Cover by Kaitlyn Stanton
untying my tongue
on bilingualism, privilege, and alienation
by Nahye Lee
Illustrated by Julia Park
When people realize I am bilingual, there are usually a few things they want to know. Starter questions, if you will: Do you dream in English or Korean? Which language do you think in? Do you translate between the two languages in your own head? How are you so good at English?
I laugh politely. The truth is that sometimes even I am not sure when one language ends and the other begins. I read English books while watching Korean movies, write English essays while texting in Korean, give presentations in English and laugh about them with my friends in Korean. Within my slippery dreamscape, I speak some strange amalgamation of both. I never consciously think about which language I am thinking in. There are words in both languages that I cannot translate, certain gaps in my understanding. There are things
Letter from the Editor
Dear readers,
I have a confession to make. Unlike all of the other 12 editor’s notes that I’ve written under duress of time, hunkered down in the corner of our charming little production room, I am writing this final one—lucky number 13—ahead of schedule from the comfort of my beloved School of Engineering Café. I spend a lot of my time here, amongst the crossfire of conversation that has frequently graced our “Overheard at Brown,” surrounded by parasocial acquaintances with whom I’ve lived my entire college experience, and, when I’m lucky, shared with my closest friends. Today I chose here, my second favorite student hub on campus, so I could cherish every last moment I have in my first Tonight, I’ll gather for the last time with some of the most compassionate, loving, hilarious, brilliant people you’ll ever get the good fortune to meet, and we’ll polish up this final edition of post- for the semester. There will be a cornu-
I can say in Korean that I cannot say in English, and vice versa. My bilingualism is not so much a translation as a conscious rejection of it. To be translatable is to be binary, forced to pick between an origin and a target language, and subjected to the expectation of faithfulness to an original text. But what would I be faithful to? Who would I be translating? What could I reasonably claim as my original text?
Recently, I have been asking myself: Why can’t I be both? Why can’t I be fluid? I can’t shake off the idea that defining my bilingualism as a state of constant translation, of conscious switches between languages, means chasing my own tail forever. At some point, I begin running in circles—this could be a better essay written in Korean, but there are things that are better expressed in English, but there is a word in Korean
copia of snacks, and a mushy icebreaker, and a few top ten candidates that we’ll inevitably need to cut. Undoubtedly, I’ll queue Silk Chiffon, and These Walls, and Buddy’s Rendezvous, those songs that will forever live in the post- corner of my heart. We’ll rehash some memories of ghostwriting, and last minute collages, and homemade chai, and dogs eating homework. I admit that there have been weeks over the past four years that I’ve wanted nothing more than to speed out of this room as quickly as I can, get to Jo’s before they stop making panini’s, finish up that assignment before midnight, race over to my next extracurricular. Tonight, I’ll take my time.
I have an invitation for you, to whom I am so grateful that you have chosen to spend your time and your attention on us, to cherish the stories we have this week. In Feature, Nahye unpacks the privilege and alienation of being bilingual. Narrative is stretching the limits of time, from one lightning quick Eras tour trip up north in Sarah’s piece to one century well-lived and -loved in Ana’s story about her
that I really want to use, but you could also substitute that word for this phrase in English, and so on. I don’t want to be pacing back and forth between English and Korean, trying to translate my existence into a tongue that is always intelligible.
A few weeks ago, the Brown Daily Herald sent me a staff demographic survey. One of the questions was: Is English your first language? I was given two options, yes or no. I paused, considered for a moment, and skipped the question. At the time, my answer felt deeper to me than simply an exercise in memory—although I truly didn’t remember if my education in hangul began before, after, or during my enrollment in English-language kindergarten. To select either option felt like a claim to one identity, and an abandonment of the other.
grandmother. Our Arts & Culture for the week has us looking at the delight of Wicked’s press tour and the comfort of The Real Housewives with Ann and Sofie’s pieces respectively. Meanwhile, Lifestyle writers Reina and Katherine are looking local, with the former learning to love our little Providence, and the latter turning her house into a home with seasonal decorations. For a game this week, we’ve assembled the dream team—AJ, Lily, Will, Ishan, and Tabitha—to create our second ever full-sized crossword! All hands on deck for our last issue, as we also have tiny love stories from Faith, Mason, Camryn, Elysee, and Olivia in post-pourri as well as Tarini’s reflections on her classroom doodling. There’s a lot to love this week, so take your time with it—hold it tight, hold it close.
And now, to finish this final editor’s note that, honestly, I started writing before I even wrote my first. See, way back in December of my first semester, my first editor-in-chief— Olivia Howe, our whimsical, warm, wonderfully-wacky leader—coined the term “post- ghost” in her farewell to this
To say Yes, English is my first language, I felt that I became, somehow, less international. This was neither good nor bad. I would have liked not to be a foreigner, to some extent, or not to be perceived as one. This option allowed me to innocuously become less foreign, less immigrant, through implied early association with the lingua franca. But did I really want to be American? I had never seen myself as one, so why did I want to squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself that being someone different was was suddenly desirable? Did my desire to belong here ring so deep that I was willing to renounce my language for it?
When I consider my relationship to English, something always lingers in the back of my mind. It is the feeling that I am not supposed to speak English, that these words I am writing now are only mine because my parents could pay their daughter’s way through an international school. My English is a product of good fortune more than anything else—I keep thinking about the many lives I could have led in which I learned English as a second language in the confines of textbooks.
I feel unnatural, manufactured. Wholly manmade.
Speaking English in Korea was equivalent to going against the grain, the natural way of things, the life I was meant to live. It also implied that I had to forge something worthwhile out of my education since we had already given so much to the pursuit and fruition of it. I don’t consider myself a native speaker of English the way Americans might because there were strings attached to the English alphabet I learned: a silent agreement that an English education was an investment in my future, that my fluency was a debt I would have to repay to God knows who. I had to be good at English. I had to be in America. Otherwise, what would all of that have been for? Where would all that money have gone?
After deliberation, I think I told the Herald that English was not my mother tongue. The term “mother tongue” implies a home, a family, a mother. It reminds me of the place that birthed and raised and challenged me, not the country I feel obligated to die in.
-Now I realize I consciously rejected identification with the monolingual majority when I was in Korea, not knowing what a privilege it was to be able to live with a language coherent with the person I am. I still remember laughing with my friends over our pronunciations of the word “latte”— where Koreans broke the word into two syllables, la-te, we (because we weren’t Koreans) would repeat the word in our American accents. Why would you say it like that, my friend would giggle. They can’t understand you.
Not being understood was a privilege we carefully hid. My mother would sometimes tell me to only speak Korean when I was out with my friends. She’d never tell me why, but I knew what was implicit in her advice. To speak fluent English indicated certain things about our socioeconomic status: wealthy enough to pay for a private, English education, to pay for a college education abroad. It was the privilege of
magazine. This was the first in my eternal canon of magical post- goodbyes, followed by Kyoko, and Siena, and Aditi, and Kimberly, and too many of our brilliant writers who have bared their hearts and opened their souls for this magazine. Since then, I’ve been obsessed with this inevitable parting piece, so much so that I have started six, yes six, separate Notes pages all titled “post- endings,” filled with disjointed sentences about the endearing charms and quirks of this sweet, sweet group of writers and editors and readers and illustrators and designers. How to capture my unbounded love for all these people, for telling their stories, for carving pumpkins and hanging trinkets on the wall and oversharing and coming together because we agree how important and powerful and beautiful this all is? The past three and a bit years have gifted me this family for which I will never have the words to fully express my adoration and appreciation. All I can say is thank you.
Joe Maffa Editor-in-Chief
being in proximity to America in a country where 89% of its citizens indicate favorable opinions of the US. English set us apart, made us different, maybe even better—but in doing so, it alienated us from the country we lived in.
I came to truly recognize the extent of our isolation when I was in sixth grade. On a class trip to a golf course, my friends and I had been casually talking in English when one of the workers came up to us and said: Do you think you’re better than us? Those words and my mother’s warning had been built on something very real: an underlying sense of unfairness that we were given the opportunity to learn things they could not. It was the acidic feeling that, just by speaking, we were rubbing our privilege into their faces—the privilege granted to us not because we were better, but simply because we were lucky. Language indicated this chasm: us vs them, me vs you, the haves vs the have-nots.
I understood that, to some, I was no longer Korean in the same way that they were. I did not have the same claim to my country that they had. In my head, I rationalized this: The world in which I had been raised and educated was different, and the English alphabet was proof of it. I told myself that this estrangement was not surprising, because while they had been born to live here, I had lived here only to leave. Thus, as I grew older, my English redefined itself from a shared joke to a personal burden.
Therefore, it is difficult for me to grapple with my bilingualism and the consequences of my education. No matter how many Korean books I read, I will never be able to communicate in Korean the way I can in English. It’s a paradox that I am more eloquent in my second language than I am in my first, that I am pursuing a university degree in my second language when I probably speak the same level of Korean as the average high school student. That I will grow more and more distant from my home, my mother tongue rotting in my mouth, while living the language I am beholden to. I am torn between pride in my accomplishments and a profound sense of self and national betrayal. My fluency feels like an abandonment and condemnation of Korea, linguistic and otherwise.
–
In late October, a friend and I made the four-hour train ride to New York City to see a K-pop group performing there. When the members began introducing themselves in Korean, I started to cry. It was then that this amorphous feeling—betrayal and confusion and displacement— took the shape of fear. Before that moment, I had not understood that to be fluent in English did not mean that I was comfortable in it. My American accent didn’t mean that I wasn’t constantly thinking about things that I’d said that a native speaker would have said better, or that I wasn’t listening to my friends speak English and secretly picking phrases from their conversations to use later. What did it matter that I could participate in class discussions like a native speaker? To be forced to exist in a language I didn’t recognize as entirely mine was another challenge I
MOTHERS
had not anticipated.
So, the realization that I did not need translation to understand what the members of the group were saying had driven me to tears. I think it was perhaps the strange newness of that experience that affected me so deeply. I’d never lived in a place where I’d had to make an effort to speak Korean, and I realized that, subconsciously, I’d forgotten that those places could even exist. That was the first instance I felt truly homesick in the two months I’d spent in the United States. I’d had to come face to face with what I lacked to recognize that I’d suffered, even unknowingly, from the absence of it.
Korean is my mother tongue. Now, I am forced to reckon with the consequences of being foreign to it— for the past few weeks, I have found myself increasingly overwhelmed by the idea that, impossibly, I am losing what used to be so certainly and effortlessly mine. A few days ago, I was practicing for a job interview that would be held in Korean. I’d given myself a list of possible questions and was attempting to answer them on the spot. No words can explain how damning it felt when I realized that I was now translating from English to Korean—that somehow I was wishing that the interview would be conducted in English, because my Korean, even to me, sounded broken and unprofessional, and because there were words I wanted to say in Korean that I could not come up with on the spot.
I texted my friend: I’m scared they’ll ask me a question in Korean and I won’t be able to answer it.
She responded: No way.
But to me, this was a real fear—why did I sound like a foreigner in my own language? How could this happen to me? I’d sounded out my own unscripted answers just to find that I’d used the same five academic terms over and over again, and even then I’d stumbled over the pronunciations of words that I’d never even thought about before. Who was I without this? Who was I without my mother tongue? Who could I even hope to become?
In her 1982 book Dictée, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha writes: “I speak another tongue, a second tongue. This is how distant I am.”
For some reason I cannot explain, I know that there is a chasm between the place and language I left and what I will return to come December. I am afraid that I will discover that nothing is as I remember it: a rude awakening that spurs the realization that there is simply no way to return to, or belong to, the country that I left. That things will always change, and thus, as a person that left one home to become a foreigner in another, I will never exist wholly in one country.
To me, my bilingualism is no longer proof of my competence, intelligence, or socioeconomic status. It is, rather, evidence of the distance between my country and me, my family and me, my mother tongue and me, me and myself.
“It was not inappropriate but it was complex.”
“I got into grammar because I was bullied in middle school, so I was like might as well.”
24 hours in Toronto life is more fun as a tourist
by Sarah Frank Illustrated by lulu cavicchi
I was sure that something was going to go wrong. I had never left the country before, and I convinced myself that the moment my passport was checked, I would discover that I was living a lie. Perhaps my name wasn’t actually my name. Maybe I had unknowingly committed a crime. Maybe they’d arrest me right there in the Philadelphia airport where my layover was. I was convinced that somehow I wasn’t going to make it to Toronto at all.
The funniest part is that in the first place I got a passport just in case—too many of my friends have had to trek to Boston to get an emergency passport, or to church to pray that theirs would come in time. I got my passport just in case the opportunity to travel internationally presented itself, and sure enough, it did. Ellie, one of my best friends in the whole world, and her family scored tickets to the most coveted event of the year: the Eras Tour. And not just the Eras Tour, but one of the last shows ever. Her friend’s family had somehow, by the grace of the musical gods, also gotten tickets, but they ended up not being able to go. I was all too happy to pay Ellie’s friend twice what she had paid for her ticket, knowing that the cheapest resale ticket for the event was somewhere around $3000 Canadian dollars (which is not much better in USD).
Our first flight, Providence to Philadelphia, left at 6 a.m. Ellie and I planned to meet up at 4:30 a.m. between our dorms. I reach the spot a few minutes early; campus was completely quiet. I’d never seen it so still—no people except for one jogger, no sound except for wind and distant cars.
Skunk
In bush
Ellie’s texts arrived at the same time that Uber alerted me the driver was one minute away.
Skunk aside, we made it to the airport with plenty of time to get through security and find our gate in our quaint, beloved T.F. Green airport. Other than being at the crack of dawn, the flight was fine. It was the second flight that worried me.
I’m sitting in the international terminal of the Philadelphia airport, sweaty from a 15-minute walk here and the unwise decision to keep my crewneck sweater on throughout. Ellie, an experienced traveler, assures me that everything will be fine, but my heart rate is unreasonably high. I check my bag for the seventh time: yes my passport is there, yes my passport is real, yes this is the right gate at the right terminal at the right airport. Finally, when the gate agent calls for boarding, we line up, Ellie in front of me. I hand my passport to the gate agent, my hand a little shaky. She looks at it quickly, passes it back to me, and is already on the next person. I nod to no one in particular, and move forward to scan my boarding pass.
The screen flashes red and my heart drops into my stomach. Ellie is already through, standing outside to walk to the tiny plane, but she turns around when she realizes I am no longer right behind her. The gate agent doesn’t have an ounce of expression on her face. I try to glance at the screen to see what the problem is, but I can’t make sense of it.
“May I see your passport?”
I’d put it away since the other agent already checked it, but I fumble with my bag to get it back out. “Yeah, of course, here you go.”
She scans and looks at it. I watch her look at it, combing her face for any information on what the holdup is. How serious of an issue is this? I feel the staring eyes of the people behind me. The woman types a few things, clicks a few buttons. “Alright, you’re good to go.”
“Thank you,” I say with more gratitude than she would guess. When I see my assigned seat, it clicks: perhaps it was all about exit row eligibility. I settle into my seat and feel my heart rate slow.
This flight is short too: too short to fall asleep, but not short enough to evade boredom. I watch a Netflix show that I’m only half-interested in until we land.
In customs, instead of the screen that asks you questions about what you’re doing there, it prints me a blank slip that says “Inc,” telling me to see the customs officers. I look around for someone to ask about these kiosks, but there’s no one to help.
I try a different machine, pressing my passport firmly down to scan, and am then prompted with the questions. I feel rather silly selecting “1 day” for the duration of my international trip, but I see other girls with hands covered in sparkly bracelets and realize I am in good company.
Post-customs, I ask Ellie if we can make a quick detour on the way to the Airbnb to the main Toronto site I want to see while here.
An hour later, Casa Loma looms above us, a 19th century castle that makes you wonder why we don’t build things like it anymore. It’s a Gothic Revival masterpiece, a collage of sandstone and marble. Countless turrets, around seven or eight stories of gilded window panes and curtains peeking out from the inside. From above, a large Canadian flag flaps in the wind, with other tourists posing under it.
“Life is so much more fun as a tourist,” I say, skipping over to that area. I’m savoring the grandeur of it, the detail, the excitement in the air.
We place our bags a few yards from the castle’s black metal gate and take a few photos, although I’m not sure there is such a thing as enough. Something about only being here for a day makes each photo feel urgent, like the memory will disappear unless I preserve it somehow. I saw these things. I went to these places. Where we are standing looks like the inspiration for Beauty and the Beast, and I’m confident there’s a library at least the size of my apartment inside those sandstone walls.
From the back of the house, there’s a clearing of trees that opens up to a view of downtown Toronto. Only a few other people are back here, all of them with wristbands indicating that they paid for the tour ticket to see this view. If I had more time, maybe I would have paid to go inside, but the outside is enough for me.
After savoring the view for a few moments longer, Ellie and I exchange a look that says, “We should probably go back.” In unison, we move towards the other side of the house.
Ellie tugs our luggage back towards the black gate we originally came in through. From far away, it looks closed. Sure enough, once we get closer, we can see that it is not only closed, but also locked. A heavy metal bar latches it in place, with a metal chain wrapped around the bars and a padlock dangling from the end.
“Oops.” I laugh. Ellie looks more concerned than I am, which makes me feel an inkling of concern too. Still, I
find it kind of funny—this gate would have been covered in signs if this was America—“do not enter,” “not an entrance,” “maintenance only.” But no, here in Canada, the gate is trustingly left open, no signs to be seen.
I shrug. “Well, we could always play dumb American tourists.”
Ellie watches me undo the bar, the chain, the lock. We check around us, confirm the coast is clear, and slide through the opening I’ve created.
“But won’t they notice it’s been opened?” Ellie asks once our luggage is safely through.
“Hang on.” I reach my arms back through the gate and reinsert the metal bar, rewrap the chain, leaving the lock dangling as it was before. “Close enough!”
After a quick stop at the Airbnb, we head down the block to St Lawrence’s market, where rows and rows of vendors sell raw meat, vegetables, pastries, and bread. The place smells like Whole Foods but reminds me of Faneuil Hall back in New England. We grab steaming bowls of ravioli Bolognese, and I’m pleasantly surprised when the charge that pops up on my credit card is less than I thought.
We then head to the Distillery District, a Canadian Disney Springs, minus the Disney magic but with plenty of signage encouraging trips to Orlando. Restaurants, bars, and kiosks offering hot chocolate and liege waffles line the pedestrianized streets. There are chain stores I recognize and places I’ve never heard of, all of them fun to look around. A massive Christmas tree stands at the center of the place, and holiday music pumps through the speakers.
To the locals, this might just be their local outdoor mall or weekend activity. But to the tourists, this is a memory. “Once again,” I say in between video clips, “life is just more fun as a tourist. Everything is special and new and exciting. Even this!” I point to a tinsel-covered poutine stand.
Rain eventually comes in, stronger than the promised drizzle, whisking us back to the Airbnb earlier than planned. The wind is so strong that I swear if I jumped I might never come back down—whisked away like Mary Poppins but without an umbrella.
With just a few hours before the concert, Ellie’s mom calls and tells us that she and Ellie’s sister have been stuck on a bridge for almost an hour. The bridge spanning the gap between Detroit and Canada has been stalled completely. Car-in-park type of traffic. I immediately Google two things. According to Maps, if they don’t start moving soon, they will not make it in time. And according to a Canadian news outlet, a truck caught fire on the bridge. After almost ten minutes of weighing options, we agree to wait another half hour before making a call.
Three phone calls and a new StubHub account later, I’m listing their tickets for sale. They sell in under a minute, and as soon as I’ve made sure that the payment information is updated, we rush out the door and begin our half-hour walk to the stadium. We are accompanied by hundreds of other people, a pilgrimage to the greatest concert any of us will ever see. Sparkly dresses, cowboy boots, handfuls of bracelets, giggling voices, red lips, star-patterned tights. Every single color of the rainbow, iridescent, gold, silver, holographic—the night is dark, but the crowd is bright. Alive. Radiating excitement.
Once we are inside the stadium, the wild joy in the air is undeniable. Pure strangers are completely approachable, ready to trade bracelets and then never see each other again. I’ve traded almost half my bracelets before we make it to our section: a straight-on view of a stage I cannot wait to see come alive.
I don’t think of the 9:00 a.m. flight the next morning, or how early I was up today. I think of the three-and-ahalf hours of music and dance and life and love I am about to experience. Just like at Casa Loma, I take photos to preserve every moment so I can’t forget it.
The show is the fastest three-and-a-half hours of my life—over before I even process its beginning. I’m crying then laughing then screaming then doing some weird combination of all of it. It feels so incredibly human to be here, singing along with 50,000 other people and feeling these emotions together.
And I’d give anything to experience it all over again. My trip to Toronto might have only been 24 hours long, but I was awake for 18 of them, and they were some of the most fun, exhilarating, joyful 18 hours of my life.
a century wellloved
what’s the secret to living to 100?
by Ana Vissicchio Illustrated by Ava Buccino
20 years. In January, it’ll be 21. That feels like a long time, probably because I have nothing longer to compare it to. But this weekend, I came pretty close.
A large VFW Hall 5253, off a random road in Albertson, New York, filled with a little under 200 relatives and a great-aunt turning 100. Fourth cousins, awkward recent in-laws, and stromboli. Name tags that specified, “Susan’s husband” and “John V.’s son.” Stepping inside this enormous and poorly-decorated event venue to a long-overdue family reunion, I soon met second cousins from Alabama and third cousins from 15 minutes outside my college town. I learned that I have a lot, a lot, a lot of relatives named Joey. I hugged my 100-year-old great-aunt Angie, who recounted the last time we saw each other with an enthusiasm and attention to detail that even I couldn’t match.
Her memory was sharp, startlingly so, as she described that church we were in years ago and how she had handed me down her ring embossed with an “A.” She was so thrilled to see me then, and just as thrilled to see me now. So many cherished faces showed up for her that day—while I expected her to recognize me, I didn’t expect it to be with such warmth and clarity. As a photographer, Angie had always been one to capture memories, so perhaps that’s why her own were so vivid.
Despite how much life she had seen, she still remembered, still held fast onto certain memories— Angie had the remarkable gift of making everyone feel seen and treasured.
A few hours in, after all greetings were exchanged, Angie’s youngest sister grabbed the small microphone at the front of the hall. She randomly chose someone from each branch of Angie’s sprawling extended family—one for every sibling—to come up and share a story about her. As one of 12, the speeches took up a long but worthwhile part of the evening. Stories were tossed out like a bride’s bouquet into the audience; those who caught them clapped, cheered, and wolfwhistled. She soaked up the love and adoration with a kind of energy that refused to wane—she wouldn’t even sit down in the chair designated for her. Tales of Angie stealing her sister’s underwear and smoking pot with her nephews crackled through the mic, resurfacing for everyone to revel in.
For the first time, I noticed the heavy New York accent that so many of my relatives still had. Their slang and lingo, the way none of us could hear half of what they were saying because they talked with their hands, waving the microphone away from their faces. I felt so distant. I knew none of my second cousins or relatives the way the previous generation did—growing up together, living in the same neighborhoods, relying on family for everything. And now, not too far away from that same
neighborhood, but decades later, she still was a marvel. 100 years—she had lived almost three lifetimes and retained the energy of a teenager.
Angie’s milestone gave me a new lens through which to see family. A century isn’t just a number; it’s a map of resilience, change, and continuity. How does someone witness a hundred years of life and still beam with that much light? We joked about uncovering her secret: Was it oatmeal every morning and a chunk of dark chocolate every night? That she didn’t bother with driving and walked everywhere instead? That she hadn’t tied herself down with a husband until later in life? That she had a job she loved?
Looking around at all those name tags, at my cousins from Alabama and Joeys of every generation, I wondered a little more about this “secret.” Perhaps the answer was the ginormous family who loved her dearly.
The barren veteran memorial hall didn’t need decorations—the sparkle of life in that room was enough. It was there in the shared stories, the laughter, the little moments of reconnection. Family has a way of transcending physical spaces, offering belonging even when everything else feels distant or fractured. It’s hard for me to stay connected to my immediate cousins, aunts, and uncles—sometimes it’s even hard to keep in touch with my own brothers. But sitting in that hall, watching my dad beaming brighter than I’ve seen in a while around his cousins and brothers, my great-aunt clutching her heart as her nephews joked about times from decades ago, I realized how deep those bonds run, how they endure despite the years and the distance.
We belong to something much larger than ourselves. In that hall, amidst the stories and memories, I understood that family is a thread that, once woven, never truly unravels.
Angie lived through decades of memories and eras of change, and somehow preserved her place in it all. A single moment, captured in a photograph or a story, can give a glimpse into a whole life. And for someone who spent her years behind the camera, maybe she understood that better than anyone.
What does it mean to witness a century of life? It means knowing you’ve left a mark, and as we saw on Saturday, Angie’s mark will be forever etched in all of us.
I realized Angie’s secret wasn’t some mystery to solve. It was all around us, plain as day, if only you stopped to look: Her family. Her history. Her joy. Her resilience.
A century well-lived. A century well-loved.
"holding space” for TikTok's Wicked memes
*inserts “Defying Gravity” riff*
by Ann Golpira Illustrated by Joe Maffa
Like most off-duty musical theater kids, seeing the Wicked movie over the holiday break was an emotional experience, second only to receiving my Brown acceptance letter. Since then, I've been religiously listening to the soundtrack, horribly imitating the "What Is This Feeling?” choreography across my dorm room, and feeling a certain sense of pride with every pink or green item of clothing I put on.
But the joy of Wicked extends far beyond the theater. Like most things, TikTok has wrapped its grimy, little digital fingers around the franchise (in the best way possible, of course). Due to my algorithm's constant gifting of these particular videos, I find myself an expert in the subject, and the lore of the Wicked memes is truly expansive. Many of the original jokes stem from the variety of joint interviews with Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande, where each video often meets at least three criteria: they both have to shed a tear simultaneously, wear their respective colors, and, most importantly, hold on to each other's fingers for dear life. The latter aspect of their marketing campaign for the movie has become a specific target of TikTok creators, as close-ups of this strange, persistent handholding often show Ariana holding on to merely one of Cynthia's fingers; imagine Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam,” but with extensively more manicured nails.
The amount of videos I've seen making fun of these hysterically emotional interviews is truly staggering. However, despite their widespread impact on TikTok meme pages, they barely compare to the proliferation of the ‘holding space’ meme. The joke originated from a recent interview between the two co-stars and journalist Tracy E. Gilchrist, where Gilchrist mentions to Erivo that she's noticed people "taking the lyrics of ‘Defying Gravity’ and really holding space with that.” When Erivo subsequently mentions how she wasn't aware of that happening, Gilchrist further elaborates, claiming, “I've seen it on a couple posts, I don't know how widespread. But I am in queer media.”
Similar to the Colleen Ballinger apology video, TikTok took this puzzling instance and ran with it. Now, fans have started joking about things such as needing to "hold space” before eating a meal, their dog refusing to go on a walk because "he wanted to hold space for the ‘Defying Gravity’ lyrics,” and even "holding space for ‘Defying Gravity’ before eating our Chili's triple dipper.” Many of my friends can attest to just how many of these videos I've stumbled across, as my daily text messages to them often consist of at least three links to these TikToks to truly spread the joy (I'm currently procrastinating studying for my POLS exam as I'm too busy holding space for the lyrics of “Defying Gravity” as well).
Another entertaining aspect of the Wicked lore includes its constant collaborations with other brands. Ranging from Victoria's Secret to Crocs (it's giving the ultimate outfit combo), the Wicked marketing team has been working overtime to paint
every brand under the sun with their signature pink and green designs. Target, one of the victims of these advances, even released a Wicked-themed commercial, in which Cynthia Erivo witnesses a variety of shoppers attempting her notorious “Defying Gravity” riff. After Erivo tells the individuals, "that's my line,” she performs the riff in the middle of the Target aisle. Now, while Cynthia's voice is undoubtedly angelic as always, TikTok creators quickly began slowing down the speed of the video until the initially wondrous riff sounded like a violently broken air vent. The slowed version and the statement, "that's my line,” have continued circulating the internet, getting slower and slower each time—it's wildly entertaining. It's even gotten to the point where my roommate and I instantly perk up each time we catch as much as a decibel of the starting note of one of these clips.
Additionally, it'd be almost impossible to continue my Wicked rant without addressing the undeniable sexual tension between Elphaba and Glinda throughout the movie (argue with the wall if you disagree). Even the song “What Is This Feeling?” clearly implies loving rather than loathing throughout its suggestive lyrics. The lines, “My pulse is rushing / My head is reeling / My face is flushing” and “What is this feeling? So sudden and new? / I felt the moment I laid eyes on you,” contribute to the song's inherent comedic implications of romance. Even Ariana Grande admitted to thinking that Glinda was “a little bit in the closet,” a greater understatement than a haughty Yale alumnus claiming they only attended “a little liberal arts school in Connecticut.”
Ultimately, the Wicked lore has been providing me with happiness amongst imminent exams, whether through the demonic, sloweddown Target commercials, the weird holding of fingers during interviews, or even—pardon this interruption in the sentence, but I need to hold space for the lyrics of “Defying Gravity,” thank you for your understanding. I truly hope you'll click on the attached links throughout this article, as the serotonin embedded in them is truly astounding.
Gen Z's terrifying access to the internet has done it once again, and the vast expanse of Wicked memes only emphasizes such. Well, that and the terrifying creativity of theater kids.
let’s talk about the husband an ode to the Real Housewives franchise and escapism through reality TV
by Sofie Zeruto Illustrated by emilie guan
Meredith Marks, so drunk her eyes are crossed, glows faintly through the midday Sunday light on my TV screen.
“The rumors and the nastiness about her, we can do that. You want me to go there with the husband? I can go there,” she slurs to Lisa Barlow in reference to Angie Katsanevas’s hairdresser husband.
I laugh—it's a flashback of a scene in season four of The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City
“Everybody thinks her husband is gay,” I tell my two suitemates, all sitting together on our giant sectional couch.
I can’t tell if they’re paying attention at first. I’m stretched out selfishly over half the couch, my eyes still red and swollen from a bad week that seems to be getting worse. It’s the first time I can say I’m thoroughly depressed in college. Last year, I decided to dub the month of November “Evil November” in the spirit of silliness and mischief. It caught on beyond my immediate friends, and I was asked several times if we would do it again this year to which I said, “Of course.” Yet a few days into November and this slump, I shook my head and declared:
“I think for me, and just me personally, it’s going to be ‘I’m Gonna Sit on the Couch November.’”
So here I am, on the couch, marathoning The Real Housewives franchise.
When I was 12, I noticed that my mom had started watching Bravo network reality shows. At dinner time, she would cook with the TV playing 2016 seasons of Botched or I Am Cait or, as I would soon come to know, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills . Surprised, I scoffed. How could my mother, the intellectual, be watching this trash television? And not only trash television
but television that seemed to portray women in such a one-dimensional, heteronormative way? I asked her something along these lines, perhaps in terms less sophisticated for a 12-year-old.
She shrugged.
Still, I would watch out of the corner of my eye. Dorit Kemsley had just joined the cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills . She had a fake British accent that would sometimes mysteriously disappear, claiming that she had simply “traveled so much” as to have picked up multiple accents. Wearing Chanel headbands that often looked more akin to pirate costumes, she would drink and shrilly scream obscenities at the other women.
“God, Dorit is so annoying,” I blurted out one day to my mom. She smiled, knowing I was hooked.
I have loved The Real Housewives franchise ever since. In middle school, my mom and I began watching episodes of Beverly Hills together as they aired weekly, watching through my high school years. Each season brought fresh drama that we would debate in detail over lunch on the weekends. Was Brandi Passante lying about hooking up with Denise Richards? Did Erika Jayne know that her husband was exploiting the victims he represented in the Lion Air crash? Here, entrenched in the Augusta, Georgia suburbs, where my mother and I admittedly both felt tired and out of place, this was our excitement: gossiping about the lives of aggressively out-oftouch rich women thousands of miles away.
Soon, Beverly Hills wasn’t enough. We began watching New York City, Salt Lake City , and Dubai . Separately, my mom got really into New Jersey , and I would binge seasons of Potomac in my room. With our combined knowledge, we were
able to watch The Real Housewives Ultimate Girls Trip together—an “all-stars” season that gathers fan-favorite cast members across all the different spin-off cities. It didn’t really make sense, but we ate up every episode. While I now have extensive knowledge of the Andy Cohen Bravo universe, my intellectual discussions have expanded beyond my mother to now include mostly Southern women or older gay men.
During my second semester at Brown, my friend, with whom I had largely hung out oneon-one, introduced me to her other friends, who I thought were way cooler than me and frankly made me nervous. In her first-year dorm one day, sitting on her bed and debating what show to watch, I suggested a reality show. After some convincing, hoping they wouldn’t think it was stupid, we settled upon Vanderpump Rules , a spin-off show about Real Housewives of Beverly Hills star Lisa Vanderpump’s restaurant, and started season one.
Perhaps inadvertently, Vanderpump Rules became an important catalyst for our group friendship. We finished season one in a few months, meeting up sporadically on weekends in our dorms to watch it or binging it on the floor of my friend’s home in upstate New York during spring break. It felt like home to me; I loved that my friends enjoyed it as much as I did, enthusiastically telling me that we should take our senior trip to California and go to SUR (the restaurant the cast works at), which we hilariously discovered stands for “Sexy Unique Restaurant.”
It’s silly, but nothing brings me more comfort than reality television and The Real Housewives . What started as an annoying hum in the background near dinner time became the catalyst for my strong bond with my mother and the foundation for the deep, caring friendships that have carried me through my time at Brown.
Back on the couch, I find myself frustratedly caught up on season five of Salt Lake City , now resigned to waiting for the next episodes to drop on Wednesdays. Whereas I once binged the series in a state of restlessness, alone in my room senior year of high school, today I find myself overwhelmed with the start of my young adulthood and coming into my own, my twentyfirst birthday looming as the precious minutes at Brown tick away toward an uncertain future. I’m unsure about everything, calling my mom in tears so many times this semester that she helped me move up my flight home for the holidays. In the meantime, I switch the channel to the latest episode of Dubai.
My roommates come home, returning from activist meetings and clinical hours and logic study sessions. The cloud looming over my head momentarily fades, and I smile as I hear the door creak open each time, swiftly followed by the thump of each of them flopping onto the couch.
“You guys are never going to believe what Lesa said to Ayan…” I start.
It feels like home because it is. I’ll call my mom later and fill her in on my thoughts. I remember that there are small things to be happy about and that I can always return to this little vice I have when I need to escape. I think about the mundanity of one day being in my mid-50s, probably stuck back in suburban Georgia, watching whatever new variant of Real Housewives will exist then. It’s a comfort to know that, when I need to, I can always have this series to dwell on other people’s problems rather than my own. It’s a bit shallow and trivial, but that’s the best comfort in the scheme of it all.
the beauty of familiarity
how a place becomes home by
Reina Jo
Illustrated by Sarah Mason Insta: @sketchbooksarah
I remember the first time I walked around Brown’s campus with my family. Only a freshman in high school, I was in awe of the hustle and bustle surrounding me. We were following the typical Northeast road trip route for my older sister, who had recently started her college application process, and Providence was midway between our starting point of D.C. and destination of Boston.
At the time, I didn’t recognize the vast lawn we passed by as the Quiet Green, nor the intimidating building looming above to be the Rock. Back then, that’s all they were to me: vast and intimidatingly unfamiliar.
It’s interesting how places change based on our interactions with them over time. The park by my house once held so much ambiguity until I explored the space with caution and fresh excitement. Since then, I have spent endless hours rolling around in the grass and climbing the many trees with my sister. More than just a rock, the boulder in the middle was a fortress against my sister when she was “it,” a throne when playing court, and endless other entities limited only by our imaginations. Now, I look back on the park as a core aspect of my childhood and what brought my sister and me together.
Just like that park, Brown is being reshaped
through the breadth of my experiences here. I have lost the initial objectivity I held when walking through the campus. I now move through the parking lot my dad struggled to find on move-in day without thinking twice. I have spent countless late nights talking in the SciLi, which I originally saw as just a bizarrely tall building among the restaurants on Thayer. The Quiet Green and Rock, which I remember as being so daunting upon my first visit, are now basic snippets of my daily life here.
Sometimes, I wish I could look at the places I am so familiar with through a fresh lens—experience their beauty anew. I feel nostalgic considering the possibility of watching the fall leaves sprinkle the ground or taking in the expanse of Providence from the SciLi’s top floor again for the first time.
However, becoming so familiar with these sights does not necessarily mean I am desensitized to their beauty. I am so grateful that my positive interactions with a space only add to its beauty, giving it a unique flavor crafted by my own experiences. Beauty is subjective and crafted by each person’s understanding of, and encounters with, a place. My first semester in Brown’s niche and now-familiar spaces have made this campus ever more charming to me.
transience and permanence
on noticing, remembering, and cherishing
by Katherine Mao
Illustrated by Ella Dayton-Yaeger INSTA: @artbyelladayton
“Tell us about a place or community you call home. How has it shaped your perspective? (250 words)”
ORDER SUMMARY:
Burrito: Rice, Black Beans, Tofu, Sauteed Veggies, Roasted Corn Salsa, Hot Tomatillo Salsa
Chips and Guac
Total: $11.38
A solid Chipotle order, right? Not quite. Ever heard of Pancheros?
Although their fresh-pressed tortillas are legendary, what draws me to Pancheros is not the food but the dining experience. The table in the bottomright corner has become more than just an eatery for me and my friends. It’s a place for us to discuss the meaning of astrological signs, grind through chemistry labs and calculus problem sets, cry over the ending of Call Me by Your Name, and gush over passing teenage boys (12:30 p.m. on Wednesdays is the prime time).
At Pancheros, I’m enveloped in a comfort and camaraderie that allows me to fully be myself. I enter a mystical world where nothing else exists. Just me, my friends, and my burrito…
This prompt from when I applied to Brown still resonates with me four years later. The section above is a snippet of the response I wrote back then. It was senior year of high school, as I was preparing to leave everything I had ever known behind. My concept of home was shaped solely by the neighborhood I had grown up in. I have lived in the same house since I was born. I followed the typical public school education path in my hometown, graduating high school with peers from my kindergarten class. In the second half of my essay, I described the feeling of bonding with childhood friends and pouring out laughter for hours, a time to simply be free as a teenager. Pancheros was our safe spot. Early dismissal? Pancheros. Post-Model-UNmeeting? Pancheros. How innocent life was.
Now, I’m a senior once again.
The garland-covered walls of my house in Providence hear a different form of laughter, one that’s lighter, richer, and deeper. This place has invited me in, fervently and unashamed. I accept its imperfections while it embraces mine. It holds space for enriching and vulnerable conversations, the most intimate moments spent in both silence and chatter. I don’t go to Pancheros as often as I used to. After May, I won’t return to Brown as often as I do now. When I do return, it won’t be quite as full of everyone who has made it worth loving. Winter break signifies the official beginning of the end, the last great returning to campus. The last opportunity for a gathering and reunion of all the people who’ve changed us and touched our souls in this community that has become all of our homes.
Over the past three months, day by day, week by week, this house has revealed more and more of its greatest unspoken secrets. I know that to avoid stepping on the one crack beneath the floorboard down the hallway that leads to my bedroom, I have to place my foot at least three inches outside its perimeter. There’s another part of the floor by the sink that pokes out a little. It feels like stepping on a small stone, but I know it’s just a natural part of the woodwork because I’ve traced the grooves and ridges of each tile countless times. Earthquakes are rare in Rhode Island, but I’m
lucky enough to experience one any time the laundry is running. I’ve learned the correct precautions to take, to remove delicate items from the counter of the bathroom next door (otherwise a glass toner bottle might shatter), and to expect the clanking of the rails around the windows (it’s okay, no one is trying to break in). I know that the dryer will never fully dry my clothes in the first two and a half hours and to always plan my time around a second cycle.
I refer to my roommates and friends in conversation not by their names but by waving my hand toward the direction of spaces around the house they typically occupy. I know that he likes the corner of the couch closer to the window, opposite the sinkhole corner. I know I’ll come home to her sprawled out across the length of the couch parallel to the TV. If it’s been a really long day, she might be asleep, so I’m careful to not let the soles of my slippers wake her up. I know she likes to sit in the middle chair at the kitchen table, on the side closer to the fridge. She helps herself to a cup of hot chocolate, pouring milk from a bottle she brought over on her own. She labels it with a sticky note and pen and puts it back in the fridge for the next time she visits. I know the jar of nitro cold brew is hers, the carton of Oatly too, both of which she stole from Andrews. The ice tray in the freezer is also hers, so I know to only scoop a single cube for myself in the morning. My mug only fits one anyway. I know if I hear Maggie Rogers playing from the shower, it’s one roommate; if I hear Billie Eilish, then it’s the other. But more recently, I’ve been hearing more Maggie Rogers from her, too.
I know that our weekly Market Shares bread will always be the centerpiece of our kitchen table, complemented by a communal bread-cutting knife on the side. I know that the New York Times poster will probably fall off again soon. Its frame is chipped around the edges, and the backs of its rims are covered with mounds of tape and putty from reusing it in my dorm rooms the past few years. I know the corner of the couch that sinks an extra amount, imprinted by us and the owners before us and the ones before them and the ones before them.
We started accumulating festive Christmas decor immediately after Halloween. Since then, we’ve transformed our house into a wonderland. Step inside and your eyes will first land upon the tree, adorned with red, green, and gold ornaments; LED lights; candy canes; and three large bows. Glance to the right and you’ll notice a garland with pinecones and berries,
hung against the front of the pony wall that divides the living room and kitchen. On the ledge, what were once mini Trader Joe’s pumpkins have been replaced by ceramic light-up Christmas trees from Target. To the left of the tree, three stockings dangle above the TV. Throw pillows embroidered with Christmas trees and Christmas-colored plaid plead for attention against the grey couch covers, only for a scarlet red throw blanket to outshine them all. A red candle fills the room with subtle notes of cinnamon. On the kitchen table, a pink candle unleashes wisps of peppermint. Their scents mingle and twirl as the faint crackling of their wicks plays a soothing rhythm. It drifts across the mini red bows that cling to the cabinets and fridge, brushes past the mistletoe hung above the bedroom doors, and weaves through the petals of holly and poinsettias.
House decorations change with each occasion. Poinsettias are known as the Christmas flower. Chrysanthemums for Thanksgiving, roses for Valentine’s Day, lilies for Easter—a joyous time for an annual reunion. Some flowers are meant to last for merely a season or two. The excitement is transient, as peak bloom sees its glory in the span of a few short weeks. Then the petals wither, the roots shrivel, until there is no foundation to support its stature. The last remnants of hope die in anguish, never to be revived again. A debilitating but pivotal learning experience. A blessing in disguise. Sometimes endings are simply part of the natural cycle of life—changing climates, terrains, and nutrients. Yet, the imprints are forever etched into the dirt where its roots once laid. On a random afternoon during a quiet neighborhood stroll, there’s a sprinkle of familiarity in the sidewalk garden. A distant cousin or a crossbred variety reemerging a few generations later. A warm glow illuminates its silhouette, a comforting reminder of the past.
Only a select few are perennials. Patient and persistent, they cling to the promise of return every year. Their roots are strong, able to endure times when life’s trajectory plunges us into turmoil, offering to navigate the challenges together.
Before going to bed, I stop for a few extra minutes. Two sources of light guide me from the living room to the kitchen. Soft beams pour out from within the ceramic trees. Twinkling candle flames cast flamboyant dances against the walls. I take in the peppermintcinnamon scent and blow them out with a gentle breath. I want these moments to last forever. This place, this community, is somewhere only we know.
POST-POURRI
BEFOR E YOU GO
there’d better be a mirrorball calligraphy, coffee, and cognitive clarity
by Tarini Malhotra
Illustrated by Hyde Flanders
On page 74 of my Goodnotes notebook for NEUR0010, nestled between noradrenergic and serotonergic system mechanisms, is the line, “there’d better be a mirrorball,” written in eclectic lavender calligraphy and surrounded by tiny, crookedly drawn stars.
I cannot explain how and why my CHEM0330, NEUR0100, and CLPS0450 notes have become my go-to outlet for cathartic calligraphy and delightful doodles. Somewhere along the line, my stress response became writing random, silly things that came into my head in loopy cursive or funky block letters surrounded by mini drawings. I peruse my Goodnotes notebook, smiling to myself as every page reveals a new doodle.
Page 23: The Physiological Importance of Occasional Silly Goosery
The strokes of my stylus are graceful and sweeping. My swirling lettering mimics the balance doodling can bring me in moments of emotional spirals. Functional Near-Infrared Spectroscopy (fNIRS) shows that doodling, calligraphy, and similar tasks activate reward pathways in the brain, enhancing our mental wellbeing. I smile as the rhythmic motions of my fingers render dainty, delicate flowers around the curvilinear words, releasing the tension in my body more effectively than pumpkin spice lattes on a tedious, chilly fall day (a significant achievement indeed).
Page 47: Pathologically Procrastinating Through Life
The jagged lines on the page that merge into flowing hearts are reminiscent of the way doodling helps disentangle mental threads, improving concentration by deactivating “focus” circuits and stimulating “un-focus” circuits. Studies show that self-control and focus are like muscles that get tired the more they are in use, and silly, sweet
scribbles provide the cognitive breaks our minds crave. As the stylus sweeps over the page, I feel more attuned to my sense of self, the doodles filling the gaps in my experiential awareness. I can distill my attention, feel fully, and appreciate expansively.
Page 86: Eternal Sunshine of the (non-) Spotless Mind
The loopy, bubbly lettering reflects how doodling circumvents the complete distraction of daydreaming by keeping people attentive when consuming long, content-heavy, or repetitive information. Psychologist Jackie Andrade’s experiment had participants monitor a two-and-ahalf minute dull and rambling voicemail message. People who kept their brain active by doodling demonstrated better recall. As I review my CHEM0330 notes, my hand forms little overlapping circles. I feel a spontaneous burst of energy enlivening my mind to learn the material.
Page 111: Pumpkin Spice Lattes are the Love of My Life
The intricate, closely-spaced calligraphy, accompanied by an iced coffee cartoon, is rendered with the quintessential quirkiness and personality I infuse in all my creative work. After all, doodling is one of the most fun and accessible modes of self-expression that, with minimal effort, provides unique insights into the psychological profile of a person, or, at the very least, where they fall on the silly-cutesy to want-to-scream-infrustration mood spectrum.
Doodling, to me, is like a pumpkin spice latte—a jolt of creative spirit, mixed with a calming froth of focus, topped with a zing of personality. It brings me uplifting endorphins, soothes my mind, and fills me with comfortable exultation. It gives my brain the freedom to stretch out like a cat in a sunbeam, with no consequences except, “there’d better be a mirrorball” in the margin of my NEUR0010 notes.
Love Song by Faith Cantrell
“Read
In a Few Words small moments
of love and life
Illustrated by Fiona McGill
I babysat you that same afternoon. You did not want to play or watch a movie. You wanted to learn guitar. I was not thoughtful like that when I was seven: I fell asleep with candy in my mouth; I burned computer paper out on the porch; I scratched plaque off my teeth with a dirty fingernail; I plucked limbs from big daddy long legs without a single care in the world. But you strummed every chord you could reach and wrote a love song for your mother. Hummed it, softly from the backseat, as I drove you to your grandparents’ house.
Let Him Go by Mason Scurry
Shake his hand. Remember his smile. Jitterbug at a party. Meet him on Wickenden. Sip an Americano. Take a photograph. Take another. Give him everything. Cry in the shower. Take it back. Console him. Text him. Text him again. Text him when he answers. Text him again when he doesn’t. Drive somewhere up north. Trap him in a promise. Forget him. Refuse a pill. Swallow the next one. Facetime through the night. Trace his image. Shut him out. Bring him back. Love him. Hate him. Kill him. Resurrect him. Set him free. Really, release your grip. Leave him be.
Cha Cha Cha by Camryn Suntha
“Mom, I love you and Jesus,” I sputtered through bloody gauze.
My tongue rolled like a balled Fruit by the Foot, foreign to my mouth. “Did you get the trophy?”
post-! This magazine changed my life.”
—Kimberly Liu, “Editor’s Note” 12.7.23
She chuckled and rattled the four wisdom teeth inside my foggy urine specimen jar. I snatched it, shimmying with the world’s goriest maraca.
Provincetown by Olivia Stacey
By 2 p.m., high tide will cover the middle of the rocks completely. Locals lie on the slanted slabs, sunbathing in the setting Massachusetts sun. The race must start now.
“Colin gets a 10-second head start. Zachy waits here. Go, Colin, go!” Dad yells.
Colin starts leaping over the uneven rocks. He looks back every five seconds to see Zach’s neon shirt and sunscreen-covered ears quickly approaching. They will run until their blonde hair is just a bobbing point on the horizon.
10 years later. Colin doesn’t need a head start anymore.
I never thought that’d change.
Anya by Elysee Barakett
My advisor says, call me Anya, and brings cookies to meetings. I can’t write a thesis, I say. She smiles. I’ve never had an advisee quit. You won’t be the first.
Anya treats me to dinner and asks how I met my boyfriend. She tells me about meeting her son’s girlfriend and how she and her husband met. She gives strong hugs. I decide I’ll write a thesis to spend more time with her.
A day before one of our meetings, I learn from an email that Anya died unexpectedly. I don’t want to be her first advisee to quit.
“I love the people who make this magazine, who were here before and who are here now and who will be here after I leave.”
—Siena Capone, “Anyway, Don’t Be a Stranger” 12.2.22
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
Section Editors Gabi Yuan
Chelsea Long
LIFESTYLE
Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn
Section Editors Daniella Coyle Hallel Abrams Gerber
HEAD ILLUSTRATORS
Junyue Ma Kaitlyn Stanton
COPY CHIEF
Emilie Guan
Copy Editors
Indigo Mudhbary
Shaliz Bazldjoo
Jessica Lee
SOCIAL MEDIA
Managing Editor
Tabitha Grandolfo
Section Editors
Alex Hay
Eliot Geer
LAYOUT CHIEF
Gray Martens
Layout Designers
Amber Zhao
Alexa Gay
Romilly Thomson
STAFF WRITERS
Nina Lidar
Sarah Frank
Pooja Kalyan
Ana Vissicchio
Gabi Yuan
Lynn Nguyen
Ben Herdeg
Emily Tom
Zoe Park
Daphne Cao
Indigo Mudbhary
Ishan Khurana
Katherine Mao
Eleanor Dushin
Sofie Zeruto
Evan Gardner
Isadora Marquez
Sydney Pearson
Ayoola Fadahunsi
Samira Lakhiani
Ellyse Givens
CROSSWORD AJ Wu
Ishan Khurana
Will Hassett
Lily Coffman
Master Craftsman
By AJ Wu, Lily Coffman, Will Hassett, Ishan Khurana,Tabitha Lynn
Across Down
1. Comparative Literature on C@B
5. What a sailor might do to tangled sails
10. Grasp or grab
14. Marriage promise?
15. Sister of Sherlock
16. The right sort of ceremony?
17. Country home to Timbuktu
18. The busiest time to climb a mountain?
20. Festive Halloween decoration*
22. He wrote "The Call of the Wind"*
23. Casual collared shirt
24. Aren't alternative
25. Truthers' opposition
28. "Do you wear ____? Have you worn ____? Will you wear ____?"
29. Ocean State Job ____
32. Thoughts or theories
33. What browns and marks have in common?
34. Peppermint stick shape
35. Master of none, or a hint to the beginnings of 20A, 22A, 46A, and 49A
38. Burden
39. What a leavened bread does
40. Key to Katy Perry's "Firework"
41. Neither's partner
42. Reader of the Guru Granth Sahib
43. What a quarterback does in "victory formation"
44. 2/3 of Caesar's final words
45. Religious subgroup
46. Long-eared hopper*
49. Toy that really pops out*
53. Gen Z's is 1997-2012
55. Onomatopoeia in a Katy Perry hit single
56. Unadulterated
57. Co-founder of PayPal
58. Infinitesimal amount
59. Substance in an hourglass, perhaps
60. Writer Lorde
61. Very pale
1. Pattern of clothing used in disguise (abbr.)
2. Shape that’s not quite a circle
3. The subject of a song by The Kinks, or a song by Barry Manilow
4. 1990s drama starring FBI Agent Dale Cooper
5. Forces back, as one magnet does to another
6. Month numero uno
7. Your favorite artist’s favorite artist’s last name
8. Of that ___ (sort, kind, type)
9. ___, gatekeep, girlboss
10. “The Flash” actor ___ Gustin
11. Brown’s artsy counterpart (abbr.)
12. “Me as well!”
13. Ivy League university founded by Benjamin Franklin (abbr.)
19. Ages
21. Top half
24. Bridal path
25. Key ingredient in the Blue Room’s honey mustard spread
26. John Hersey’s “A Bell for ___”
27. Iterate
28. “Grey’s Anatomy” Kate
29. What one may use to serve Thai tomato soup at the Ratty
30. Lakers center Shaquille
31. Trials
33. Short form poetry / centers on wind and nature / Japanese treasure
34. Location of many a food fight
36. Egg-based brunch favorite
37. Pairs well with carrots or wings
42. Mix
43. It lets off steam?
44. Subsided, like the tide
45. A villainous look
46. What Kendrick delivers
47. What to pour over fuego
48. “Feel the ___” (2016 catchphrase)
49. “Just joshing around!”
50. A discouraging reception
51. Solemn swear
52. Very revealing picture
54. “Wicked” director Jon