall
grass whispered and waved, and birch forests rattled their leaves, and lakes shimmered and shivered under blustering gusts, and wherever we were, nowhere was quite like where we had been. Nowhere was quite like there.
In these new patches of land, when daylight filtered thinly through gray skies, we recalled how the light had broken over the old landscape, and we missed its glittering clarity. It took swallowing the thick musk of cities to long for the air that had been so clean and clear. Now, when the sun pooled over the horizon, it was without those wild washes of color, bright as sumac and passionfruit.
And our chests tightened when what we longed for, we could not recall without smelling the sting, or straining to peer through the gray, or recoiling from the echo of pinewood, blistering and splintering. When we pictured the river, we wondered: Is its surface still a rippling mosaic of flakes? When we closed our eyes, the crown of flames leaped and pranced, untiring, over the Cross’s mirage.
+ + +
Under the ash, a new bed of grass had just begun to sprout. There poked the sapling head of a ponderosa pine. There was the pockmark left by a pillbug, no bigger than a blue grama seed, lifted on legs unfolded for the very first time.
+ + +
Beneath the fire, it had all already been growing.
bags is every lesbian’s first
love
first love and what we’ve learned to carry
by Isadora Marquez Illustrated by Junyue Ma
Walking out the door with your bags, I miss you more than I ever knew I could. When I think back to our interactions, I’m reminded of the taste of watermelon on your lips and the smell of citrus in your hair.
You introduced me to Clairo’s inevitable, catastrophic “Bags” before I even understood what lesbian culture was. You wore matching green overalls and bucket hats in typical pre-pandemic, 2020 fashion, and you had an unhealthy obsession with all things frogs. You worked constantly, saving for God knows what—a new car, college funds, a poorly-sketched lily tattoo. You had high-top, red-laced Converse and an attitude to match, and though you were hardly five foot three, the amount of control you had over me made me think you were at least seven feet tall.
Every second counts, I don’t want to talk to you anymore.
On Friday nights, after our shared shift at Goodwill, I’d drive over to your place in my eggshell 2005 Buick, the backseat smelling of McDonald’s wrappers and wet rain. You’d connect your phone to the Bluetooth radio, kick your feet up on the dash, and vent about your kinda-boyfriend for the next half hour. Sometimes, I’d do loops around the neighborhood, my hands glued to the 3 and 12 o’clock positions. If I felt bold enough, I’d watch you through the rearview mirror, my chest painfully tight, my mouth dry. You’d ask for my feedback—on Brian, on Matt, on David—men whose names I can hardly remember, and I’d think terrible, nasty things about them all while my lips stayed in a hard line and my cheeks hurt from smiling politely.
That night, we simultaneously texted each other at 9:52 pm. I considered this a sign.
Can you see me?
Attending homecoming as a senior is essentially a humiliation ritual. That’s what I tried to convince you of as you zipped my dress up from behind, your warm hands lingering slightly on my bare shoulders. I tried not to focus on the touch, instead rushing to pull my olive stockings up my thighs. It was a strange feeling; when I turned toward you, I wanted you to look away, but almost subconsciously, I puffed out my chest, made my spine tall, tied my hair around my neck, as if to say, “Look at me.” You did—just briefly. I watched your eyes take in my collarbone, my neck, my chest, scanning, surveying, analyzing my body in the careful, calculated way women are often taught to observe others. I hated it, and then your eyes followed the line of my lips, to the bridge of my nose, and suddenly I felt very beautiful because your gaze was dark and considering and heavy. I wanted to get you to look at me like that again.
You didn’t. Your date was two hours late, sloppily drunk, and missing his green corsage. You ran eagerly to his first-gen Chevy truck anyway, and I watched, momentarily, as his greedy, dirty hands rushed to pull down your corset top.
I drove home in silence. My left hand rested on the same spot of my knee that you often held while I drove. I thought you might be the cruelest girl in the world.
Pour your glass of wine
Mitchell told me I should be just fine, yeah
Cases under the bed
Spill it open, let it rush to my head
I invite you to my older cousin’s annual Halloween party. There are fifteen adults in the room and three seventeen-year-old girls: you, me, and your closest friend at the time. Because my older siblings are decidedly cool and giving, they slip us a couple of beers, a shot of vodka, and a communal cup of rumspiked fruit punch. The alcohol makes me hazy and I watch, unabashed, as you tilt your head back and raise the bottle to your lips. I like the way your neck is on display, and my eyes follow the motion. I have enough self-control to sit on my hands and prevent my fingers from wandering. You don’t seem to notice my restraint; instead, you wrap your hands around my waist, blow hot air behind my ear. It’s enough for my sister to notice and raise an eyebrow. I try not to read into it, instead choosing to rest my head on your shoulder and count the cracks in the ceiling fan. When you laugh, I can feel the vibration through my own body, and somehow, someway, in the middle of the night, we end up on the couch, your fingers tracing smooth circles up and down the inside of my tights. It’s addictive. Until a man in a Playboy bunny costume towers over us. I open my mouth, prepared to say that we’re underage, that he’s a creep, and that ultimately, he should fuck off, until I feel,
rather than hear, you laugh at his jokes, moving your hand from my thigh to his hand. You giggle, all girlish and lovely and pleasant, and it’s nothing like your real laughter—the type that’s deep from your belly and ugly and loud. That seems to be enough of a sign for him; he whips out his phone, asks for your Snapchat despite being 23 years of age, and you exchange numbers. Bile rises suddenly in my throat, and I rush to the bathroom, heaving and gasping loudly enough that my sister comes in and ties my straightened hair back.
Tell you how I felt. Sugar coating melting in your mouth.
You find me two hours later, clutching a bottle of Mango Barefoot, a sour expression on my face. I’ve torn my fishnet stockings, and you make a comment about it, looping your pinkie finger around the fabric on my knee. I’m hyper-aware of the feeling of your hand there. Uncharacteristically, I pull away, immature and aggressively bitter because of your absence the entire night. You smile knowingly, rest a hand on my cheek, and tease me for my jealousy. I cannot stand when you do this—the way you make me feel so young, so naive, vulnerable, naked. It’s so fucking unfair. You’re so unfair. I can’t control the fact that my heart is literally on my sleeve. I make a comment, absent-mindedly, about the difference between the two of us—how you managed to get a 23-year-old’s number, and I have yet to receive my first kiss. I expect a laugh, but silence follows. I pass the bottle, a peace offering, and you take slow, small sips from it. Because I’m deranged, I watch the shape of your lip around the mouth of the bottle. You then offer to kiss me, offhand, faux-casual. My world tilts. I nod. I go for your lips, miss, then try again. It’s chaste, hardly three seconds, but so warm. You pull back, laugh, offer me a hand, and walk me back inside. My sister knows before I even tell her.
Pardon my emotions, I should probably keep it all to myself. Know you’d make fun of me.
You’re an ugly crier. I hate that I know that about you. When I pull away, you don’t fight it.
Our friendship ends on an uneventful Thursday afternoon. I hear rumors about you from mouthy teenage boys and callous old friends. I imagine David’s hand on your thigh, around your waist, and decide that I don’t care to defend you. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I join in.
I instantly regret it.
Walking out the door with your bags.
With my dad’s help, I pack my room—my life—into a single suitcase. I leave the plant you gifted me on my nightstand. I hope it dies by the time I return.
For a very long time, Clairo’s “Bags” was my last emotional connection to you. At its opening melody, I’d imagine your half-dimple; by the chorus, I could count the freckles on your nose. Sometimes, at the three-minute, thirty-second mark, I’d imagine a different reality—one where I gained the courage to tell you something, anything of substance. A timeline in which I was not aggressively closeted in rural Pennsylvania. Occasionally, when I shuffled through my Spotify playlist, “Bags” would make itself known again, serving as an auditory graveyard for unresolved relationships. For that reason, I used to resent it in all its melancholic, gay glory.
Now, at 21, I feel different. My heart doesn’t collapse in on itself at its opening chords. I still imagine your face, but it’s foggy at the edges, and I can remember the aftertaste of once-savored emotions. The stolen glances, the casual touches, the childish jokes—I’ll hold onto them as long as I can. I don’t miss you, but I do miss the life I lived before “Bags” carried the weight it now does. Perhaps every queer woman has her own “Bags” moment—a quiet anthem of first love and things we’ve learned to carry, despite moving on.
who is Cindi Mayweather?
a crash course on Janelle Monáe’s ongoing sci-fi epic that you’ve never heard of
by Eliot Geer
Illustrated by Joe Maffa
For two decades, Janelle Monáe has tipped on a tightrope toward mainstream success, yet she has seemingly never been able to fully break out commercially. As a result, very few people are aware of her ongoing multi-album science fiction saga Metropolis, which has been over 20 years in the making. Inspired by the 1927 German silent film of the same name, Monáe has been slowly weaving together an intriguing, sometimes confusing story of romance, oppression, and resistance under totalitarian control, split across four concept albums. The lore of this world goes deep, with many unanswered questions prompting fans to speculate how each subsequent project connects to the greater Metropolis narrative.
The Audition
If you’ve only listened to Janelle Monáe’s work through streaming platforms, you may be surprised to learn about her 2003 demo album, The Audition. “Metropolis” and “Cindi”—tracks four and five of this selfreleased project—are the beginnings of the Metropolis saga. “Metropolis” introduces the “Star Core Metropolis” from the perspective of a cyber girl living on the “wired side of town” who falls in love with a man named Anthony Greendown. She describes the oppression under which she lives, both socially and under the tyranny of a force called “Droid Control,” writing, “And it’s a common thought / That wired folk can be sold and bought,” and “One nation under a microchip / Neon slaves, electric savages.” These direct references to slavery are an early example of Monáe’s Afrofuturism, a perspective on science fiction shaped by Black histories and experiences.
In a 2013 article from The London Standard, Monáe discusses android oppression in her work, stating, “I speak about androids because I think the android represents the new ‘other’. You can compare it to being a lesbian or being a gay man or being a black woman... What I want is for people who feel oppressed or feel like the ‘other’ to connect with the music and to feel like, ‘She represents who I am.’” This representation of Monáe’s intersectional identities, as a Black pansexual and nonbinary person using she/they pronouns (which she would reveal publicly in 2018 and 2022), are affirmed by the track “Cindi.” This song introduces the character of Cindi (who would later become Cindi Mayweather) as a mirror-image alter-ego of Janelle Monáe, a persona she yearns to become.
Metropolis: The Chase Suite
Monáe’s 2007 EP Metropolis: The Chase Suite acts as the official “Suite I” of IV in the Metropolis saga (later expanded to VII with the release of Electric Lady), taking a theatrical approach to the genres of R&B, funk, and soul
behind its musical storytelling. This project expands upon the story of Cindi Mayweather, who is now scheduled for immediate disassembly and on the run from Droid Control-ordered bounty hunters for the crime of falling in love with a human, Anthony Greendown.
The project’s third song (and the only one to receive a music video), “Many Moons,” introduces time travel into Metropolis, suggesting a less linear view of the overarching project. The video depicts the “Annual Android Auction,” a gathering of androids and non-androids, many of whom are depicted by Monáe herself. The song ends with a spoken word “Cybernetic Chantdown,” in which various real-world and Metropolis-specific topics of note are listed, such as, “Civil rights, civil war / Hood rat, crack whore,” and “White house, Jim Crow.” These parallels transcend the diegetic world of Metropolis and expand Monáe’s fictional reality, in which she herself plays a narrative role. In a 2009 interview with Kurt Andersen, Monáe reveals that in the Metropolis universe, “Janelle Monáe actually, in 2719, worked in a superhero surplus store and she was thrown back into 2007, but before they threw her back, the Snatchers cloned her body and Cindi Mayweather has her DNA.” This self-insert of Monáe into the greater narrative of Metropolis opens infinite possibilities into how the tale of Cindi Mayweather can be read, yet illustrates the congruent needs for resistance against oppression in all worlds—in the world of today, in the world of 2719, in many worlds with “Many Moons.” In all worlds, Cindi Mayweather is a symbol of revolution, a persona that transcends the confines of time and space. The album’s narrative conclusion implies that Cindi has been captured and disassembled. The song “Cybertronic Purgatory” offers a haunting, operatic call for the one she loves, singing, “This stormy sunrise / Will die / And I’ll be with you / My love, my love.” Still, with the nature of clones, android DNA replication, and even time travel, there exists hope that Cindi Mayweather will triumph over her captors and someday return…
The ArchAndroid
…And she does return only three years later in The Archandroid, representing Suites II and III of the Metropolis saga. As it was technically her debut album, Monáe was tasked with continuing the Cindi Mayweather narrative while refining her own musical style and abilities, which she does incredibly successfully. Cindi Mayweather is now revealed to be the ArchAndroid, a messianic figure whose return to Metropolis has been prophesied by the Book of Zoman to bring androids freedom from the control of a secret, time-traveling society called the Great Divide. Each suite begins with a dramatic orchestral overture (reminiscent of Lady Gaga’s Chromatica interludes) and continues to discuss many of Monáe’s oft-explored themes.
Suite II begins with “Dance or Die (feat. Saul Williams),” which calls back to “Many Moons” through its spoken word introduction. Lyrics such as “We’ll keep on dancing till she comes” reference the oppressed androids who await the foretold return of the ArchAndroid, with dancing as a form of resistance. The subsequent three tracks, “Faster,” “Locked Inside,” and “Sir Greendown,” continue the narrative’s themes of captivity and yearning for escape. These songs precede tracks that discuss
dance as analogous to revolution and themes of war, culminating in the music video for “Tightrope (feat. Big Boy)” which directly addresses these themes by depicting Monáe and others dancing through an oppressive facility.
Suite III concludes the album with sweeping, experimental tracks, mostly focusing on Cindi Mayweather’s desires to escape to this world’s version of Nirvana, a paradise referenced by many names throughout tracks such as “Wondaland.” Still, Mayweather remains separate from her lover, as the song “57821 (feat. Deep Cotton)” announces, “Anthony Greendown your Cindi Mayweather / Will always be waiting for you.” The album concludes with a nearly 9-minute track titled “BaBopByeYa,” a track originally written in 1976 that now acts as a special call to Anthony Greendown to signal Cindi’s safety and location.
The Electric Lady
Monáe’s second studio album, the 2013 The Electric Lady, is a prequel to the rest of Metropolis, but confusingly also Suites IV and V. Monáe decided to expand the number of Suites from the initial IV to VII, leaving room for a future finale to the Cindi Mayweather saga. Unfortunately, this album remains the most recent installment of Metropolis, leaving fans to hope that they may one day receive a proper conclusion, now over 10 years since the album’s release. Still, the project offers a myriad of innovative songs that continue to flesh out Monáe’s complex world.
The album’s tracks are interrupted by frequent radio-style interludes which feature banter led by host “DJ Crash Crash,” often focusing on music sensation Cindi Mayweather and her efforts to evade authorities whilst performing pop tracks like “Dance Apocalyptic” to the denizens of the android underground. In this manner, the entire album takes the form of a radio set, with a structure reminiscent of Beyoncé’s recently released Cowboy Carter. The album particularly focuses on queer love, with a radio caller declaring on the track “Our Favorite Fugitive - Interlude” that “Robot love is queer!”, an extension of Monáe’s continued android metaphor. Finally, the project includes numerous notable collaborations with artists such as Prince, Erykah Badu, Solange, and Miguel, cementing the album as a truly historic culmination of musical talent, ingenuity, and Afrofuturist imagination.
Dirty Computer
By far her most streamed album to date, 2018’s Dirty Computer marks a departure from the Cindi Mayweather saga. The album is more grounded, directly addressing real-world topics of sexuality, American ideals, and racial violence. In the album’s accompanying film of the same name, Monáe plays Jane 57821, a citizen of a society that seeks to label differences as making one “dirty,” eliminating queerness and expression through the “cleaning” of memories.
While existing outside of Metropolis, Dirty Computer possesses several thematic parallels to the story of Cindi Mayweather, including the decision to represent both characters with the very same number. Whether diegetically connected through some unexplained reasoning or not, both stories present Monáe as a complex, intersectional member of a broken world, one that seeks to suppress the joys of authentic selfexpression. In this manner, Cindi Mayweather IS Janelle Monáe, and so is Jane 57821. These aspects of Monáe’s existence—artistic projections of her struggles, dreams, and desires—are frames through which the audience may choose to view the complex, interconnected worlds that Monáe has constructed. Monáe calls on us, the viewer, to don the persona of Cindi Mayweather in the face of our adversities, and against any and all obstacles to our freedoms. As she concludes The Archandroid, “I see beyond tomorrow / This life of strife and sorrow / My freedom calls and I must go / I must go / I must go / I must go.”
how do you like them apples you know what they say about apples
by Zoe Park Illustrated by Candace Park
I cannot recall a single point in time when I did not love apples, and many of my developmental anecdotes include them in one way or another. One of my core memories is of the day I told my mom I no longer wanted an “apple” haircut. My family gave this name to my smallAsian-girl-compulsory bob because it made my head look like an apple. I called it that because the products the hairdresser put in my hair smelled like apples, and I loved apples more than anything else in the world.
Confession: I actually really hated how round the apple haircut made my head, but it was essential to my character growth. Every day of kindergarten, I had an apple sandwich: peeled apple slices between two slices of Martin’s potato bread. I also developed numerous cavities from the amount of Martinelli’s I drank. There’s a stereotype that East Asian parents only know how to say “I love you” through cut fruit. Well, in my earlier days, I measured my love for all adults by how many apples they peeled and sliced for me.
On one of the first sweater-cold days of this fall, I was gifted a McIntosh apple. You know Pixar’s 2007 rodential classic, Ratatouille? Remember the climax, when Anton Ego takes a bite and remembers his childhood in the French countryside? That. That is how I felt biting into the succulent flesh of this apple.
It always takes me longer than it should to remember when my family moved to California. Initially, I didn’t like living there because there was an apple tree in our yard that could only produce gritty apples. I jumped to the conclusion that no matter how hard I tried, I could never get an apple on the West Coast that would satisfy me. A few years after moving to California, I started boarding school in North Central Massachusetts. I still remember being 13, eating apples every day during my free period because I remember thinking how could I not have apples right now. The fruit I ate that fall paralleled my McIntosh experience from this semester. For various reasons, I have spent the past few autumns away from New England, and I didn’t realize the extent of how that affected me. It’s been far too long; I am so back.
Over the Indigenous People’s Day long weekend, with my first-ever roommate, Hat, I did what every nuclear family in New England does: drive around to eat apples and peep leaves. Hat and I lived together during our first year of high school. At some point in our junior year, we reminisced about how viciously red the leaves had been the past fall, and the conclusion of the
conversation was that one day we would go on a road trip, an apple cider donut tour of New England. Little did I know, she isn’t actually that fond of apple cider donuts. This grand road trip that I envisioned had no incentive for her except that we would spend a weekend together––something upsettingly rare these days. Thus, the Central New England Apple Weekend Loop was born. The rest of this article will be a slightly pragmatic, more so anecdotal guide in chronological order of the highlights. We stopped many more times, but these were the places that reminded me of my love for apples, so buckle up.
1. Johnny Appleseed
Visitors’ Center Leominster, MA
Just in case you were wondering where the largest apple (sculpture) in New England is, it’s here, at the Johnny Appleseed Visitors’ Center. While this rest stop was not actually our first stop, we referred to it as such. It was also not where we intended to stay––for some context, we had no accommodations lined up. From previous adventures, we found that sleeping in the car was comfortable enough, and it was Massachusetts––we had backup plans. This rest stop was eerily close to our high school, an aspect of this trip that proved to me history will repeat itself and that this life is one big sick joke. I digress.
What I enjoyed about this site was the insistence on North Central Massachusetts’ relevance as a tourist destination. I have designated this road trip as Central New England because of this. Even though Hat goes to school in Maine, and I’m in Rhode Island, we never made it to either, or even Connecticut. So, to be precise, as the Johnny Appleseed Visitors’ Center has been, this only took place in Central New England. It was striking how little there was happening, other than the presence of an apple that can house over 20,000 more apples inside of it and the alpaca pen in front of it. There was all this fuss over the semantics, but in a state so small it shouldn't really matter. After living here for so long, I have decided that New England, especially Massachusetts, is all the same.
2. Scott Farm Orchard, Second Best Cider Donuts Dummerston, VT
While it was nice to enjoy my frozen cider and donut with live music, what stood out the most here was the variety of apples. Most of them were Heirlooms, but there were also some common classics like Gravensteins, significant to Hat and me because, on our last road trip, we had stayed in a Gravenstein tree treehouse, a story for a different time. They are better for baking, and thus a bit mealy when eaten raw and plain. My favorite was the api etoile, a crunchy, vaguely star-shaped apple. They also had russetted apples, which tasted normal but their
skin looked wicked. The cutest ones were the pine apples, which had a similar taste to the api etoile, just physically much smaller, green, and only mildly crispy.
Compared to other donuts on our road trip, these had the perfect level of sweetness, but were far too dense to take the #1 spot. They also did not have a pronounced enough apple flavor.
3. Middlebury Falls
Middlebury, Vermont
My favorite stop of the weekend was in Middlebury. Our dear friend Gracie goes to school there, and neither of us had seen her since around graduation. The most comforting feeling—after eating apples, of course—is seeing old friends. The past few years, I have moved around excessively, so I have grown accustomed to not really knowing the people around me. However, drinking cider in the park overlooking Middlebury Falls with Gracie reminded me that there are people in my life who understand me so well and I them. We only spent around 45 minutes in that park, but I’ll take any time I can get.
4. Applecrest Farm Orchard, The Best Cider Donuts in all of (Central) New England
Hampton Falls, NH
On our last day, the weather was overcast from the storm the night before. Since Friday, we had made six donut-based stops, and Hat was done. She wasn’t complaining, but I knew these would be the last apple cider donuts she would eat for years to come. Applecrest Farm Orchard was a family experience, as were most of these establishments. They had a central store to dole out half-peck bags, pre-picked apples, and of course, the donuts. Surrounding the store were overpriced activities, like a $9 corn maze and a pumpkin patch for pick-yourown pumpkins that were already severed from their vines. Throughout the trip, we vlogged our reviews, so as was obligatory, we found a spot to settle and film. Historically, over the past three days, donut after donut, Hat would look at the camera and say, “It’s okay.” This time, however, she immediately declared how delicious they were. “No way, let me try.” Oh my. In an apple cider donut, what I look for is potent apple flavor and balance of sweetness and density. This had all of that and a light crisp from the fryer; these were the treats we drove through Central New England for.
I love apples for similar reasons to why I love Hat. Apples are so heavily ingrained in my East Coast cultural vernacular, so much so that I rarely have them anywhere else in the world. But despite my passion for apples, they are not enough to keep me here for the rest of my life. What I have learned from Hat is that love isn’t tethering. She constantly weaves in and out of my life, but that doesn’t make her any less important.
Although the novelty of autumn hasn’t worn off, even as I’ve been over-romanticizing it, I could not limit myself forever for the sake of a single fruit. Initially, I was grasping onto the comfort of nostalgia that apples bring, but what I realized with Hat is nostalgia implies a memory stopped in time. What I appreciate about Hat is even though we’ve known each other for quite some time, we don’t spend our time reminiscing about the past. We are so different from the day we first met, and because of that, there is so much more for us to do out there than what we’ve already done. In the parking lot of the Canton Junction commuter rail station, Hat and I sat in silence listening to “Someone to Call My Lover” by Janet Jackson, our favorite song of the weekend. I do not know when I’ll see Hat again in person, but I do know that it will be like eating the first apple of the season in New England, which should not be confused with eating over a dozen apple cider donuts on a road trip in October.
fall traditions on foliage, pumpkins, and cool weather
by Managing Eds Illustrated by Kaitlyn Stanton
miami fall by
Klara Davidson-Schmich
For anyone who grew up outside of some key parts of the northern hemisphere with deciduous trees, fall is more of a concept than a reality. In Miami, the temperature will start to dip into the 70s, but the leaves stay resolutely green, and there are no pumpkins or apples to be picked. Still, the phenomenon of fall as leaf cut-outs of construction paper and gourds around the house is everywhere. There are pictures of my brother and I carving pumpkins by the side of our pool in short sleeves, palm trees in the background—though the environmental signifiers of autumn are missing, our adherence to tradition is strict. Pumpkins bought at Publix instead of picked from a pumpkin patch, Thanksgiving on the back porch in 80° weather. In some ways, it's strange to have the specter of New England autumn defining your own subtropical one. You grow up buying into visions of changing leaves that you’ve never seen and hoping for snow you know will never fall. In another way though, when the days are all the same and little delineates October from November, it's nice to rely on another marker for the changing days. To wait not for the leaves to turn, but for the next excuse to celebrate. To have a fall based not on the slow descent into winter, but only on tradition.
trick or treat
by Tabitha Lynn
In my family, Halloween is no small affair. October in elementary and middle school was a spectacle: a whirlwind of brainstorming, designing, and building all leading up to the 31st. The first sign of a crisp breeze in the air seemed to cue the beginning of my favorite holiday. When October rolled around in third grade, I was obsessed with Harry Potter. But for Halloween, I didn’t dream of dressing up as Cho Chang, Hermione, or even Dobby. I wanted to be the book. So we did just that: constructing a foam book and leaving just enough space for four little arms and legs to stick through the sides. Stroke by stroke, my dad recreated the Sorcerer's Stone cover with acrylic
paint. Tinges of gold for the title, specks of white to show the reflection in Harry’s glasses, a thin black line for his scar.
Harry Potter was only the beginning. Each Halloween until the end of middle school was the same: a month spent planning a costume I would wear for only one day. On Halloween night, I would shuffle around in a costume not meant for walking, the details of the art lit up by porch lights and flashlights from trick-or-treaters. Parents would open up their doors, greeted by a massive piece of foam or cardboard or tubing with a head peeking out the top.
This past weekend, I celebrated Halloween a little differently, donning last-minute costumes scavenged from my friends’ closets. Still, the spirit of the holiday remains: scouring the internet for the perfect costume, the biting chill on Halloween night, and making new traditions with the people I love.
we have fall at home by Kathy Gonzalez
The scent of pumpkin cupcakes fills the room. Heavy clouds obscure the late afternoon sky and raindrops lash against my window in rhythmic patterns. I put on my fuzzy slippers and make myself a coffee. I make space for my cat in bed and face the most challenging decision of my day yet: Gilmore Girls or American Horror Story? I pride myself on my media selection, my knack for curating a cozy ambiance, and most importantly, my ability to overlook the fact that it’s 85º outside and leaves are only falling because it’s hurricane season.
For most of my life, I have had a parasocial relationship with fall. Before coming to college, fall was a distant dream—a season I would see in movies, read about in books, and experience only on vacations to Boston or New York City. The only things Miami could offer me were endless humidity and sundrenched heat that pressed against me, holding me too close, refusing to let me breathe. To reconcile this incompatibility, it became a tradition of mine to simulate fall at home. Flannel-scented hand sanitizer, pumpkin spice lattes, wool cardigans—I had it all. It felt as though every cinnamon-scented candle I lit, every scary movie I watched, and every maple leaf garland I hung up would bring me that much closer to the real thing. One day. Soon enough.
As my fourth official fall gradually transforms into winter, I am happy to admit that I am just as, if not more, entranced by fall and its magic. Everything I longed for—the feeling of bundling up, of the crisp
air nipping at my cheeks, of crunching leaves with every step—has materialized, and I can’t help but be overcome with wonder and gratitude. I hold my tradition of simulating fall near and dear to my heart, as it gives way to new traditions shaped by the experience of true autumn. With my dreams and reality as one, I wander around these cobblestone streets just a little slower, holding on just a little longer to the fleeting warmth of the season and a new sense of possibility.
the great maffa-cheng-mooncai bake-off by Joe Maffa
Once the horror movies have stopped dropping, the tricks have burrowed themselves back into storage, and all of the children in the neighborhood have returned home with their plastic pumpkins full of treats, our family goes into overdrive: T-minus four weeks until bake-off.
Every Thanksgiving, a day which, before this new tradition even started, I already treated as a competitive eating competition of sorts, my family runs a high-stakes bake-off. Our spin on your favorite British baking competition—sans the accents and cringe-worthy ironic hosts (though the comparison has definitely been made between my uncle and Noel Fielding)—is just the single showstopper round. Previous competitions have facilitated our foray into the deep cooking unknown: how to get the perfect “feet” on a macaron, finding the delicate balance between a crunchy and doughy bagel, the nebulous definition of what exactly constitutes ravioli. I would be lying if I said we kept it civil.
My mother is the top dog—the one my aunts and uncles and cousins and, in recent years, my brother and myself, are always gunning for. She’s a perfectionist, putting weeks of testing and experimentation into that finished product she brings to the judging table, or, our Thanksgiving dinner table, complete with the turkey, candied yams, green beans, and all of the regular fixings.
But what goes unnoticed in the heat of the competition are the weeks of delicious taste-testing that I contribute to her eventual win. Believe me when I say, it is my pleasure to be a part of such a noble cause.
Halloween has passed, and to that I say: On your marks, get set, bake!
rotten to the core by Elijah Puente
Every year, the arrival of fall revives longstanding debates in my hometown: pumpkin or apple donuts, cherry or regular apple cider? People may never agree on these questions, but it’s universally accepted that County Line Orchard is the spot to be during fall in Northwest Indiana. My mouth waters, eagerly awaiting the opening day of this iconic apple orchard for all the goodies it offers and the memories it holds. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen their beehives on an elementary school field trip or left covered in the smell of smoke after a bonfire in their rentable pits. Everyone knows about this place. The donuts are always fresh, because of the constant line to get them. However, it seems they started using a cheaper dough as the hoards of people discovered this once-hidden gem. The fudge has started to taste fake. People are constantly mad that they turn the busy road into a one-way due to the severe traffic. What was once a strong source of joy has become a nuisance to the surrounding community. My family still fights the crowds to get our hands on pumpkin donuts and cherry cider (the correct answer to the debate), but our stamina is only enough for one scarce visit each season.
POST-POURRI
BEFOR E YOU GO
no strings attached typos, neuroscience, and string theory
by Tarini Malhotra
Illustrated by Chase Wu @cuubikl
‘AHAHAHXHSHA’ reads the text from my friend. ‘i cabt wait for otmorrow!’
I can imagine her fingers flying furiously across her phone, a reflection of her wonderful effervescence (and possibly the fact that she had just completed a rather passionate analysis of why Christmas movies are horrible but necessary and that she was glad we were watching the newest sappy cinematic masterpiece of the genre together the next day.)
‘SAME,’ I replied. ‘its goinh to be sp bad that its good,’ typed my fingers swiftly, matching her energy—and her proclivity for typos. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I had a full conversation with someone that did not have at least one ‘so trye,’ ‘taht,’ or ‘CHRISDFMAS TRE’ (the last one’s a bit hyper-specific—sorry.)
Here’s a fun fact: Typos can help us understand human beings on a neurochemical level. But let’s start at the beginning. Ultimately, it all comes down to guitars.
Within a guitar, it is resonance that amplifies the vibrations of strings and blends those sounds into harmonious and vibrant radiations to create ethereal works of art, like Zeppelin’s “The Rain Song” (that song is MAGIC, change my mind). If the guitar is analogous to our cerebral cortex and the strings are fine strands of neurons, then when the neurons in our cerebral cortex all fire simultaneously at a specific frequency, all parts of the cerebral cortex, separated by long distances, would suddenly begin to function in synchrony. A myriad of sights, sounds, and emotions get combined into our experiences like the medley of M&Ms, Oreos, and sprinkles on a toddler’s choose-your-own-toppings sundae. This tunes our attention and focus.
When we’re excited to tell a story, design a new cheese board for a dinner party, or rant about the adorable frivolity of Hallmark Christmas movies, the little strings within our brains spring up in a lively dance of neural networks, and neurotransmitters are spurred into action as usual, but the increased
emotional turbulence and resulting conflicting signals may cause errors in neural communication.
A study showed that during a writing activity, which requires complex neural processing, the strings of neurons in our brains generalize simple transformations from letters to words and words to sentences so they can focus on tasks expressing complex ideas succinctly. Thus, we instinctively write ‘there’ instead of ‘their’ and can understand their intended meaning. Our brains tell us what we think we’re saying, and our perception is primed to confirm that what’s on the screen matches what’s in our head.
When we reread what we’ve written and notice errors, the electric potential in the frontal lobe of our cerebrum drops by a few microvolts, leading to error-related negativity (ERN), peaking within 100 milliseconds after the incorrect muscle activity ends. Neurotransmitters like the elegant 3,4-dihydroxyphenethylamine (aka dopamine) skip merrily from string to string to provide the chemical incentive for improving one’s response (not accidentally calling Miss Anahita Miss Anandita…again).
That’s why we double- and triple-check emails before sending them out. And why we obsessively reread even our signature while writing a message—because what if we get it wrong? (Of course I’m not speaking from experience! *laughs nervously*)
But, on the other side of the spectrum, sometimes we don’t feel compelled to correct our typos. That’s when we’re comfortable enough with the person we’re communicating with to present our authentic selves. Interacting with such people provides us with pleasurable rewards or motivational experiences to the extent that ERN-induced dopamine is no longer needed to promote positive behavioral responses.
So the next time your friend sends you a four-word text with at least five spelling mistakes, one thing’s certain: While the strings of their nervous system may have misfired their signals, the strings that tether their heart to yours tenaciously persevere.
Ishan Khurana
“The smell of rain on the sidewalk. The way flakes of white fall from the sky and leave drops behind on my cheeks instead of staining my lungs gray. The way, each time I step outside, the first thing I notice is nature running circles around me, making itself known.”
—Liza Kolbasov, “As the Leaves Do” 11.11.22
“When disclosure of the self exists within a superficial sphere of dressing in a way that’s true to yourself or being proud of the music you listen to regardless of what others think, how can we turn the focus of expression to personhood?”
—Eleanor Dushin, “Am I Still Your Type?” 11.16.23
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Joe Maffa
FEATURE
Managing Editor
Klara Davidson-Schmich
Section Editors
Daphne Cao
Elaina Bayard
ARTS & CULTURE
Managing Editor
Elijah Puente
Section Editors
Emily Tom
AJ Wu
NARRATIVE
Managing Editor
Katheryne Gonzalez
Daniella Coyle
SOCIAL MEDIA
Managing Editor
Tabitha Grandolfo
Section Editors
Alex Hay
Eliot Geer
LAYOUT CHIEF
Gray Martens
Layout Designers
Amber Zhao
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Romilly Thomson
STAFF WRITERS
Nina Lidar
Pooja Kalyan
Ana Vissicchio
Gabi Yuan
Lynn Nguyen
Ishan Khurana
Eleanor Dushin
Sofie Zeruto
Evan Gardner
Isadora Marquez
Sydney Pearson
Ayoola Fadahunsi
Samira Lakhiani
Ellyse Givens
Ishan Khurana
Will Hassett
Lily Coffman