post- 02/22/24

nollywood

the films that shape us

by Ayoola Fadahunsi

Illustrated by Junyue Ma

““I am a product of Nollywood and my loyalty remains unshaken.” -Genevieve Nnaji

Moving back to the United States after living in Nigeria for four years had its many challenges, but the one thing that would always help me feel more connected to the country, family, and friends left behind was Nollywood movies. Despite being an ocean away from Nigeria, my culture never felt far from me. The films of my childhood made sure of that.

From Jenifa’s Diary , to Osuofia in London , to Akin and Popo , these energetic, bold, and authentic depictions of Nigerian culture were my atlas, a way to teleport back home in a country that was foreign to me.

Growing up, my screens were filled with both

Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers,

The sages of yore once said that the only certainties in this life are death, taxes, and that one week in the semester where you get a little (a lot) too few hours of sleep, ignore all your homework during the weekend, and start to fall desperately behind in all your classes. How funny that that week always seems to reveal itself after the S/NC deadline… Oh well, it’s roughly three hours and nine minutes too late to worry about that right now. This past weekend, I helped Gendo Taiko host over 280 taiko enthusiasts from as far as Japan for the first East Coast Taiko Conference in four years. Despite the dangerous academic space it put me in, I can say it was, without a doubt, worth all of the literal blood, sweat, and tears that went in. Without being dramatic, I would say that it was probably the pinnacle of my entire (three years) taiko-re-

American and Nigerian shows and films—my parallel entertainment a reflection of my combined identity. Although the American shows I consumed could only grant so much insight into an actual lived experience, they gave me a glimpse into social norms, slang, and general knowledge of life in the U.S. They helped me connect with children my age, when my classmates alienated me due to my Nigerian accent. These shows served as access points to next-door neighbors my age—when talking about popular shows, there was no cultural barrier; there was only Good Luck Charli e or Avatar: The Last Airbender . And over time, these shows began to feel like home too.

Yet as I learned more about “America” through

lated life and one of the top three experiences of my time at Brown. I don’t know if the sages have any quotes about taiko, but I think they ought to make one after this past weekend.

This week in post-, our writers are reflecting on a few of life’s other greatest constants. In Feature, the writer reflects on her Nigerian heritage and how it is reflected in the filmic canon of Nollywood. Meanwhile, in Narrative, both writers are looking to their families as one thinks about the mysteries of philosophy and how it informs her relationship with her dad, and the other remembers her grandmother’s cooking uniting everyone on Sunday evenings. In A&C, one writer looks at the ever-present monsterization of female puberty in the horror genre, and the other recounts how platonic love is captured by boygenius. Finally, in Lifestyle, one author looks at the world from the view of her pet gecko and our other writer

each new Disney or Nickelodeon show, my Nigerian culture was not brushed aside. In fact, my exploration was supported by a foundation of complex Yoruba films and Igbo royalty movies. Yoruba films excited my ears and created a cocoon, a sanctuary where English could not permeate. Igbo films following chiefs and royal families introduced me to the notions of “love triangles” as royal heirs sought to find their future partners. These films allowed me to stay grounded in Nigeria, while I simultaneously explored life in America.

My childhood was unbound, truly limitless. My parents did not restrain media or limit screen time, so I eagerly absorbed stories that differed from my own, yet

thinks about that all-too-relatable feeling of having a campus crush. And of course it wouldn’t be post- without a fun mini crossword—this week’s theme, presidents! The constant in this case is that mutual excitement we all feel about having a long weekend—president-related or not.

As I try to return to a state of sleep homeostasis in these coming days, I am thinking about one more eternal truth. I heard that those same sages, in all their immortal wisdom, also said something along the lines of “you should drop everything that you are doing and read post-, or maybe just at your earliest convenience.” I don’t know if they’ve ever been proven wrong; you should probably read post- ASAP. Just passing along their advice.

Dozing at the desk,

Joe Maffa Editor-in-Chief

were filled with unique similarities. In the U.S., where my accent was foreign, and my experiences were odd, having these movies was my act of defiance. In these movies, I did not care what anyone had to say about me or Africa or Nigeria.

I am also a product of Nollywood, and my loyalty to these films, which provided comfort, adventure, and life lessons, remains unshaken.

Nollywood or Nigerian Cinema has taken the world by storm, having risen to the second-largest film industry in the world, surpassing Hollywood in the number of films per year. The prominence of Nollywood dates back to Nigerian independence from colonialism in the 1960s, which was then followed by an economic boom in 1970 when oil production reached a peak in Nigeria. With additional money in the country, more Nigerians turned to films as an entertainment pastime. And in Lagos, numerous cinemas were built to meet the demand for films. When the Nigerian economy crashed in the 1980s, however, the demand for this form of entertainment declined, and thus there was less funding for film production. This drove the rise of Nollywood in the 1990s when movies were shot on video and converted into VHS films.

More recently, government sponsorship of media production, such as the Creative Industry Financing Initiative, which provides grants and loans for media creation, has expanded Nollywood’s reach. Nigerian films are now the third highest grossing in the world.

I feel pride when I think of how far Nollywood has come, each year of movies so closely tied to vivid memories of my life. At age eight, the movie about the child who got lost at sea stuck with me and revealed the unpredictability of the world. At age 10, the dark movie about how stealing money can derail a bright future cautioned me, reminding me of right and wrong. And at 15, Chief Daddy reintroduced Nigerian humor that I had not experienced in years.

However, ages 12, 13, and 14 were different. I turned away from Nollywood, sequestering a part of my culture in my family’s CD cabinet. During this period of my life, I sought to distance myself from the most authentic parts of who I was. During my teenage years, I no longer found solace in these films but sought out other forms of entertainment. The more comfortable I was in the U.S., the more I “assimilated,” and the less I felt a need to ground myself in my culture. It wasn’t until a cousin from Nigeria came to visit that I rekindled my love for Nigerian films.

The term Nollywood is derived from Hollywood, which is considered to be the home of movies, especially in the twentieth century. There is some controversy regarding the term itself and how it reflects colonial histories that some want to distance

1. Not Dasani

2. Balloons

3.

4. Slides

5. -fire

themselves from. However, others are open to the term and do not think the phrase Nollywood impacts the substance of the films themselves.

To me, Nollywood transcends definitions. It is an extension of my culture that I am eager to see represented in film. Even now, Nollywood films or “New Nigerian Films” are gaining more international attention and recognition. Streaming platforms such as Netflix and Amazon are entering partnerships with Nigerian filmmakers to create original films.

This expansion of Nollywood to U.S. platforms, along with a conversation with my cousin, rekindled my love for Nollywood at age 15 and forced me to confront my cultural denial. During my cousin’s visit, she asked my opinions on the latest films, and I found myself dumbfounded—I did not know the films she spoke of.

“Have you seen The Wedding Party? Did you like the first or second one better?”

“Chief Daddy had so many Nigerian celebrities— who shocked you in the cast? Can you believe Mama G was there too?”

“Have you seen Lionheart, or Omo Ghetto, or The Royal Hibiscus Hotel, or October 1st ? What have you seen?”

It was the first time I felt a true disconnect from Nigeria. My grounding had slipped away. I had no response to her questions then, so I made it my mission to find those answers.

Presently, I have seen almost all of the Nigerian films on Netflix, Amazon, and YouTube, as well as all of the films I can get access to after they hit cinemas in Nigeria. My family gathers to watch the latest films, trading in our VHS tapes and CDs for streaming platforms. And in my mother’s African hair braiding shop, we have seen so many films that we are now recycling.

I have watched Chief Daddy The Wedding Party I (and II ), Lionheart , Omo Ghetto , The Royal Hibiscus Hotel , and October 1st too many times to count.

“Yes, I really enjoyed The Wedding Party , and while the first one is better, justice for the second one too. People love denying the quality of sequels.”

“Chief Daddy was filled to the brim with stars, Nollywood icons from old cinema to new cinema. Mama G was amazing as always.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes—I have seen all of them!”

Although my loyalty to Nollywood was shaken for a period of time, it remains one of my most significant influences. I am a product of honest depictions of being Nigerian; I am a product of joy-filled, celebratory stories. I am a product of cautionary tales, love stories, and so much more. Nollywood took my understanding of life, expanded it, and created a cinematic space meant for me

waters

6. CIT 4th floor kitchen

7. -bear

8. Boarding

9. Iced (American)

10. -gate

my life philosophy to love by extension

by Sarah Frank Illustrated by Emily Saxl

2015

I have no idea why anyone would want a degree in philosophy. Philosopher doesn’t seem like a job someone can apply for, much less have. Plato and Socrates and Aristotle and other Greek men revered for their thoughts seem to have cornered the market.

“Why that degree?” I ask my dad. “Like, what does one do with a philosophy degree?”

He explains that he just ended up there, and that he had taken the wisdom of his professors for granted.

I suppose it helped him with law school, but it seems to me that anything could be applicable to law. Why study thinking and knowledge rather than a field of knowledge itself?

2017

Halfway through Peter Singer’s Ethics in the Real World: 90 Essays on Things That Matter, I find myself utterly captivated. On a walk around the neighborhood, my dad and I discuss our most recent read. The warm sun caresses my skin, lifting the weight of heavy questions of morality up into the air so our conversation feels lighter than it is.

2020

So very bored. Everyone is, though, which makes the boredom ache a little less. My dad, optimistic as always, suggests that perhaps this is the time for everyone to discover a new interest or hobby.

I feel as though I have already found all the things I care about, but he is so excited about the prospect of curiosity that I don’t have the heart to say anything. He buys my brother books on weight lifting and anatomy, as well as a basil plant I affectionately name Basilly.

The pandemic has relegated me to my computer, to a 2-D world that I try desperately to imagine as 3-D, as real—or close to it. I begin my college search because it feels like 3-D places make the 2-D screen feel more like 2.5-D.

My first search is something to the effect of “best colleges for writing.” English makes sense

“Respectfully, I’d rather swallow glass than interact with someone like her.”

“I just want to drink milk from a goat’s udder.”

as a degree: for me as a writer, for me as a student, for me as a girl committed to not losing her mind or sight of her dreams.

2021

I’m only a few weeks into my first semester at Brown, and I can already tell I have drastically messed up my course selection. My anthropology class demands a book per week, and the books are the kind that I might need a month or two to read, three or more to understand. My literary arts class is quite terrible, too: The authors that come to “speak” just read their books out loud. On Zoom. After we’ve already read the book that week for homework. My linguistics class is beyond confusing, and as I make random noises in the library, I realize how foolish I must sound to the average passerby. Voiced plosive g’s? Voiced labial stops?

But my ethics class is my intellectual saving grace. The professor, an older woman with a cat as her Zoom background and a bonnet atop her head, is quite possibly the smartest person I have ever met. Every argument is turned inside-out, upside-down, backward, forward, and rightside-up again. Every thought is deeply analyzed, down to its core, and reconstructed with mindful attention.

It’s like I can feel my brain getting bigger.

2022

I’ll just take one more class with that professor…

2023

This one sounds interesting too…

2023, Later

December of my junior year only feels like such when the first snowfall drifts by my window. It strikes me—quite hard—that I graduate in a year and a half. I’ll be graduating with an English degree I am not quite sure what to do with and a backpack full of dreams that take me in different directions, any of which would be fine by me.

I pull my advising dashboard up on my computer screen to check my progress. In looking at my courses, I note the amount of PHIL that appears in the numberings.

I wonder…

In a new window, I pull up the philosophy department’s concentration requirements and find myself checking off most of them.

2024

“Because why not, right? I’m only three classes away,” I tell my dad. He tells me that’s awesome, and he’s proud of me, and he wishes he’d put the same effort into his philosophy courses as I do mine.

The first day of my Philosophy of Mind class, the professor hands out a syllabus that has exactly two books on it. When I send the titles over to my dad, he warns me that it might be hard, possibly too hard.

“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “It’s interesting! And if I don’t understand, I’ll just ask the

professor.” There’s too much stigma around admitting you don’t understand something—I find there is strength in just accepting it.

“I was always afraid to ask questions in my classes. Good for you for just asking, Sarah.”

A few days later, my dad tells me he bought one of the books and intends to do the readings along with me. I simply cannot help but smile, imagining him 1,000 miles away but flipping the pages of the same book as me.

When the first readings are assigned, I send him a picture of the pages.

I have completed my homework. When are your office hours? I have a couple questions, he texts me one snowy afternoon. I glance at the unread chapter I bookmarked, and text back oopsies might be a little behind !

I only have one class and I’m auditing it so I have a lighter schedule

All my other classwork suddenly feels less relevant in light of a text from him, so I switch over to my philosophy reading instead. Determined to understand everything before my dad calls, I highlight the text like never before.

In our little book club, we ask whatever questions we have. Between the two of us, I think we understand it all.

“By the way, I get it,” I say before we hang up, “I get why you majored in philosophy. And if it makes me anything like you, then I’m glad I’m following in your footsteps.”

from the kitchen table

recipes of love and tradition

by Ana Vissicchio

Illustrated by Emilie Guan

My feet swing under the chipped wooden table. I soak in the smell of sizzling tomato sauce. My grandmother’s hands—soft from Pond’s hand lotion but aged from years of hot oil splashes— are a blur. I watch her float from oven to stove, guiding raw ingredients into a meal. Unwashed vegetables, boxes of breadcrumbs, cartons of eggs—all quickly vanish. She looks back at me, singing along to Music Choice on the television. Her apron is splattered, her smile relaxed. The aroma of salty eggplant ripples across the room.

Eggplant parmesan is a multi-step process. A labor of love, yet practical, the dish simply takes ten shiny purple eggplants, one box of breadcrumbs, half a dozen eggs, skim milk, salt and oil.

A perfect symphony of aromatics and spice. Tiny, teetering towers of bliss squeezed together in an aluminum pan. Violet houses in a tinfoil neighborhood. Callused and wrinkled hands delicately flip and dip each eggplant round. Flour, egg, breadcrumb, repeat. A drizzle of oil. A pinch of seasoning. Placing a steaming hot meal in front of me, my grandmother always asks if it tastes alright. She already knows the answer.

The air smells of burning candles and sweet garlic as we gather around the dining room table on a Sunday evening. Food, the assumed star of the event, is simply a conduit for our togetherness; my grandmother cooks to keep her children and grandchildren close. Dressed in a

chic black dress, her curls fluffed to perfection, her joy and Estee Lauder Youth-Dew permeate the entire house. Trays and trays of food march out of the oven, appearing on the dining table one by one. Boisterous conversation intertwines with classical music. She dips in and out, checking on all of us as she tends to the food, blurring the line between the dining room and the kitchen like an otherworldly being.

Chaos fills the house before dinnertime, but my grandmother is a very peaceful woman. I watch her sprinkle some extra parmesan cheese on top of her eggplant, twirl spaghetti into little spirals, and carefully fold foil tins notch by notch—ready for the oven. Flattening chicken cutlets requires the slam of a meat mallet, crushing San Marzano tomatoes takes a strong fist unafraid of getting messy; cooking demands physical exertion. Copper pots and pans scratched and etched from years of use, her comrades, soldier on into the fight.

I sit cross-legged on the twin bed in my dorm room. Rain slaps against my window angrily. I sink into the distant, rhythmic ring of the phone held up against my ear, and melt deeper into my bed when I hear my grandmother’s voice on the other end. There are many stories my grandmother tells over and over, ones she thinks we want to hear, like her first dates with Granddad. She didn’t let him kiss her until after the twelfth one. But there are some stories I don’t know—the ones I’ll only get by asking.

Surprisingly, my grandmother’s first time cooking was when she moved with Granddad into an apartment in New York City. Over the phone,

step by step, her mother taught her how to make a meatloaf.

“She told me I needed a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Chopped meat, breadcrumbs, egg, seasoning. She said I would feel the difference. No measuring needed. I thought she was crazy.”

When I sit at her kitchen table, I watch my grandmother toss spice and flavor into her dishes with a crease in her brow, yet a secureness in her motion. Her dishes, organic and sacred, never know measurements, timers, special equipment. Just salt, fat, acid, heat, and love.

“I just had an air for it,” my grandmother says, the smile in her voice crackling over the phone. “I was always in the kitchen, watching my mom. I just learned by observing her.”

–

At the end of Sunday evenings, dusk turned heavy and dark, my grandmother gathers us in the kitchen once more to pack leftovers into still more aluminum tins, the last step of the dinner ritual. Secret recipes wrapped up in boxes like presents: Cooking is everything we need and filled with everything we know. She hands me a package, warns me about the hot temperature, and kisses me on the forehead.

–

“When someone cooks, whether you are a mother in your own home, you always do it with love, because it's a way of bringing the family together. When you know you're doing that, you always put your best foot forward.” After we hang up, she calls me back to tell me this. Little did she know that she already did, over and over again, each time I entered her kitchen.

a bloody good scare on menstruation

& female sensuality

in horror

by Isa Marquez Illustrated by lulu cavicchi

“It is women who love horror. Gloat over it. Feed over it. Are nourished by it. Shudder and cling and cry out and come back for more.”

– Bela Lugosi

The portrayal of female characters in horror has often been confined to an oppressively binary spectrum, depicting women as either the virginal heroine or a sexually voracious villain. Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of the horror genre is its inability to perceive women as more than the sum of their parts—as evidenced by aggressively voyeuristic camera angles and limited, hyper-feminine portrayals of girlhood.

Yet there is an element of complexity regarding the supernatural or monstrous depiction of female puberty and sexuality within horror films. We can look at famous examples within film and television, such as Carrie, The Exorcist, or Ginger Snaps which highlight the inherent evil of female puberty and sexuality, resulting in the birth of the female monster. For once, women are portrayed in a way that is dangerous, sexually liberated, and powerful. Instead of running from monsters, women are allowed to become them, embodying characteristics that are often reserved for their male counterparts such as Freddy Krueger from Nightmare on Elm Street or Patrick Bateman in American Psycho

This portrayal of womanhood can be satisfying for female viewers due to its deviation from the societal norm and underlying themes of female empowerment. However, the characterization of the female monster begs several questions: What exactly is so monstrous about female menstruation and sexuality? What does Hollywood’s depiction of the female monster represent within general society?

As film historian Shelley Stamps argues in her paper “Horror, Femininity, and Carrie’s Monstrous Puberty,” “The monster introduces a threatening diversity into the category of the human. Non-human and non-male are confused as equivalent threats to human identity; bodily differences become, in both cases, the locus of the non-human.” To male viewers, the female form is akin to a monstrous identity due to a woman's sexually different anatomy. Anything outside the masculine

mold is unfamiliar, dangerous, or otherworldly, allowing filmmakers to use female sensuality and puberty as a basis for horror. The transition from girlhood to womanhood is a medium for public spectacle; men view women’s development as both sexually inviting and dangerous to masculinity.

A strong example of the application of horror juxtaposed with female menstruation is within Carrie’s infamous period scene—viewers are subjected to an invasive shot of Carrie sensually cleaning her body within the girl’s locker room. The camera pans deliberately over Carrie’s silhouette, paying particular attention to her stomach and legs as she washes herself. The music is intentionally soft and pleasant. However, the tranquil scene soon turns sinister once a small trickle of blood runs down Carrie’s legs and onto her hands. There is fear in Carrie’s eyes as she looks down at her body, and her movements become frantic and desperate as she runs to her classmates for aid, almost as if she is an injured, feral animal.

The scene is extraordinarily uncomfortable for viewers due to King’s violent depiction of Carrie’s menstruation. Yet, the scene is merely evidence that Carrie has a functioning female body. Her naked, injured form is not that of a monster or animal but simply a girl without a towel. The blood on Carrie’s hands is not from any act of violence or injury but a sign of healthy puberty. Carrie’s form is reduced to something disgusting and animalistic. The scene plays as if it is within a horror sequence, with Carrie, our victim and also monster, crouched against the floor. Her lack of bodily knowledge induces public fear and humiliation. Carrie is punished and ostracized for the mere crime of womanhood.

However, a mere 30 seconds prior, viewers were encouraged to perceive Carrie through a sexually provocative lens, as evidenced by the tantalizing camera angles and body shots. This is the same woman with the same body as before, yet the moment in which Carrie’s body performs a service that is non-desirable is the moment viewers are encouraged to view her as disgusting and horrific. This is the same scene in which Carrie's telekinetic powers are also introduced, as evidenced by the breaking light bulb above Coach Collins’s head. As

Stamps emphasizes,“Carrie’s adolescent body becomes the site upon which monster and victim converge, and we are encouraged to postulate that a monster resides within her.” With Carrie’s emerging puberty comes the emergence of sexual and monstrous awakenings. Thus, King subtly conveys the patriarchal fear that men possess towards female puberty, as it serves as a period for naive, pure young girls to transform into powerful, destructive women.

****

Stephen King’s 1976 film Carrie was produced at the height of second wave feminism, a time when more complex feminist issues were brought to the United States’s attention, including the pink tax, abortion, and access to emergency contraceptives. Perhaps such movements were indicative of a larger fear that the male patriarchy held towards women at the time: unregulated feminine passion and power. For what is left for men to control if women are able to enact complete autonomy of both their bodies and minds?

As film critic Robin Wood asserts, “Monsters represent a return of the repressed.” In the case of women, the suppression of sensuality leads to the emergence of a sexually-liberated female monster as a form of female rebellion against heteronormative societal expectations. She is different from her male monsters because her powers revolve around her seduction; as a femme fatale but also a killer, the female monster represents both the unrestrained, wild sexuality that women desire to possess and the underlying bloodlust towards men. The phrase “maneater” comes to mind because the female monster serves to literally consume men—both physically and socioeconomically.

A prime example of this female monster is Jennifer Check, the secondary protagonist in Diablo Cody’s Jennifer’s Body . Jennifer, played by early 2000s sex symbol Megan Fox, reads as a social commentary on society’s obsession with purity and virginity. In the movie, high school “queen bee” Jennifer is brutally killed in the woods by indie rock band, Low Shoulder. The sadistic band performs a demonic ritual with the devil, believing that by sacrificing Jennifer as a virgin, they will obtain eternal fame and wealth. Unbeknownst to the band, Jennifer is not a virgin; thus, she resurrects after her murder, transforming into a teenage succubus determined to enact revenge on men. Jennifer’s demonic possession grants her the physical strength to manipulate and conquer male forces, as Jennifer already had full confidence and control of her own sexuality. Although the story ultimately ends in Jennifer’s demise at the hands of her best friend, Anita, Jennifer’s sexual liberation inadvertently saved her life—a distinct departure from common purity themes within horror.

Thus, Jennifer’s Body is a direct contrast to the madonna-whore archetype frequently observed in film, in which one’s sexual repression is the key to survival.

Women within horror will always maintain an integral role in story development and film. It’s a compelling medium in which women are given the opportunity to enact violence, rage, guilt, and sexuality without aggressive censorship or moral qualm. The female monster provides a cleansing sense of relief to female viewers due to her aversion to social normalcy and domination against male oppression.

If the world tells women they are less than men and their desire must be repressed, a generation of female monsters will be produced in cathartic retaliation. Perhaps that is where the real horror lies.

falling in love with your friends on

being known so well

by Alyssa Sherry

Illustrated by Kianna Pan

We’re all wrapped together under a blanket on an air mattress that’s too small for us. She’s in the middle and my head is on her shoulder. Your head is on her other one. The three of us all have dark brown curly hair and now our curls spill seamlessly onto the pillows. You’re talking about your plans to get a tattoo once we’re back at school in a few weeks. You tell us you’ve sketched out an orange to put on your back, split into two quarters and a half. Just like in that Wendy Cope poem, “The Orange,” the one that says, “I love you, I’m glad I exist.”

Tomorrow she’s taking us to San Francisco. We’re only staying in her hometown for a few days and she wants to show us her world, wants us to see where her memories live, and the places that created her. I think it’s so strange that other people met both of you before I did, and I envy the people who will always know you a bit better than I do. To catch up on the missed parts, during the few days we’re in the Bay, we’ve started a ritual: every night, the three of us squeeze onto this air mattress together—only really meant for one or two people—and talk about the things we love, tell stories, imagine all of the adventures we’ll go on next semester when we live in the same place again.

The light is dim and the room is hazy. Suddenly it seems so quiet and familiar, like it could have been my childhood bedroom, too. Like maybe I never really missed anything.

*

Last January, boygenius announced their return by releasing three singles off their first LP, the record: “$20,” “Emily, I’m Sorry,” and “True Blue.” You were so thrilled; I had only met you a few months earlier, but even then I loved anything you loved just by seeing it through your eyes—your excitement was so infectious.

“True Blue” is a love song. It’s a song about the unconditional, about the enduring. But it’s not about a partner—it’s about a best friend. It’s about Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus’s adoration for each other, an adoration that is revealed further in another

track off the record, aptly titled “We’re In Love.” In “True Blue,” Lucy sings, “It feels good to be known so well.”

I had never wanted to be known so well. Last January, when I first heard the song, I found it astoundingly unrelatable. I thought that being known was the most excruciating and humiliating endeavor, and I hated the idea of opening myself up to scrutiny, to hurt. Opening myself up to the possibility that I could let myself depend on someone and then I could lose them. I related much more to a lyric off “Leonard Cohen,” another track from the record: “I might like you less now that you know me so well.”

* Our curls blow wild and the air tastes bright. You’re bundled in her windbreaker and she’s cartwheeling down the beach and I’m laughing so hard that my stomach hurts. The Golden Gate Bridge glows in the distance, warm in the afternoon sunlight. She turns around and we run toward her, throw our arms around her, spin, feet carving divots in the sand, heads tossed back to the sky. Wind rushes through the wool of my sweater and makes my eyes water.

Later tonight we will leave our shoes at her front door and her mom will make us soup for dinner. I will forget my shampoo and conditioner in her bathroom and it will stay there even after we leave.

* Many casual listeners would claim that “True Blue” is about a romance. And many within the band’s devoted fanbase would be quick to rebut that it’s not romantic, and that the virtue of the song lies in its celebration of the purely platonic.

But I say they’re both wrong. In my own experience, bonds between queer women—whether between the members of boygenius or my own friends—possess a uniquely beautiful power to transcend the conventional categorizations of romantic versus platonic love to unlock some “secret third thing”: falling in love with your friends. I don’t mean the stereotype of lesbians forming labyrinthine webs of who dated who—I mean the adoration and intimacy that is cultivated between girls who love girls. This brave kind of vulnerability, this easy kind of affection.

*

It’s last fall and we’re in the middle of the woods,

standing at the edge of a pond in our bathing suits. Braced against the mid-November chill, our skin is drenched golden by the sliding afternoon sun. The last few remaining leaves dance dappled crimson on the trees around us. She smiles at me and grabs my hand, lacing her fingers through mine and squeezing tight. “Now!” We rush forward into the water, the icy chill biting into our bones. I’m shrieking and you’re cheering and she’s laughing. Finally we are in up to our shoulders and our curls fan languid in the water around us. I am so cold I can barely breathe, and I look at her. She is backlit by the hazy November afternoon sun and I feel almost as though I am living inside a memory–missing something before it’s even over. You’re behind me and I turn around and when you see me looking at you, you wave brightly, lit up by the sun.

*

“I remember who I am when I’m with you” is another line from “True Blue,” another one that I struggled to understand for a long time. I scorned the idea that anyone could teach me anything about myself, that my identity could in any way be wrapped up by someone else. I selfishly imagined myself separate, discrete, interacting with everyone in some muffled capacity as though I were underwater.

But then I met you. And slowly I fell in a special kind of love with you, that secret third thing. I fell in love with how you don’t like oranges even though you want to get an orange tattoo, with how you stand by my side through everything. How I’ve never felt alone since I met you.

Then we met her, and we fell in love with her warmth, her smile, her sunshine. How she opens her heart and leaves everything better than she found it.

Suddenly that lyric, which had bugged me so much, made total sense. All at once, “I remember who I am when I’m with you” meant that by falling in love with my friends, I chose to embrace a reciprocal openness and a support system. And the lyric reveals a depth to relationships that should not be limited by any arbitrary boundary. Falling in love with your friends and being known so well are irrevocably intertwined, and letting myself be known has made our moments together saturated with beauty and meaning. Now, in “Leonard Cohen,” the lyric I love most is, “I never thought you’d happen to me.” How lucky I am that you did.

advice from a dorm gecko

musings on agency, community, and dead cockroaches

by Indigo Mudbhary

Illustrated by hannah zhang

I didn’t come to college intending to buy a gecko, and yet there I was in the Providence Petco on my eighteenth birthday, looking at potential terrariums for the future third resident of my Keeney double.

I don’t quite remember how the gecko thing started. I think it started as just a silly little bit, as do most ridiculous ideas that become ridiculous things you’ve done. But somehow, after joking about it, we got serious and realized that we could, realistically and within our budget, get a gecko. Sure, finding people to take care of it during breaks would be a hassle—I’ve posted my share of anonymous Sidechat pleas for someone to look after him over breaks. And yes, there would have to be the occasional sojourn to the Providence Petco to pick up crested gecko food mix—tropical and watermelon are his favorite flavors. But after weighing these considerations, my roommate and I decided we would go through with it and take the plunge into parenthood.

Beef Chili Fish is his name, though to friends he’s just Fish. We don’t know his sex, but we used he/him/his on the first day we got him and the pronouns stuck. He lives in a terrarium and spends most of his day perched atop a fake plant, hiding under a fake log, upside down on a fake rock wall, clinging to the glass wall with his super suction toes, or breathing anxiously on his feeding ledge.

Though Fish’s fingers are powerful grippers, the one thing he cannot do is pick up a pen and write for post- magazine. So, in an attempt to reject anthropocentricity, here’s what I think he’d say if asked to give readers some lifestyle advice.

Hello, I am Fish. I am an orange crested gecko. Who knows what horrors I endured before Indigo and her roommate so kindly adopted me. I do not know what “Brown” or its Daily Herald are. All I know is I like fruit-flavored food mix and if you look at me for too long, I will breathe very fast to show you I am not happy about it. With my introduction out of the way, here are my tips and tricks for a welllived life.

1. Boundaries are everything.

Just like many people and beings, I like to be held. But only on some days. If you reach into my humid, glass-walled domain on a day I’m just not feeling it, I will scamper away without a twinge of remorse. If, for some reason, you pick me up instead of taking the hint, I will leap out of your hand. Trust me, us crested geckos can leap and we can leap far (up to five feet at a time!). That’ll teach you. Though boundaries for you, dear reader, likely look completely different (I doubt anybody is trying to pick you up), don’t be afraid to set them, assert them, and make them known. Even if it means sending your two roommates chasing around the room as you leap from wall to wall.

2. Do what works for you.

Every morning, my two roommates hear their alarms go off, moan, groan, then shuffle semi-consciously to their 10ams. Not me. I sleep through the entire day—sometimes curled up in a little ball, splayed out on the paper towel that lines the bottom of my terrarium, even upside down (despite my roommates’ fear that this habit will lead me to develop floppy tail syndrome, which they read about online). Then, once my roommates hit the lights for the night, I’m the most active guy in the world, leaping from leaf to leaf in the most noisy way my tiny body can muster. I’m not suggesting that readers make a lot of noise while those they cohabitate with are sleeping—the last thing I’d want is for this “post- magazine” to produce swaths of shitty roommates. What I mean to

say is that I’m nocturnal. I couldn’t change this about myself even if I wanted to; that’s just my reptilian reality. So if there’s something you know about yourself—that you don’t like going out, that you don’t like rock climbing, that you don’t want to go to the Ivy Room for the fifth night in a row—don’t let people tell you it’s not true. Only you know you, and you should do what works for you.

3. We all need community, whatever that means to us.

When my roommates leave for a weekend or for Spring Break, a rotation of hallmates and friends take over spraying my cage and feeding me crested gecko food mix. Without them, I would not survive. Though you, as a human, may not literally depend on others to feed you and make sure you have water (what is a water bottle, btw?), we all need a community, in whatever way that word has personal significance for us. So don’t be afraid to ask for help, to reach out to an old friend to reconnect, to seek advice from another person. No person—and no gecko—can do it alone.

4. Don’t be embarrassed.

Occasionally, I will poop in my food. I know it’s gross, but my brain is smaller than a grape, so cut me some slack. Once, when my roommates bought me dead cockroaches as a treat because they read online that us geckos love them, I was so freaked out by the presence of these demons in my domain that I hid at the other edge of my terrarium for days. Similarly, when Indigo left a banana on top of my cage, it looked so much like a hawk or other flying predator that I started jumping everywhere like a piece of popcorn in the microwave. I’m not embarrassed about any of these things. Incidents like these are to be expected from a small-brained lizard like yours truly. And I don’t think you should be embarrassed about any of the things that are normal for humans to do, like making mistakes, tripping in public, or saying something wrong. I’m only a gecko, and you’re only a human—let's both be kind to ourselves.

5. Be full of surprises.

The other day, I made a crazy, squeakingclicking noise that neither of my roommates had ever heard me make before. Once, while my roommates were opening my terrarium door, I leapt out of my cage and went hopping all over. Each day, I find new, physics-defying ways of positioning my body while I’m asleep. In other words, every day of my gecko life, both myself and the people who care for me are discovering new things about Beef Chili Fish. Though you, dear reader, may at times feel predictable and trapped in routine (or maybe you don’t, in which case ignore this little lizard), I assure you there are always new things to discover about yourself. I encourage you to live each day like it’s one where you might surprise yourself.

In the spirit of my first piece of advice about boundaries, I am officially done writing and will now sleep for thirteen hours straight.

With all the gratitude in my tiny gecko heart, your friend, Fish

from the kitchen table

recipes of love and tradition

by Gabi Yuan

Illustrated by Stella Tsogtjargal

As you sit tucked in the hidden nooks around campus, nestled on a bench with a hot chai latte in hand, you can’t help but look up from your work and take in all of the unfamiliar faces—the crowds of students walking to their morning class or racing to the Blue Room.

But are you really people-watching, or just looking for that one person? Everyone has that one beautiful being in mind who they’re willing to walk the extra mile for (in the opposite direction of class) just to catch one more glimpse. Just the split-second interaction between you sends chills down your spine and suddenly it seems that the sun is shining brighter, the warm wind feels good brushing your face, and the ache in your heart has dissipated. These are just some of the symptoms of having a dangerous, heart-palpitating campus crush.

The alluring nature of a campus crush makes that person you’re pining for ever the more special. A campus crush can best be summarized with the three i’s: infeasibility, imagination, and i-am-just-bored-andwant–something-to-fixate-on. These points seek to answer the inevitable question: What makes a campus crush different from a regular crush?

#1:

Infeasibility. The more you can’t have something, the more you want it. This law seems to dictate everything that we deem desirable. Even friends and siblings argue over clothes or picking which meals to eat; what someone else has always looks better. When another person, not even necessarily a close acquaintance, is in a relationship, you suddenly feel as if you too need to be, in that instant, in a committed relationship.

Usually, a campus crush is someone that is unattainable. It’s not that this person is any better than you. It’s simply that in this universe, your lives were not meant to intersect romantically, but just to graze lightly. Because of this, this person instantaneously becomes more attractive, and any interaction you have inflates in your mind. Soon, it seems that the overwhelming sense that you and your campus crush won’t end up

together disappears. The only thing left is the notion that a glimpse of them will no longer suffice. You feel, overwhelmingly, like you have to act on these small moments of interaction, hoping that this will bloom into something serious—even an eventual relationship.

However, one reason why this person is unattainable is blatantly clear: You run on completely different schedules. They’re a morning person who goes to the Nelson right when it opens, you’re a night owl haunting the halls of the Sci-Li. They’re concentrating in Literary Arts while you’re hunkered down in the engineering building all day. They enjoy the plethora of options presented at the Ratty, while you swear to never stomach the Ratty more than once a week—if ever. The stars, in any case, do not align, and that only fires you up more: The heart wants what it can’t have. The unattainability of the person draws you in even more. You play a wicked, toxic game with yourself, growing stronger in your conviction that you are meant for each other until you’ve become enraptured with the idea of being star-crossed lovers.

#2:

Imagination. Everyone has fallen victim to late nights, staying up so far past midnight that you can’t distinguish between what is real and what you’ve conjured up from the depths of your imagination. Soon enough, every brush of a finger, every smile that they give you sends signals that you shouldn’t ignore and instead, should just act on.

The brush of a finger feels like a gentle caress on the small of your back, but in actuality, is just a scene from one of your English class readings that you’re projecting. A hug suddenly feels like your souls are being gently pressed together, and when you embrace, it feels as if all will be right in this world. But, of course, this is just your imagination. They offer you what seems like a tender smile, the type that stretches just a little wider and bigger than for everyone else.You watch that small dimple on the side of their cheek form and wonder what it would be like to lightly touch it. Then you realize that they were smiling at the person behind you.

#3:

I’m-Bored. The greatest unspoken truth about campus crushes is often forgotten, misplaced behind the mess of infatuation. It’s that they’re often the

result of an abundance of time or, better yet, a lack of it. Behind the busyness of classes, rushing to finish assignments, oftentimes, there is not a light at the end of the tunnel. From the dreary weather to the same routine of meals, there is nothing to fixate on.

Luckily, your campus crush will always come to the rescue, appearing out of nowhere (as if you hadn’t gone out of your way to see them). Catching a glimpse of them pushes you to get up and go to class, continue on with your day, and pull yourself out of your misery. After all, there is nothing like their sweet, euphoric smile to lift you out of your mundane schedule. There’s nothing like a classic fixation to pull you from the trenches.

To be clear, sometimes it’s not necessarily that you like them exceptionally or find them exceedingly attractive: They’re simply there to distract, making everything else that might be going wrong fall away.

One of the most important distinctions between a campus crush and a regular one is that a campus crush is absolutely one-sided and unrequited. That’s the beauty and pain of having one: There will never be any strings attached to liking someone so much. But at that point, do you even really like them? Or just the idea of them? Do you know anything about them beyond their physical appearance or the way they walk? Do you know what books they like to read or what they enjoy doing in their spare time?

The harsh reality of it all is that a campus crush is just a fixation, a stand-in for what you truly desire and hope for. It stems from something deep inside of you and not your affection for them. They become idolized in a way that can become unhealthy, compensating for other missing pieces in your life.

Yet, most of the time, with a conscious hold on the control of a campus crush, the effects are harmless and offer just a sprinkle of excitement into our lives. More positively, they can also offer a light in times of uncertainty or loss. They are a stepping stone to the person you really are compatible with, teaching you ways to love and what true love can feel like. You deserve the most special kind of love—the kind that feels like swarms of beautiful blue butterflies hugging you, warm and fuzzy from head-to-toe, a constant smile on your face even with a thought of them. Most importantly, it’s requited—someone who admires all of the special qualities you encapsulate that you also see in them. February 22, 2024 9

a precedent of presidential presence

by Lily Coffman Illustrated by Stella Tsogtjargal

Across

1 5 6 7 8

Red, Sp.

Shinbone

Last name of two early American presidents

Not masc

“Even though I love spring the most, specific memories flit by like dragonflies over still water: unpredictable, shifting, dangerously close to falling out of the sky. I hold on to brief flashes.”

— Kyoko Leaman, “Spring Memories” 2.25.22

“Looking at those paintings, you can almost imagine that if you took a walk in them, you would eventually arrive at a blue world with blue houses, blue fields, blue sheep.”

— Joyce Gao, “The Blue Hour” 2.23.23

Down

Something low in a 1975 hit by the band War 2010s president rumored to have a relationship with Harry Styles First name of the oldest living president Edens in the desert Progressive era president known more for his size than his impact

Cat

Ayoola

Joyce

Eleanor

Malena