post- 12/7/2023

post-

December 7, 2023, Vol. 32, Issue 10

Cover by: Lucid Clairvoyant, Insta: @l.u.cid

Feature

These Platonic Loves to friendship

By ELENA JIANG Illustrated by CAROLINE HOUSER

This summer, I started journaling more consistently,

friendship and grief through college, he writes, “Friendship

when Hsu wrote about wild intensity, this is what he must’ve

generating list after list to wrangle my otherwise incoherent

rests on the presumption of reciprocity, of drifting in and out of

meant—the magic flooding and flooding through us in the

jumble of thoughts—favorite songs of the month, all-nighters

one another’s lives, with occasional moments of wild intensity.”

warmest of ways. I looked over at my friends, their faces scuffed

ranked from most-bad to sorta-fun, top five core memories,

I’ve learned that this is true. My text histories with my friends

with light. I couldn’t see a single shadow anywhere.

most transformative friendships. I lingered on the last one

from middle school are segmented by months of comfortable

longer than usual. With international orientation looming

silence, a quiet acknowledgement that we’re happy watching

I dragged my suitcases up to the third floor of Andrews

less than a month away, I’d begun to feel anxious about making

each other’s lives unfold from a distance. But when you’re in

on the first day of international orientation with all this at the

friends. How do two people from different continents go

elementary school, you don’t have access to that moderation.

back of my mind. During the first night activity, I hung around

from complete strangers, to friends, to lying-on-a-carpet-in-

You don’t know how to contain your first friendships because

Kelley, my friend from high school, suddenly intimidated by

a-dorm-room-together type of close? Something about that

you’re busy coloring yourself into their lives, melting into a joy

the sheer number of new faces. We were mid-sentence through

exponential progression seemed shot by magic, the machinery

larger than you’ve ever known. Every moment is wild, a beat

figuring out how on earth you just go up and introduce yourself

of fate and coincidence coalescing in a rare stroke of sympathy

that calls for a louder one to follow. I like to think that you never

to someone when a girl walked up to us and introduced herself.

from the universe. Reliving my past friendships anchored

grow out of that unrelenting wonder as long as you remember

“Hi! I’m Christine.” She smiled, tilted her head when we talked

me. Dude, stuff like this happens in real life, to everyone. It’s

having felt it.

about Shanghai, and told us about how long it took to fly from

happened to you, too, ever since you were barely old enough to remember.

…

In high school film class, I met Jake, Derek, and Michael.

…

We sat for hours at night in a too-tight studio room as the school

…

Nairobi. I stuck by her that night, pulled to her warmth, the effort she made to show that she was listening. A few days later, we met a girl from Kazakhstan over lunch.

I don’t know who discovered it first, but by spring, word

emptied itself, combing through every word of our script.

“I have packages to pick up. Wanna come?” Walking up

got around that the honeysuckles dotting the playground made

Our conversations drifted to college, how Derek would drop

Brown Street, we learned that Amira translates to princess,

for delicious recess snacks. I’d kneel with Alicia in front of the

anything to watch any Wong Kar-wai movie, how he dreamed

that she loves the name for its uniqueness and because her

clusters outside our classroom window, pondering which ones

of burning a story on a film roll; how, once Jake graduated and

father picked it out. Can you spell out my last name too? Then

to pluck as the ground dug patterns into our knees. Her bangs

got out of the city, he wanted to travel continents with nothing

we’ll be true friends. I was drawn to her bluntness, the way I

fell in front of her face in chunks—my hair was tucked behind

but a suitcase and a camera and start a blog about it. I listened

couldn’t see her being anything less than fiercely genuine.

my ears. The flowers were always sprinkled with little bugs. I’d

to their dreams like they were mine too.

We ended up sitting around the donut-shaped bench

watch them circle the stems, green and barely distinguishable

When grappling with the senseless death of his close

outside Miller, the four of us pouring our hearts out over dried-

from dew drops. We didn’t care—we stuck our tongues out

friend at Berkeley, Hsu cites Derrida, who, like him, writes

out rice bowls and the quiet, tenderly unraveled pieces of our

anyways. It was second grade and we were bright with wonder,

about friendship in the wake of a personal loss. “A friend, he

lives we brought to Providence. We go to Waterfire together, we

willowy, hitting growth spurts with the momentum of post-

wrote, would ‘choose knowing rather than being known.’ I

watch Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse on the Main Green

popsicle sugar rushes and shedding every loose tooth like a

had always thought it was the other way around.” Our 6 p.m.

(our butts damp from the grass), we navigate the path to Trader

sacrifice for metamorphosis. We were hungry for everything.

meetings, imbued with the stuffiness of take-out and a thin

Joe’s and realize how tiring it is to lug a month’s worth of snacks

Alicia was my best friend, B-F-F, basically twin sister.

hum of anxiety for the future, awakened me to this untethered

up College Hill. I deem these small firsts remarkable; they joke

She’s laced tightly through every memory of my childhood,

desire to understand—to revel and fall deeper into the vibrancy

about how completely, unironically sentimental I am.

like a tangerine peel knitted into ripe pulp. It was the type of

of your friend, if only for a split moment. Imagine all that they

friendship sprung from everything pure, so intimate you felt

can offer the world.

One day, Christine comes back from Trader Joe’s with a surprise. “Where are you? I have something to give you guys.”

that you were more the other person than yourself. I guess

One November, we ended up together on a mud-land at

It’s flowers, Amira’s favorite gift, with a bouquet and a note for

that’s what it was, really. We screamed each other’s full, legal

the edge of Shanghai in the dead of night, the tiny curve on the

each of us. And I realize: it is possible to fall in love with people

names from the bottoms of stairwells every day at three,

breast of China where the country brushes against the Pacific.

simply because they are wonderful, kind, infinitely giving.

believed every wild thing the other person said, and loved

We wanted a shot of a sunrise mirrored onto a reflective

In many ways, it feels like being a child again. Sitting on the

everything we did together, and in doing so, we made each

surface, and that was the only place in Shanghai you could get

balance beam with Alicia and believing in magic, as long as our

other.

that much water, that much quiet. On the ride to the coast, the

arms remained interlinked. Living every day with the rush of

Winter in Beijing came in heaving exhales, wind ripping

pre-dawn fog spread around the car like a lake. I couldn’t shake

a lifetime. In moments around a Ratty table and spontaneous

through a yellow cold. During recess, we’d sit on the balance

the feeling that we were gliding on clear water, probing the

runs from the MoChamp lounge to CVS, everything seems to

beam with our arms intertwined in some extravagantly

brink of some opening.

fall in place—I thank myself for always looking, for knowing

complex way.

When we got to the shore, Jake and Derek decided to

“What if the wind blows us away?”

scope out the area. Half an hour later, they came back with

“Then we’ll stick together, like this.”

their faces alive, eyes blown wide.

I adjusted my right hand so that it enclosed hers fully.

Then, we squeezed our eyes shut and huddled close, imagining

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that ever. Come down. You have to see.”

that what I find will be worth it.

Hsu’s memoir documents his friendships throughout college with a mundanity so unshakably alive, and I guess that’s why I keep coming back to his prose. He writes about how in friendships, we are all desperately searching for

the wind scooping us up. Far off, where the tip of the steel

Michael and I rushed behind them down the dirt slope,

something, trying to find ourselves in other people. Once we

transmission tower cut into the sky and a dandelion seed

tripod-and-all clanking behind us. We stopped only to peel

get to know them, they stay with us forever in memory, and

drifted, that’s where we were. Floating and weightless. We

off our socks and let our feet sink into rough mud. We walked

so a connection is as much about the future as the present, in

dreamed of flying and laughed about how crazy it all sounded.

further towards the shore. The ocean seemed to rise, open,

its remembrance and its temporal immensity. So really, he’s

I think it was then that I first became conscious of our

ease us forward. I kept on looking at their silhouettes against

talking about hope. I believe in it too. In September, when I

friendship, the fullness of our connection that made me feel

the brightening sky. The world was so blue, so still.

signed up to write for the December publication of post-, my

so close to magic. Nothing had ever felt so good in my life. I

To my left, Derek screamed into the sky with his entire

newly-convocated self couldn’t help but imagine: what would

realized this when I was 12, maybe 13, a year before Alicia left

chest. His shout landed softly, small and silent against the sun.

I be writing about then? Friends, I hoped. People. And to that

for Massachusetts.

He turned around, swore under his breath, laughed. No one

girl, I say: You’re right, I’m drafting this right now, and I could

else made a sound. We were all spellbound by the moment—

write about them forever.

In Hua Hsu’s memoir Stay True, which explores

Page Two / post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023

Narrative

There is Nowhere to Do It in New York forgetting metropolitan culture

By KIMBERLY LIU Illustrated by ELLA BUCHANAN

Sitting in the art-deco-meets-botanica Domain Café (understood to be the Andrews of downtown Manhattan, given the prevalence of Asian-inspired food options), I feel exhausted. A frontal lobe headache is developing, and my eyes just can’t seem to adjust to the light. This is partly because I got up early to beat the rush hour traffic, but more so because I’ve gotten questionable sleep for the past four days. To save money on New York hotels and accommodations (so as to spend it all on New York food and drinks), I am bed-sharing with my friend’s ex-girlfriend in her studio. My boyfriend came along, too, and he made a similar choice, staying with his friend in Chinatown above a laundromat. It’s a Monday, and the light in the cafe is too bright for both of us. It’s not a hangover we are nursing—we did not partake in nightlife the night before—and yet our living situations alone are enough to imitate the effects of staying up ’til dawn.

It isn’t the best feeling all around. Physically, because of the obvious. But mentally? Spiritually?

Something’s amiss. I can’t help but reflect on why I suddenly feel so estranged from this city. It’s New York, after all—there’s a myriad of things to see and a myriad of things to do. It’s a place with endless hustle and bustle, where there is supposed to be something for everyone. Just looking at the slew of cuisines and consequent fusions (curry bratwursts were a first for me), intricate shopface decor, and creatively named drinks, it’s hard to put a finger on why I feel so off.

It’s not that New York isn’t absolutely beautiful.

Walking through the streets during Christmas time is pure delight, and the crispness of the air only adds to its appeal. It’s hard to believe, but long-distance running is enjoyable when in Manhattan—there is more and more to see from block to block, with the extravagant candy canes, garlands, and larger-thanlife Christmas trees all very much lit up during the daytime. There is so much life on display in the streets: shopkeepers wheeling in their daily produce from the curbs, a surprising number of like-minded joggers, and corporate worker bees in pairs or groups on the way to or from a coffee chat. Traversing these streets,

a whole hour can go by, and it would feel like no time at all. The majority of people, however, are clearly tourists—out-of-towners who have been walking down Fifth Avenue shopping for advent calendars and directing their family over steaming manholes since 8 a.m. Something about this activity says, “I’m just passing through, like everyone else here.”

It all seems to thrive on novelty and instability.

Both New York and Beijing assure their residents that they will never need to dine at the same restaurant twice in their life if they don’t want to. There are enough restaurants for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a snack for 25 years without repetition, and given most restaurants don’t last for more than three years, a lot more math can be done here. The idea is that only the good ones stick, and the dog-eat-dog world will take care of the rest. It’s all “just business”; things come and go like the people, and even institutions and restaurants don’t come to stay. There is an explosion of attraction but an implosion of meaning. It’s so big—too big, too crowded, with too many things going on at the same time, none so inviting. There is no space for you to find rest and respite or privacy, just a temporary allotment of space before you are expected to move on.

Growing up in Beijing, and later Sydney, and then Beijing again, New York seemed no different from the other metropolises I called home. Sprawling urban areas with distinct neighborhoods, historical significance, and overly intricate public transportation networks interweave with broad avenues and a generous dose of visible wealth inequality. The downtown district with its financial hubbub, arts district full of museums and tourist traps, and insane amount of travel time needed to get from one thing to another are always givens. Growing up, cities being huge seemed to be more of a rule than an exception; before Brown, big cities were all I knew. The essence of city living comes down to feeling as though there are options for everything. The roller rink could come with a full bar, be attached to a movie theater, or be a combination of both. Searching noodles, then Asian,

then Thai narrows your search result options from 1000+ to 400 to 30. And, I’m putting my foot down about this, an ice cream shop should never offer more than eight flavors (the average in cities is like 209,358).

It felt like I left it all behind when I moved to Providence. I remember thinking how bored I would be when the entire radius of activity was around two km for four years, and being scared of the restrictions that fewer choices would impose. Small cities seem to have fewer choices, but each is a solid option.

Local mainstays like Jahunger, Champa, Glou, and PVDonuts, mixed with the multitudes of small cafes, all immediately spring to mind. Have I missed Japanese food? Yes. But, it didn’t end up mattering all that much. The need for a plethora of choices played a meaningful but not essential part in my experience, as it ended up paling in comparison to the other continuous aspects of living. The acclimation process seems to have happened subconsciously ever since.

Traveling around New England, I notice that most towns exist in a kind of peaceful solitude. The trees impose a sanctity on these places. I can’t honestly say that there is more to do and more to see in these towns than there is in New York, but there is an urge to see all that they offer. Breathing is easier, and the trifles of life seem insignificant. It’s not a catch-all, but it feels easier to have oneself to oneself, to remember, to think, to feel, and to understand.

It’s in this cafe, over some dry tiramisu, next to the heavily trafficked artisanal coffee bar, as we are debriefing the weekend, that my SO says, “I miss having our own space; there’s nowhere to do it in New York.” Perhaps all this reflection could have been avoided if we had just got a hotel. It was this sentence that I liked so much, I needed it to be the title of an article. Maybe if we did get a hotel, this article wouldn’t be about how in big cities, there is little to no space for the individual, and no allowance for downtime in public, that one must have one’s own quarters for peace and silence and the individual. It will instead be about how capitalism, left rampant, will destroy us all.

Thank goodness we didn’t get a hotel.

post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023 / Page Three

Narrative

Worthy of Love more than just a feeling

By GABI YUAN Illustrated by ELLA BUCHANAN

There are not many things in this world that I, with time, cannot overcome. If it’s a homework assignment, I can escape the all-consuming mindset that one assignment will affect the trajectory of my career. If it’s a disagreement among friends, I can find ways to view multiple perspectives, finding a fitting solution for us all. And yet, through and through, when it comes to love and navigating those larger-than-life feelings, instantly, my throat chokes up, my tear ducts fill, and I find my self-worth in the hands of others.

I didn’t always feel like this—longing for something just beyond my wavering grasp. Over time, I had become familiar with feeling undeserving of love.

I came to expect that the ache that returned when I watched other family members, friends, or even strangers exchange affection and wondered whether this love was earned or freely given. There was a crushing place in my heart where I questioned whether good things did not always come to good people.

I grew up in a household where my self-worth was often determined by my ability to be better than others academically. This led to an intense power struggle between myself and my parents: trying to prove to them that I could score higher on an exam than my brother while they berated me for not being as naturally smart as them.

The vibrant and bubbly child I once was curdled into an introverted and quiet being, never stepping beyond the shadows of my brother and parents’ dictations of me. Endless tears, along with wobbly moments on the emotional edge, led me to ponder the purpose that I would serve in the future and whether I was worthy of the affection they dangled in front of me.

Standing in the mirror, I told the 13-year-old trembling and cowering under crippling stress, that I was inevitably stuck in this game. This is what love feels like and I cannot win.

Around the same time, different, yet parallel feelings enveloped me—the desire to be wanted. The times I have come the closest to feeling love were during 6th grade and my senior year of high school. The two people that I pined for had qualities that I deeply wanted : they were confident, smart, warm, and patient.

I believed that if I tried hard enough and proved that I could be compatible with them, I could manifest not only their love, but their worthy qualities.

Nights of dwelling led to no avail. I began to fantasize about them in my head, creating scenarios in which we would gently hold hands in class, or study together in the back corridor of the library. There always came a point in my thoughts when guilt overcame any previous feelings of reassurance.

Who was I to be loved, when I did not even love myself ?

In my current months of reflection and healing, the truest sentiment has often been the most painful: we accept the love we think we deserve. Why is it that we let the attention of others influence us so heavily? Do we need love to live and for our lives to fully flourish?

What does it mean to give and receive love?

How do I begin to answer these questions?

I realize how deeply I wanted to be loved and to the extent to which I loved others. The inner child I carry with me, the one that pines for some notion that I am not alone, knows the history of my family. My mother’s love language is not words of affirmation, but is instead

Page Four / post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023

shown through actions—cooking me my favorite meals, leaving out face masks and hot tea—and I recognize her effort to make me feel whole in my belonging. My father and I share a common love language of words of affirmation, and I often find artfully folded-up Post-it notes stuck on the handle of the refrigerator or posted on my bathroom mirror. Inside these messages are cheesy clippings of daily jokes he deep-dives for, or sweet words that make me feel as if my hard work does not go unnoticed. I thank him for his perseverance to help me find simple joy again.

As I reject the versions of people I thought I had loved, I trust and see now that affection exists in many forms. I surround myself with those that complement my flaws, teaching me to be considerate and optimistic.

Even now, when seeing those that find love with ease, those worries, so deeply conditioned inside of me, resurface. Seeing couples holding hands on frigid cold nights, their flowy shadows and beautiful laughs enlarged under street lamps, or watching people exchange wholesome phone calls home to their long-distance friends and lovers, updating them on the little changes in their lives, seems to leave a permanent and unfixable hole.

I hope, over time, I can experience the kind of love that feels like sliding on soft mittens during winter nightfall, or feeling the first drops of hot tea settling gently in the bottom of your stomach. I hope that over time, those overbearing feelings of wistfulness will blossom into tenderness and warmth for someone special.

I accept the love that I deserve and nothing less.

Arts & Culture

Revisiting Gatsby the unforeseen beauty of public domain reworks

By AJ WU Illustrated by STELLA TSOGTJARGAL The Great Gatsby entered the public domain in 2021. The air tasted the same. The clocks chimed no differently. The eyes of T.J. Eckleburg remained unblinking. But the world as we—those of us exposed to The Great Gatsby in a high school English class—knew it was forever changed.

Along with its newfound availability on Project Gutenberg, The Great Gatsby’s release into the public domain also came with many creative adaptations.

During quarantine, documentary filmmaker Ben Crew embarked on a project to distract himself from the looming chaos of the global pandemic and the 24/7 news cycle covering “what was happening in D.C.” He emerged from lockdown with a 104-page script for a Muppets adaptation of The Great Gatsby. The work— which introduces a magnificent portrayal of Gatsby from our favorite green frog, as well as Nick Carraway’s constant internal monologuing confusing his muppet co-stars—brings delicious charm and extravagant musical numbers to Fitzgerald’s original work. It quickly picked up a dedicated fanbase, which produced a fanmade poster and a Subreddit committed to launching the project.

Gatsby Great The—the text of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby with the words rearranged in alphabetical order by artist Ryland Stalder—is another inspired remix. While it does not make much sense narratively, it does shed light on the novel’s preoccupations—like a giant word cloud, it gets us both a little farther away from the plot and closer to the core of the novel and how it makes us feel and what it inspires us to think about. The alphabetical reading provides new and uncanny strings of words such as “dazed dazzling dead” and “loneliness, lonely lonely Long.” When stripped away of all narrative context, these amusing but thought-provoking strings retain and amplify the emotional core of The Great Gatsby. They describe in a way different from other formats the idea that extravagance is ephemeral and how loneliness becomes unbearably long.

F. Scott Fitzgerald was buried in Rockville, Maryland, where I grew up. His grave is almost visible from the window of my tenth-grade English classroom.

When Fitzgerald died at 44, having suffered from alcoholism and a series of three heart attacks, his books were all out of print and he believed himself fated to fade into literary obscurity. He requested “the cheapest funeral” possible and was buried where his father had lived—in Rockville, allegedly because he had made no plans to be buried anywhere else.

While Fitzgerald may have been mostly apathetic about his relationship with Rockville, Rockville is decidedly more eager to claim Fitzgerald. Every fall, my hometown hosts the F. Scott Fitzgerald Literary Festival, a three- to four-day event. The festival offers writing workshops and talks on Fitzgerald scholarship, celebrates literary guests of honor—past honorees include Richard Powers and Barbara Kingsolver—and winners of various sponsored short story contests read from their stories.

Almost immediately after Gatsby’s copyright was lifted, a podcast I’ve been a long-time fan of, Planet Money, released a four-hour episode consisting of a full reading of the novel by their cast of journalists and economists. The episode is simply captioned: “All of it.” I listened, bemused but appreciative of an easily accessible audiobook version. Other forthcoming adaptations of the text include a Broadway musical headed by Florence Welch of Florence + the Machine and a graphic novel first published in Australia in 2007 and now finally releasable in the US over a decade later.

Following predecessors such as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the novel has also been turned into The Great Gatsby Undead—a ghoulish retelling by Kristen Briggs where Gatsby is a vampire. One of my personal favorites is The Great Gatsby: But Nick Has Scoliosis, which is The Great Gatsby verbatim except for a sentence added in haphazardly every chapter that references Nick having scoliosis.

Not all adaptations, however, are created equal.

Nick, a prequel by Michael Farris Smith that fabricates a backstory for the novel’s least interesting character, Nick Carraway, misses the mark entirely on why The Great Gatsby is compelling to begin with. It’s a perfectly fine novel about a World War I soldier, his struggle with

PTSD, and a tragic love affair, but I can’t help wondering what the point of its attachment to Gatsby is other than as a substitute for developing characters and stories compelling enough for people to care about on their own. A YA author I can’t stand and have had a private vendetta against since middle school recently released a queer retelling of The Great Gatsby that focuses on a romance between Nick and Gatsby. I was moderately put off and complained to a friend, “You can just write YA! You can just write that! It doesn’t need to be about Nick and Gatsby.” I like a good queer romance but found it a poorly executed choice tonally that stripped away a lot of the weight of the original novel’s messaging about the American Dream, unrequited love, and temporality. It doesn’t add to Gatsby in any direction except laterally.

Muppet Gatsby and Scoliosis Gatsby don’t take themselves nearly as seriously, which may be why I find them so enjoyable while reading other Gatsby retellings makes me wonder if attempting to earnestly follow Fitzgerald is a doomed effort. Imitations of Gatsby that clearly wish to repackage the themes of the original but inevitably fall short only invite comparison to the original novel in a way that is unhelpful and uncharitable to the authors of these retellings.

Halfway through The Great Gatsby, Nick warns Gatsby, “You can’t repeat the past.” To which Gatsby responds incredulously, “Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!” The futility of repeating the past (and rewriting what’s already been written) may be a message that has evaded some Gatsby re-tellers.

I think some of my hesitation to accept certain self-serious Gatsby retellings stems from a reluctance to fully recognize them as substantial and separate them from the likes of fanfiction relegated to AO3 and FanFiction.net. I have, however, had reason to reevaluate this outlook on a few occasions. One of my more eccentric English teachers was notorious for publishing an overwhelming amount of Shakespeare fanfiction, including a modern Macbeth retelling about two teens, Mackenzie and Beth (their ship name is Macbeth). Sitting in her classes on how stories change in relation to their time and place (and hearing about her heated argument with her publisher about whether Ophelia’s skirt should be longer on the cover of her YA Hamlet novel) was one of the first times I considered that both thematically compliant as well as wildly divergent retellings of classic stories could have merit on their own.

Adaptations of other widely read classics by Shakespeare and Jane Austen are now prevalent to the point that some of the most iconic examples—10 Things I Hate About You, Clueless, West Side Story— have escaped the orbit of the original and left their own lasting cultural impacts. I can only anticipate that as more creators take advantage of The Great Gatsby’s availability, the quality of Gatsby retellings will also continue to stretch towards similar heights.

Ultimately, there’s something pretty lovely about caring about stories and endeavoring to create upon their foundations. The original Jay Gatsby might’ve died with the Roaring Twenties, but Kermit-as-Gatsby (and his numerous brethren) will carry on and change with the times to be what we may or may not need them to be.

post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023 / Page Five

Look Around For Art is Everywhere A Promise Unkept

By KATHY GONZALEZ They promised us a hippopotamus.

On an especially crisp March afternoon, we made the valiant trek from Perkins to the RISD Museum, my fingers numb but interlaced with yours. Having already been to this museum twice before, I was not expecting to be surprised by any exhibits. But it was your first visit, and I was excited nonetheless. When we arrived, I beelined to the maps and pamphlets of the different exhibits and collections—my favorite mementos to collect since I was a little girl. But before I could even browse through the pages, there it was in all its glory: “Hippopotamus.

Unknown Maker, Egyptian.” I stood there, mouth agape, as though the cover had my social security number written on it.

We convinced ourselves it was fate. That our obsession with Fritz, the baby hippo frequently featured on the Cincinnati Zoo’s Twitter account, was manifesting itself through art for our secret, personal enjoyment.

Because nothing says “these past four months together have been so lovely” like a bright blue ceramic hippo covered with details of plant life from the Nile River Valley. This transformed our initial goal of appearing like brooding art enthusiasts to a three-hour-long “Where’s Waldo?” in pursuit of this hippo. We started out strong, diligently looking at each individual statuette, sculpture, and installation as though they would come to life and redirect us to our alleged friend. But this was to no avail.

To this day, we claim that we were deceived—though we probably just failed to find it in the Egyptian exhibit.

So we walked back up the hill, cold, hippo-less, but comforted by fulfilled promises of our own.

9:45 b there or b

By JOE MAFFA For much longer than I’ve been alive, Sunday nights have been a sacred time for television. But in an age when I can watch mostly anything I want at any time I please, I haven’t known the same allegiance to weekly episode premieres that my parents and generations of viewers before me knew. But vintage is in, and so is sharing with friends. So our ragtag group of neighbors-by-chance, friends-by-choice arrive one by one to increasingly loud welcomes as the pool of people and minutes since we were supposed to start grow.

Double feature: Euphoria and Attack on Titan, two opposite extremes of the kind of horrific television that is just too good to look away, as much as we may want to— exactly the escapism we need to start off our week. After a couple hours of unfocused viewing, I can’t really say

Narrative that I understood either show that we were watching, but I’m not sure I cared. This was our family dinner—a night to slow down, catch up, and be present with each other. When the episodes were over, we’d laugh at the absurdity, or sit in shock, or move right on to chat about whether we’d go to our 9 a.m.’s. Same time next week.

Naturally.

Both seasons ended before the school year, and so too did our weekly gatherings. Still, we lived close enough to each other that it wasn’t weird to just drop in on each other. We knew whose door was open for a “shouldn’t stay, but why not” chat, and whose was locked tight, keeping all of our distractions away.

Still, we promised that we’d reunite for the next seasons of these shows during our senior year—in someone’s living room, over wine and cheese (oh, to have a space to share with your friends that you didn’t have to share with those other neighbors-by-chance, strangersnonetheless).

Attack on Titan ended this past November, and I shared the finale with some friends, albeit not the same ones I did in my freshman year. Unfortunately, due to a multitude of reasons, Euphoria’s next season has been delayed to an unnamed date in 2025.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed for a winter premiere and a first-year reunion. Six semesters later, will we still jive like we used to? Will we entertain those deep conversations that only not-so-adults aged 18 or 22 have, or just stumble through small talk? Who will be there?

I know I will, and the door will be open to whichever new neighbors choose to drop by. I’m sure we’ll reunite at some point.

Morning Tunes

By TABITHA LYNN 8:50 a.m. is my favorite time of day to listen to music.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I fight the urge to succumb to my mattress, rolling out of bed to the promise of three perfect songs to carry me through the morning trek to class.

The ten-minute walk to the UEL—while seemingly inconsequential—carries the weight of starting every day on the right note: each beat, each lyric commanding my attention.

Unlike the majority of my music-listening hours— in which music becomes the background soundtrack to studying or conversations, taking the backseat to things of much greater importance—my morning music captures my full attention, each lyric pulling me further from the sleepy abyss that trapped me just moments prior.

Recently, I have found myself listening to “Banana Pancakes” by Jack Johnson, pressing play just as I exit my dorm. The song embodies waking up—the melody setting my legs into motion.

I allow myself to fully soak in the words, the upbeat rhythm setting my mind abuzz. I can feel each part of my body beginning to respond— Wakin' up too early Maybe we could sleep in My legs begin to move of their own accord, my eyes adjusting to the sun, Make you banana pancakes Pretend like it's the weekend now Just as I reach the Main Green, the melody begins to fade.

Can't you see, can't you see?

We gotta wake up slow

First Impressions

By KLARA DAVIDSON-SCHMICH Illustrated by EMILY SAXL

We stand in the lobby, noses pink from the cold, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, pressed together perusing their list of collections.

“Where would you like to go first?” The decision is mine because she’s already been here, but it really should be hers. I pretend to look the list of collections up and down, lost in imaginary thought. I know what my answer should be; something subversive and interesting, something clever and niche to impress her, an art history major. I’ll choose the pre-war collection and pretend to know what Dadaism is. But, embarrassing though it is, I already know what my answer will be.

“Impressionism,” I finally confess, my voice resolute.

This is my little secret, my guilty pleasure; I love Impressionism.

To pass through the world is to pass by Impressionism; the inoffensive landscape of Meadow with Poplars graces every hotel elevator, and the easy blues of Water Lilies adorn my dorm room tapestry. And thus, my confession: The fine art equivalent of elevator music remains my favorite.

Here, where reverent silence reigns, I am mesmerized by detail, leaning in to soak up every brushstroke, the ones not quite captured in the polyester reproductions found in any first-year dorm. I’ve cast sideways glances at facsimiles of the paintings in front of me countless times, but only now am I seeing. Thus, the horseshoe effect: Impressionism’s presence renders it invisible. It is ubiquitous until it is indiscernible.

But perhaps it is ubiquitous because it is beautiful.

And why should I deny myself the simple beauty of a pastel landscape?

Outside, the rain continues in gray New England, but inside the museum, I am somewhere in Argenteuil, umbrella discarded in favor of a parasol, sprawled out on the sun-dappled lawn somewhere in the French countryside.

Deconstruction and Reconstruction

By KIMBERLY LIU

The first time I decorated the walls of my room was when I got my hands on a free copy of Vogue. I gutted the entire magazine for cutouts of my favorite outfits and jewelry, and arranged them, along with my own doodles, ticket stubs, receipts, and miscellaneous tags from clothing, to cover all the space I can see when I look up from my desk. That was around age 16, and ever since, I’ve done a new wall arrangement each year for the rooms I live in.

It’s a fun and creatively demanding project to unwind the mind and take a stance on unimportant choices, along with an extremely cost-effective way to procure room decor and mark your evolution in taste and style.

The choice of fashion magazines is almost arbitrary.

Meaning in the wall-curations itself was sparse, but the way the colors played off of each other, the lines and the contrast, was certainly nice, and so I kept doing it.

List Art Building had a huge cleanup giveaway for old flyers, brochures, even exhibition books and prints a year or so ago, and its contribution of source materials has been phenomenal. It ranges from photography of installations and preserved beetles, to hand-drawn schematics and postmodern B&W pictures.

This practice challenges me to create a space that is true to myself, to use what little room I have and transform it into an ongoing conversation with my aesthetics and values. Its meaning for me right now rests in its reminder that my walls are an external reflection of myself, and if I wake up and find them ugly, I need only reach up, peel pieces off the wall, and start anew.

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Pre- Posta brief (and incomplete) history of postBy KLARA DAVIDSON SCHMICH In 1973, the Brown Daily Herald purchased new typesetting equipment, an expense that sent them into financial trouble. The solution: to found Fresh Fruit, a weekly tabloid that was distributed to eight college campuses in Rhode Island. It promised to inform college students about “weekend events and notable items in the local scene.” Most importantly for the Herald, it provided the potential for generating advertising income, with every issue of Fresh Fruit promoting itself as “a new opportunity for advertisers to reach Rhode Island’s entire college population.”

On February 15, 1973, Fresh Fruit (Volume I, Number I) published its first edition, featuring articles such as “Sexual instruction from the Sensuous Frog” and “Red-checkered tablecloths.”

Fresh Fruit welcomed interested contributors to submit “any flippant, forceful, fruity fromage or fulminating, freelance, floozy fondue” to “dis mag for fanciful freedom in fruition of da facts.”

In February of 1975, Fresh Fruit was taken over by a new editorial staff, an entity entirely separate from the Herald.

The ’80s and ’90s are a blur (I didn’t have time to go through all the issues), but somewhere along the way, a weekend insert called “good clean fun” was added, and eventually, Fresh Fruit

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Notice something different about post- this week? Happenstance led us to discover that the first ever post- Magazine was published in 1973 under our previous name Fresh Fruit, making this year our 50th year in print.* We now publish online, in color, and with distinct sections, but beyond that, it is surprising how very little things have changed at all. Sure, our sex column isn’t what it used to be (it’s non-existent), and we are more pre-professional than college-publication (okay, a lot has changed) but having history does a lot to immortalize the little things we do now. Another tribe of sleep-deprived students sat in a cramped little room for hours on end fixing the dangling participles and vocalizing their stance on word choice, choosing to spend their time on something that at times seems trivial and thankless. I often wonder why people keep showing up, though I do have an inkling, having shown

became 195 Angell, named after the predecessor to 88 Benevolent. 195 Angell’s backpage featured horoscopes, and had a section called “On the Green,” featuring fit pics and personal style pieces.

As Y2K came and went, the new century ushered in a new name for the Herald’s cooler younger sister publication. On February 4, 2000, the first issue of post-, as we know it today, was published.

This twenty-first century post- described itself as being “about film and music, politics and modernity, issues and ideas, sex and cuisine, enormity and minutiae.” It promised each week to “inform, provide, and entertain.” It also promoted the 8 condom flavors available through condomania.com (banana, orange, strawberry, mint, vanilla, chocolate, grape, cola). post-, in its most recent iteration, was born out of the academic convention of using "post-" as a prefix—as in "post-modernism" and "poststructuralism"—to indicate transcending older modes of thought.

Although post- may not be quite as old as the Herald, its history speaks for itself: Fifty iterations of editors, writers, illustrators have made Fresh Fruit, 195 Angell, and post-. But it was, in fact, only until tonight that we discovered the

up myself.

joys of past post- with articles like “i wanna f*ck you like an animal… please?: how to get what you want” or “flex your jaw muscles: a different kind of endurance training.” It is a difficult history to access, one crammed in the middle of ’70s BDH anthologies on dusty shelves. COVID, the move from 195 Angell to 88 Benevolent, constantly cycling leadership—whatever the reason, so much institutional knowledge has been lost. In spite of it all, the spirit of post- remains the same.

Though top tens are uniquely ours and the sex columns have unfortunately been lost, the joy of prod nights, the insight of the writing, the humor of backpage are forever.

And yet, though the spirit may be a constant, post-, as we know and love it today, has undoubtedly changed. But that’s not a bad thing.

Good and bad, post- continues to transcend older modes of thought, with this semester ushering in a new website, a brief stint at the New Watson, and a battle with fruit flies—perhaps a lingering trace of fresh fruit gone bad.

Though Fresh Fruit has ended, our Fall 2023 issue is about to end, and perhaps even post, in name, one day will end, its spirit lingers.

Ever transcendent, true to its name, post- is ephemeral.

its forms. Another writer speaks on the intricacies of

In Feature, the writer discusses friendships,

sibling dynamics and the personality traits that often

divulging all the best parts of childhood—that of

accompany older, younger, middle, and only children.

unbounded joy—and depth one can reach in col-

And don’t forget our crossword, Winter (break) is

lege friendships. In Narrative, one writer talks about

coming, that will provocatively ask you to think of

accepting the love we think we deserve, from familial

something one suckles on.

to first loves. In another, the writer (me, sorry) reflects

To think it’s all circular is quite comforting—

on growing up in metropolises and how different it

we can wander however much we want and not get

is from Providence and New England, an area sur-

too lost. Or is it naive to think of it like that? What

rounded by hikes, nature, and the slow life. In A&C,

I know for sure is that these publications are made

post- managing editors write a piece about our expo-

up of people. Whether it is post- or the BDH, it all

sure to art and music in Providence. Stories range

goes on because readers like yourself pick it up, and

from memories one's had while enjoying art, a rec-

writers like the ones inside these pages have things

ommendation from friends, or both. Another piece in

to say. This is my last ever editor’s note at post- and

A&C looks into adaptations of The Great Gatsby since

it’s hard not to get mawkish, so I will try to make it

it was released into the public domain (ever wanted

simple: Read post-! This magazine changed my life.

to enjoy the content of The Great Gatsby in full alphabetical order?). In Lifestyle, the author reflects on moments at Brown that might be considered embarrassing and why she has come to embrace cringe in all

1. Fresh Fruit (duh) 2. -lude to the Afternoon of a Faun 3. The kind with alcohol 4. Star Wars I-III 5. Mature babies 6. Marital sex 7. Cum 8. -gnant 9. -nup 10. -sents!!

Pre-s

Page Seven / post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023

In a while, crocodile,

Kimberly Liu Editor-in-chief

“Is it called Foot Locker because shoes are feet locks?”

“If I’m in a house that’s on fire, I’m already buttass naked.”

Lifestyle

On Being Cringe

don't the kill the part of you that's cringe, kill the part of you that cringes

By INDIGO MUDBHARY Illustrated by LULU CAVICCHI According to the internet, there are over 7,000 undergraduate students currently attending Brown.

encounters are what make it so delightful in my opinion.

Accidentally swiping right on someone who lives on

event alone—a club meeting, a party, anything—is looked upon as cringe by some. But the truth is, nobody will point

Yet, after a year and a half here, I’ve come to realize that Brown can feel incredibly small. To walk across the green and not get waved at is a rarity for me, and whenever I introduce myself, I am frequently met with, “Oh! Indigo from [insert publication/club/class here].

Do you know __?” And the odds are that I usually do, in fact, know __. Although it’s lovely to be known as Indigo from X/Y/Z, there are also the less pleasant moments of being perceived: it’s always at my most disheveled, clothed in a crusty sweatshirt picked up off the floor of my Wayland double, with my hair in matted clumps due to exam-induced neglect, that I run into my crush at the Ratty.

I am not alone in this constant sense of being perceived as I move about my day: my friends constantly lament over awkward encounters and run-ins with acquaintances they’d rather not see. One word that frequently comes up in these discussions is cringe, a single-syllable word that sounds like what it means: gut-wrenching, toe-curling, and almost nauseainducing embarrassment, whether experienced first or secondhand. At its core, cringe means something that must be avoided at all costs.

I, however, run toward potential embarrassment with my arms open. I don’t mean to say this in a “notlike-other-girls-sense.” What I mean is that as I grow into myself with each day that passes, somehow approaching selfhood and sentience, I have found myself rarely embarrassed about anything—even on our at times suffocatingly small campus. In fact, I’ve found myself embracing “cringe,” finding the awkward moments of my time here as delightful as a Hugh Grant character in

your floor, running into your Spanish class’s TA on the app, and matching with your ex for the sake of the bit are all delightfully silly moments that await if you choose to venture towards the red flame.

Many view dating apps as somehow being inherently cringe, arguing that meeting people in the “real world” is the only non-cringe way to embark upon dating at Brown (D@B, if you will). And while I understand the whole premise can feel absurd—curating photos of yourself to be swiped through, creating a bio that’s funny but not so funny it demonstrates any sort of actual investment in anything, being able to select “mental health” as a hobby alongside things like “coffee” and “rave”—I argue that one day we’ll be looking back at dating app culture nostalgically, whether we were participants, observers, or both. I can see myself saying, years in the future: “It was the summer of 2023, and I had just swiped right on this beautiful man. ‘Certified munch’ read his bio.” I’ll then wistfully gaze into the distance, of course.

at you and belittle you for having come alone; this isn't an elementary school playground. Instead, adventures in aloneness are an opportunity—to meet someone new, to mysteriously smoke a cig outside, to stand sexily by a wall. The world is yours to make of it, especially when you have someone as beautiful as yourself on your side.

an 80s rom-com fumbling his way through his ultimately charming life.

So, dear reader, I want to provide you with moments at this little school that are deeply cringe but that I’ve survived nonetheless. I’m not advocating that you should never feel embarrassed—instead, I hope to show you some of my most embarrassing moments, and in doing so prove that life goes on, and cringeness is not only survivable but even delightful.

be sent to our group chat for a laugh, and whenever I find myself feeling sad, I’ll watch it and smile to myself.

#3: Creation of TikToks The Tube Girl? Cringe. The renegade? Cringe.

Unironically doing TikTok trends? Cringe. So say most.

I vehemently disagree. We’re living through a cultural moment and I want to participate in it, even if that means surrendering some of my privacy. I mean, what does the NSA not know about me at this point? So yes, I will do the Tube Girl challenge during a semi-packed Friday night at Jo’s. The video will turn out terribly, the group behind me and my friends in line will snicker at us, and I may lightly elbow the chin of one of my friends by accident during the madness of it all. But the video will

#4: Adventures in solitude Many of my friends cite going alone to a dining hall as one of the most embarrassing things a person can do at this school. I find it delightful, personally, especially with a book or copy of the New Yorker to skim pretentiously and reference obnoxiously in the future. Going to any

#5: The importance of being earnest Somehow the expression of feeling has become cringe, with nonchalance being in and earnest declarations of emotion being out. While this is not universally true, here are some texts I’ve received that prove my point: “i have a crush” “it’s so embarrassing” “I’m actually with him rn” “It’s just so cringe” “I just think highly of you as a person (cringe)” “I think I like you” “That was cringe wasn’t it” “Kinda sorta wish I could see you” “Cringe ik” “not me lowkey being upset” “cringe” “When Charlotte’s dog died I wrote a eulogy” “I always thought that was one of the most cringe things I’ve ever done” As these texts reveal, somehow this cultural moment has deemed feeling things and declaring one’s emotions embarrassing. If there’s one thing I know it’s that we must reject this entirely. The greatest gift of being human is to experience the range of emotions in its entirety—plants, as miraculous as they are, don’t get to experience love and rage and joy. So tell your crush you like them. Remind your friends you love them.

Declare your care for others, in all its forms—scream it so loudly from the top of College Hill that the ducks by the Pedestrian Bridge feel the water ripple beneath their feathers. Tell people you cherish them until your vocal chords get sore and your lips begin to ache from words of love.

#1: The spillage of milk The Ratty was at its peak lunchtime rush, with not an empty table to be found even in the alcoves. In my hand, I held a plastic cup filled nearly to the brim with whole milk; that is, I held it until I didn’t, when balance was lost and the cup fell from my hands. It clattered onto the floor, spilling onto the shoes of several onlookers.

There was a momentary silence in the alcove, as heads turned towards the commotion. As I scrambled to get napkins from a nearby dispenser, several onlookers turned into allies and helped me clean up the mess.

Laughs were shared, and I made a pun about not crying over spilt milk. What would be embarrassing to many— especially considering I was exposing that I am not trendy and drink regular milk—was a delightful moment of community for all involved. #2: Tinder usage Many of my friends have remarked on their inability to use dating apps at a school this small, saying they don’t want the world to know that they’re swiping left and right. While I understand this aversion to Tinder-induced embarrassment, the awkward digital post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023 / Page Eight

Lifestyle

Solving the Secret to Sibling Dynamics unspoken and understandable

By GABRIELLE YUAN Illustrated by EMILY SAXL

Which Independent Providence Bookstore Are You?

During orientation week in August, I discovered that making small talk is one of my specialities. Thinking of questions to ask others comes easy to me, even if we’ve just met. “What majors are you for sure not interested in?” “Did you like the town you grew up in?” “What’s your favorite fruit to eat in the summertime?”

Other times, I find myself trying to guess facts about them based on first impressions.

One deceptively difficult guess is the answer to this question: “How many siblings do you have?”

My guesses have been met with both looks of offense and flattery. It’s hard to tell from first impressions, but after meeting so many new people at once, I’ve learned key indicators that point to how many siblings someone might have.

Only children, without a doubt, have the worst reputations: guessing incorrectly that someone is one often elicits a look of displeasure.

Characteristics that many people associate with the “only child syndrome” include selfishness, self-entitlement, and an inability to share with others. While some do live up to the stereotype, there are often even more middle and youngest children who exhibit these traits. They are not immediate distinguishers and can’t be used to accurately guess. For me, the qualities that send a flashing radar that this person is an only child are veneers of high-achievement and a tendency to relate the conversation to something that reminds them of home.

Many of the only children I know have dangerous tunnel vision. When they have their mind set on a certain meal, reaching a certain deadline, or going to a meeting at a specific time, there is no hope of compromise or reasoning.

Some might call this stubbornness, but I see instead a level of independence that most people can’t attain.

Only children also always seem to reminisce

about their time at home. For example, during a conversation about the weather or upcoming events happening at Brown, maybe ice skating or winter break plans, they talk about how the ice skating rink in their hometown is bigger, better, and filled with more talented figure skaters. Or, on the rare occurrence the food selection at the Ratty turns out to be quite decadent and delicious, they tend to bring up their home-cooked meals— vivid descriptions of smoked ribs that fall off the bone or minced pork with vegetables—leading us to look back down at our dining hall food and lose our appetite.

Middle children are often the most lowkey and tend to get along with everyone in the friend group. The two words that I would use to describe them are malleable and balanced. In a way, they’re more mature than the oldest children and tend to get along with everyone, without picking favorites. As a result, one may pine for a middle child’s attention in a group setting, and more than one middle child in a group may offset the group dynamic.

By far the most difficult sibling dynamics to pinpoint are youngest and oldest children. This is fitting, as the youngest and oldest siblings tend to have the tensest relationships.

Oldest children tend to have a clear sense of direction, and they immediately take note when there is a mood shift with a friend or within a group. I find that older children tend to force responsibility onto themselves. When a fight or disagreement breaks out, they are the first to assess what’s happening, then step in to mediate with the help of the middle child. They tend to both parties’ feelings, and try to direct the conversation to a place of compromise and reflection. When someone is under the weather or more quiet than usual, the oldest will often reach out and check in. They may also become

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don’t judge a bookstore by its popularity

by Tiffany Kuo Illustrated by Emily Saxl

more upbeat and enthusiastic in the conversation in order to draw attention away from the quieter individual. To me, the oldest are the noblest, with a dash of arrogance.

I myself am the youngest child. A personality trait that I think belongs to the youngest is creativity when solving problems and coordinating plans for the group. Oftentimes, the youngest child has to fend for themselves, finding their own methods of entertainment. Because parents tend to relax more and loosen restraints on the youngest children, youngest children are often left to build the leftover Legos alone or learn how to carefully rewear the passed-down clothing from their older siblings. As a result, youngest siblings always have the best style and the most creative approaches to their hobbies, although some of it does come from stealing inspiration from their older siblings.

As youngest siblings have more chances to be independent compared to their older siblings, they have to figure out ways to coordinate rides and make weekend plans, while trying to outmaneuver their parents in a way that the older siblings couldn’t. As a result, in college, the plans for parties, weekend trips into the city, or when to eat meals are usually coordinated by the youngest.

Once the group is together, the youngest siblings usually have the most fun, though a part of them may wish that they had someone else to support them and carry the burden of being the planner.

All in all, the variety of sibling dynamics can help you make sense of a person’s personality. If you pay attention to these, over time, the initial assumptions and stereotypes you had about different siblings may change, allowing you to form deeper connections with them. Soon, the bond between the friends you make in college turns into your own kind of siblings, forming a wholesome little family of your own.

Winter (Break) is Coming post- mini crossword 21

By LILY COFFMAN Illustrated by ALISSA SIMON

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Across

1 What winter break brings for many

Down

1 Short-term borrowing, for short you might have to do before 2 What you can experience 1-Across

5 One living outside of their home country 7 Thomas with Common Sense

3 Elevator pitch 4 Dance that takes two, idiomatically

8 Partner to alpha 9 ____ machine

6 Something to suckle EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kimberly Liu

“Bite into Fresh Fruit!”

——Fresh Fruit First Editorial Board, “Editor’s Note” 2.15.73

“post- will concern itself with coverage of the art forms that shape our culture, the personalities that define our popular taste, and the issues that demand discussion” —post- First Editorial Board, “Editor’s Note” 2.04.00

Section Editors Emily Tom Ananya Mukerji

FEATURE Managing Editor Klara Davidson-Schmich

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn

Section Editors Addie Marin Elaina Bayard

Section Editors Jack Cobey Daniella Coyle

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa

HEAD ILLUSTRATORS Emily Saxl Ella Buchanan

Section Editors Elijah Puente Rachel Metzger

COPY CHIEF Eleanor Peters

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Katheryne Gonzalez

Copy Editors Indigo Mudhbary Emilie Guan Christine Tsu

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Tabitha Grandolfo Kaitlyn Lucas LAYOUT CHIEF Gray Martens Layout Designers Amber Zhao Alexa Gay STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Gabrielle Yuan Elena Jiang Will Hassett Daphne Cao

Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Olivia Cohen Ellie Jurmann Sean Toomey Emily Tom Ingrid Ren Evan Gardner Lauren Cho Laura Tomayo Sylvia Atwood Audrey Wijono Jeanine Kim Ellyse Givens Sydney Pearson Samira Lakhiani Cat Gao Lily Coffman Raima Islam Tiffany Kuo Want to be involved?

Email: mingyue_liu@brown.edu!

post- / Brown Daily Herald / Dec 7, 2023 / Page Ten