post- 03/07/24

Cover

Reflections on queer love, community, and voyeurism in the archives

by Audrey Wijono

Illustrated by lulu cavicchi

It is May of 1981. Tempo Magazine, one of Indonesia’s largest weekly newspapers, has just published an article about a wedding. “Their affections for one another are a little excessive, even in front of all their guests,” the author writes, seemingly amused. “Bonnie is pinching their ‘husband’s’ face. Jossie slaps their ‘wife’s’ butt.” Bonnie and Jossie, both in their early twenties, paint a vivid picture of young, unabashed love.

“But believe it or not,” the author continues, “Jossie and Bonnie are both women. And they’re here in the Swinging Pub Bar for their wedding reception…The first pair of women to do so in Indonesia, ever.”

Bonnie slices into their wedding cake. Jossie takes the plate, spooning a piece into her lover’s mouth. The bar, packed to the brim, erupts into applause.

As the article makes sure to emphasize, this was not a legal union. Neither Jossie nor Bonnie had ever dared hope for a legal marriage; Indonesia’s marriage laws had been explicit in terming marriage a union between a man and a woman, and their local registry had been firm in its denial. But the two of them, donning wide smiles and wedding garb, seem unbothered.

“We want an eternal love,” Bonnie tells the reporter when prompted. “And we’re happy. That’s all that matters.”

Jossie and Bonnie’s wedding marked a turning point for queer discourse in Indonesia. For a nation that placed so much emphasis on the domestic sphere and traditional nuclear families, Jossie and Bonnie’s relationship was

Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers,

One of my New Year’s Resolutions for this year was to be more present—to appreciate each and every moment, conversation, experience. Considering how shocked I was to learn that it’s already March, it’s safe to say that there is still progress to be made. Despite my best efforts to both stay on top of my workload and have quality downtime, I find myself defaulting to blockedout calendars and long to-do lists, as though comforted by this vicious cycle of productivity: fill free time with work → have more free time… that can be filled with more work. As I’ve failed to make time to do the things I enjoy, I’ve been dwelling on a quote by Annie Dillard where she says, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” One “busy” week turns into two, then three, where I lose sight of the simple plea-

shocking. For some, it was an introduction to a new, freer conception of love. For others, it was a sign of Western cultural encroachment; the globalization of the wrong

ideas.

More news outlets picked up the story, often without consent. Soon enough, the story of Jossie and Bonnie had

sures that ground me: the coffee and Sylvia Plath poems in the mornings, the crosswords in the afternoons, the episodes of Modern Family in the evening. While I love the structure that schedules provide, I can’t help but feel guilty about making calendar entries for free time.

This week in post-, our writers are feeling contemplative as well. In Feature, our writer reflects on queer love, community, and voyeurism in the archives. Meanwhile in Narrative, our writers have weather on their mind. Rain and snow alike, our writers talk about how their perspectives have shifted as they’ve acclimated to life in New England. In A&C, one writer talks about using emails as a love language for her friends. Another A&C writer discusses parodying the patriarchy and the prominence of queer leads in film. In Lifestyle, one writer shares the notes they’d leave for themself if they had amnesia, while another writer meditates on the art

of slow living. And, as always, a crossword with idioms aplenty to round out your read.

I must confess, dearest Readers, I have yet to perfect the balance between productivity and presence since this realization. But in acknowledging this unhealthy habit that many of us find hard to kick, I truly believe I’m one step closer to being more mindful. Instead of filling in every gap in my day, I intend on simply letting them be. Maybe I’ll go on a walk by the river, or host an Oscars watch party for my friends. Who knows? That’s the beauty of it. The only thing I do know is that my time reading post- every week is always time well spent, and yours should be too.

Here and now,

Cover image for Gaya Hidup Ceria #3

grown from a tender account of love to a sensationalized, fear-mongering tale. The public’s response was hostile.

“Pray more,” some remarked; “Find a shrink,” said others.

The year after, three young men founded Lambda Indonesia, the first gay organization in the nation. The discourse produced by Jossie and Bonnie’s case had spurred them on. There was a lack, they realized, of gay organizing and consciousness in Indonesia. Lambda sought to fill this gap, to prove “gay” Indonesians were worthy not only of acceptance but social inclusion.

Shortly after its formation, Lambda published its first newsletter, Gaya Hidup Ceria (A Cheerful Life). This newsletter was far from a large publication; its pages circulated only within the organization’s members. But the significance of its contents was clear. “Our emancipation,” the first article reads, “as Gays and Lesbians must be by our own hands. And for that, we must have pride—and we cannot wait a second any longer.”

Gaya Hidup Ceria sparked something special, kickstarting a decades-long tradition of community publications, connections, and care. Lambda was disbanded within several years, and publication of Gaya Hidup Ceria ceased with it. But with this disbandment came a new wave of queer community publications and zines across the country. GAYa Nusantara, GAYa Betawi, GAYa Celebes, MitraS, Paraikette, Jaka-Jaka.

The list goes on, and I’m so incredibly grateful that it does. ***

The zines in the Queer Indonesia Archive make me cry. The archive’s existence itself is emotional; to see the level of preservation and care that activists, historians and scholars have taken with these materials is touching. The Archive was only just founded during the pandemic, yet its collections of photos, letters, and texts lovingly preserved over the years have already grown to a staggering size.

It’s the zines themselves, though, that move me the most. Even today, with modern print technologies, zine-making is a labor of love. Zine-makers balance a myriad of elements, including content, layout, and visuals. And mass-producing them is another story entirely. In his article on Indonesian zines, Tom Boellstorff paints a brief portrait of the production process: the late nights in the back of someone’s house, the last-minute edits, and the scramble before the files are sent off to the local print shop.

Reading through them is a joy. Partly because you can feel the love of the organizers and the effort inherent in the medium itself, but partly, too, because of their novelty. The zines represent such a range of queer interests and expression that it is difficult to sum them up in any succinct way. Each issue and

section is a surprise in its scope and focus. Poems dedicated to one’s mother, short stories about queer love and desire, annotated bibliographies on queer studies. One issue, focused on queer sexual health, was littered with cartoon condoms and had an entire spread on intimate piercings (complete with explicit and detailed illustrations). Another depicted queer American cowboys, big and burly and mustachioed.

With each one, though, I am most struck by the people. The lives depicted within these pages, their worlds frozen in time.

There are photographs scattered all throughout these pages. There is something intimate, almost tender, about the process of going through them. Each issue brings a series of new faces; a new coverboy to meet, watch, know. A new series of personalities and stories to acquaintance myself with. A one-sided bond.

Sometimes the photos are of couples, locked in a loving embrace—moments so starkly intimate that I feel like an intruder. Other times the photos are of individuals, a portrait with a bright smile. Occasionally the figures are unnamed, their photographs included with no caption or context. Others are accompanied by entire biographies or articles—sometimes with details as intimate as their height, weight, and address.

And it didn’t always end there. Many publications would dedicate a page or two to a “Matching” section, where a subscriber could submit their name, address and a bio, inviting people to connect with them. Many of these submissions take on a flirty, confessional,

intimate nature.

ARMANS, Ideal height and weight, using an alias. Exciting, masculine, handsome, educated, Javanese, just discovered my identity. Looking for idols above the age of 35…

MICHAEL, 20, 55kg, Buddhist, Chinese descent, romantic, a little feminine (but not 100%), loves swimming, music, and humor. Looking for a manly man between the ages of 20-25, someone cool and active that is understanding and has a moustache…

ADRIAN S wants to get to know you. Ask me anything, and I’ll certainly reply. And my face isn’t too bad, you know!

***

Leafing through these zines, I can’t help but feel like a voyeur, intruding on a period that isn’t my own. Adrian S. couldn’t have known that, in forty years time, I would be reading his bid for connection. Nor

“America’s PR team is doing a really good job with the eagles.”

“I gave up hating for Lent.”

could Armans have known I’d have his full address, or his preferences for a man.

It’s hard to tell whether time has granted them anonymity.

I feel, in some ways, that I should look away, and yet I can’t help but want to learn more. Their names, their histories, their lives: all they have written and said. But what is my place as a historian? A reader? What right do I have to these materials?

In her article, “Finding Anne Moody” (a classic for History concentrators!), Françoise Hamlin touches on the ethics of historical research and the archives, and what it means to do justice for people of the past. Hamlin, while studying the life of activist Anne Moody, came across an unprocessed archive of Moody’s writings, and discovered a series of notebooks, bank statements, and ephemera—materials personal and chaotic in nature, their scrawlings reflecting her deteriorating mental health. When Hamlin contacted Moody’s family to inform them of the collection, they chose to have it destroyed.

Hamlin’s article grapples with questions of privacy and knowing in the archives, and ultimately, coming to terms with not knowing. Moody never intended to have these materials circulated, let alone archived. And though the Emory library waited until Moody’s death to provide access to these materials, the collection disregarded her desire for privacy in her personal life.

While these zines are nowhere near as intimate or sensitive as in Hamlin’s case, some of the materials highlighted by the Queer Archive are deeply personal. A recent exhibit, Letters from Ger, featured correspondences between Ger, a lesbian, and Barbara Gittings, editor of The Ladder (a San Francisco-based lesbian publication). The letters are often emotional in nature, with Ger expressing her frustrations with the expectations of a heteronormative society. The letters are deeply personal and emotional, reflecting on queer love and perception in the 1960s.

Reading these letters is voyeuristic, intimate in a way only the archive can be.

What makes Ger’s letters any different from Moody’s?

The ethics of archiving are blurry; there is no one standard for what should and should not be kept, circulated, and published. But I believe the distinction between respectful and careless archiving is in care and intent.

Ger’s letters were curated with love—with the hope that her experiences could provide comfort to another, even years removed. And that love makes all the difference.

The Queer Indonesia Archive and its materials, sensitive as they are, remain up and accessible for a purpose: for queer people in Indonesia and abroad to find themselves and their history.

In some ways, growing up queer in Indonesia is to grow up estranged.

I grew up with the same rhetoric many queer people have grown intimately familiar with: the dirty looks and insults and slurs. Hearing these things from peers and authority figures alike, I questioned, on many occasions, whether “queerness” was compatible with the nation and place I called home.

Forty years down the line, I find comfort in these words, these communities, these zines—just as so many must have done so long ago.

I love the archive, the lives and loves they depict, because I love just like they do.

The Archive is proof that queerness has a home in Indonesia. One we must carve ourselves, and that we continue to fight for to this day—but a home of our own nonetheless.

the first snow

an unwavering love for the unknown

by Lynn Nguyen

Illustrated by hannah zhang

I make a precise fold in half. I repeat with the same scrutiny, the same exactness, the same force, again and again. With a pair of safety scissors whose unused blades glimmer in my intent eyes, I calculate a snippet of the corner: Four thin, white triangles swirl down into my lap. Another cut at the opposite corner: Four thin, white squares land lightly atop the triangles scattered all over my lap. Carefully pinching the middle in half, I make two slits in the form of an “X” and then tilt my scissors to make the cuts that will connect the ends of this “X.” Paper stars fly down onto me.

The more I remove, the more I see an abstract tree branch. Happy with the number of details, I throw my scissors down and scramble to unfold my creation. To my disappointment, a choppy, asymmetrical paper snowflake forms.

This deformed snowflake is the closest thing I have to touching snow. Winters in Houston bring cool winds that pound your face, dry air with a tinge of smog, and Christmas lights drowned out by the empty night sky. Around this time of the year, I start my mornings with the cheap hot chocolate mix my dad steals from his workplace. I wander outside in my plaid pajama set, relishing the dead grass and trees without a worry in the world for preying mosquitoes. This is the season I live for.

A deep-seated memory helps me imagine the dreamy winters I hold onto when watching movies like Home Alone or The Polar Express. At the age of four or five, I’m awakened by a night of sudden snow: White coats sit atop the lawn, my parents’ Toyotas, the street. But no matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t remember seeing snowflakes stream from the sky, looking closely at the snow, or touching ice. I only have a single still image, but I recall the naive bliss of witnessing a previously unseen wonder. This single moment of the winter affords me a hope that I will cherish, until years later, when I can finally reach out and grasp snow.

February, 2021. On a call, my friend seizes my attention with a dramatic gasp and subsequently exclaims: “It’s going to snow this week!”

The news spurs an astonished “What?” as the single memory from over a decade ago floods my mind, and a wave of exhilaration rushes over me at once.

“There’s going to be a winter storm next Monday with a lot of snow,” she explains. Tinges of anxiety and regret blur within me, forming a jumbled picture that

quickly mutes the memory. The first snow I will truly see is a storm I must shelter from.

The first day of the storm also marks the first day my family has ever used our home’s fireplace—a previously veiled amenity that emanated mystery. When my dad lights the logs and starts the fireplace up, my grandma, brother, and I huddle around for a bit of heat amidst the power outage and chilly air. The warm orange reflects off of my grandma’s beaming face as the sunlight brightens her gentle figure from the back—an image so sweet I preserve it with a picture on my camera. As I commune with my family in this compact circle, I start to feel dizzy and pick up on a smell reminiscent of an unlit stove. My grandma also complains of this smell, prompting my dad to turn off the chimney after a good 15 minutes. Though the smell eventually clears and my nausea wanes, I realize that I could have died this winter.

The very next day, my brother rushes into the bedroom I share with my mother to report drops of water from his room’s ceiling. We all hasten to observe the damage, noticing a small circular soaked patch. It can easily be repaired. My mom simply positions a bucket to catch the falling drops, and my brother continues to lounge in his untouched bed as the bucket fills. When we return to check the room an hour later, the patch that was once a foot across is three times as big and the water drops at a faster rate. Now my mom surrounds the bucket with towels and blankets to keep the floor dry, bringing out an even bigger bucket and vacating my brother from the room Another hour passes, and a chunk of the ceiling is not just wet but concave, as if an upside-down dome, barely holding in the accumulated water. My aunt, who happens to be over, begins to flip my brother’s queen mattress on its side so as to save it from a ruining demise. As my brother joins her endeavor, the sound of water splashing down into the bucket grows louder, so that I am reminded of a waterfall—though I am consumed with worry rather than savor this exotic sound of nature. My aunt and brother lift the bed up in the air when a small piece of the ceiling falls, leaving a black hole and an audible “uh oh” out of my mouth. My repeated screams of “hurry” frighten my brother out of the room while my aunt steadies the mattress against the wall, the water streams down through the opening in the ceiling, and the ceiling droops more and more. The bed against the wall, my aunt dashes out. A crash, a splash, a gasp. One second too late and she would have been hit by downpour, half of the room’s ceiling, and bunches of bright yellow insulation. I

look up at the darkness of the attic, the wood panels, the fluffy insulation, the hanging piece of ceiling as water drips down. For some reason, I laugh.

December 2022. As my first semester of college in New England concludes, I can only reflect on the dissatisfaction in countless areas of my life: I’ve fallen asleep in the libraries after two nights in a row without sleep; I’ve only touched half the books on my dorm shelf, and half of those I skimmed and didn’t understand; I haven’t kept in touch with some friends when I really needed company; I’ve coughed up an unhealthy amount of mucus everyday for months. I do not see the vision of charming sweaters and coats, pleasant walks along quaint old buildings, or snowflakes softly landing on my eyelashes—the vision I had in mind before coming all the way over here from Houston.

After a day of studying who knows what, I am set to trek back to my dorm and hurry into bed. With my first step outside, I spot flying specks of white stirring in the air as though micro-fireflies rapidly circle the vast night.

“Is that snow?” I utter to my friend, unknowingly reaching out my hands to catch the mysterious white dots falling down onto me, feeling the sprinkles of stings melt into particles of water on my skin.

“It is.” He grins.

I laugh as the stars soar down on me.

I walk off the beaten path onto the mounds of snow. Grounding my feet hard in each step, I crunch into the tiny white mountains. On this sunny day, the snow and frost radiate their pure, bright whiteness all around. Trees, buildings, and faces alike look striking in this light. There are snow creations of all shapes and sizes—a puny and stout little snowman, an imprinted snow angel, and a robust sculpture of an Easter Island statue head. Everything is a marvel to look at, but it is only here for now, before the snow melds with dirt in the several awkward patches that survive the melting sun and brisk footsteps of students. I am content, though, because I know that more than just stills will be ingrained in my head—I’ll be able to preserve the luminous glow, the curious sounds, the boundless malleability, the flying stars in my memory.

saving

it for a rainy day on memories, old and new

by Jeanine Kim

Illustrated by Junyue Ma

I used to think rain wasn't real. Growing up in Los Angeles, famous for its year-long summer, a rainy day was a special occasion. Rain sparked a butterfly effect with far-ranging consequences— from causing distressed drivers to lose all coordination to inspiring elated jubilation from all the young kids who looked up at the sky to see unfamiliar drops of water falling without origin or explanation. The normally crystal-clear sky, dotted only with the faintest whisper of clouds, would magically transform. In an instant, the bright blue would give way to a dark, stormy gray, a daunting sight with no yield or mercy. This sudden interjection, an inexplicable faltering of what I thought was fact, shook me to my core, transforming my familiar landscape into one completely unknown. In the land of Hollywood, it was a natural conclusion that rain was not a natural phenomenon but rather the product of movie magic.

At Universal Studios, one of the premier

amusement parks in the United States, there is an attraction called the Studio Tour, which takes visitors across old and updated film sets, unveiling the technical and production feats that are so integral to the magic of movies. One of the most memorable parts of this experience is the flash flood attraction, where a sunny street stylized to transport you to Mexico is suddenly transformed by an unexpected deluge. With the press of a button, hidden bars sprinkle rain onto the tram as a rumbling flood begins to rush down the street. Though the artifice is plain to see, nothing has ever felt closer to my understanding of rain. Even after several fifth-grade science classes dedicated to the water cycle, I was never able to shake the nagging feeling that someone was playing a trick on me—that rain couldn't come naturally.

Going to bed with dry skies only to wake up to the roar of pouring rain is a disorienting experience, even for those who understand weather cycles. It's a fascinating process—the imperceptible increases in pressure and humidity accumulating past their carrying capacity, leading to the overflow of liquid that falls down to Earth in the form of rain. It's also a wonderfully comforting idea, that the residues of our human activities collect and evaporate into the skies above us. A daily reminder of our place within the global ecosystem, rain is a gift of reciprocity.

However, to the seven-year-old mind whose only exposure was a rainy day once or twice a year, none of this was accessible or understandable. Instead, rain was something that was angry and scary that made my feet wet and my parents drive slowly. It was what the newscasters blamed for everything and everyone falling apart. It was the reason my teachers refused to let us play outside, confining us to the classroom during recess. In short, rain was an incomprehensible monster that impinged on each and every one of my freedoms and joys.

Rainy days at school threw everything offkilter. My elementary school, a simulacrum of Los Angeles itself, was the ultimate exercise in sprawl and spread. With classrooms designed as individual bungalows, there was not a single building taller than a story within the entire campus. The classrooms, outlining the expanse of the school, were separated by a sea of concrete and grass, leaving individual classes far from each other. Just like the city itself, the school fell apart when it rained. What was once ample ground for tag and handball became an ocean; the complete lack of drains and pipes left the water to sit in the middle of school, a pool of water continuously widening until it became impassable. Going outside to be picked up meant forging through

a river that left your shoes and pants drenched without some clever hopping and jumping. From start to finish, rainy days at school were miserable.

After a long day of being pelted by rain, the only fitting reward was to be hit with more precipitation while waiting for my dad to pick me up. Back then, in a one-vehicle household, my dad made the twenty-minute walk both ways to pick me up. On this day, in the pouring rain, as if it were like any other, my dad made the trek to come get me. As I made my way to the front of the school, I saw him across the street, holding the polka dot umbrella I had foolishly left behind that morning. With my roller backpack in hand, I waited as he made his way across the street, providing the shelter that I had sorely missed throughout the day.

As we headed home, backpack in tow, my dad held my hand, holding the umbrella over me. We gently crossed every crosswalk, now transformed into a treacherous sea, as my dad lifted me up and over any threatening pools of water. What seemed an unbreachable ocean revealed itself to be nothing more than a puddle after I had passed; slowly but surely, we made our way home, moving forward despite the many detours.

In that moment, despite all the earlier annoyances, things felt perfectly normal. Rain continued to pour down on us, creating a staccato beat of droplets hitting the nylon of the umbrella, but it failed to register. Instead, as I was telling my dad about my day, going through everything from math to recess, everything was okay. Despite the backdrop of gray skies and rainfall, it was a sunny day.

Now, almost three thousand miles from home, rain is a much more common occurrence. With my first taste of seasons, I have also learned that rain is a common event during spring, not winter. I have learned that rain sometimes comes to drench the city for multiple days straight without respite. I have learned that sometimes rain can be wonderful; it allows people to release their inhibitions in its sheets of water. I now see it as more than a disturbance in routine.

Yet, despite all this newfound appreciation, I think back on those days, when rain was my enemy and my dad was the hero who saved me from its clutches, with love and appreciation. I no longer startle at the sound of falling rain, but I also don't get carried over puddles as my dad balances an umbrella in one hand and me in the other. I don't look into a sea of parents and see my dad patiently waiting until I get released from school. I no longer have that feeling of comfort and happiness as our simple conversation makes the rain fade away. Sometimes I wish for those rainy days again.

i’m trying to tell you emails, thirteen, and doing too much

by Eleanor Dushin

Illustrated by emilie guan

I walked with a friend into a wooded area behind Young Orchard, my heart beating too fast from hearing seven people talk about internships for an hour. I don’t smoke, but watching my friend smoke a cigarette had a vicariously calming effect on me. I kicked around a stick and took deep breaths as they said: “Something I really admire about you is that you aren’t afraid to show people that you care about them.” I didn’t tell them that really, I am afraid. I just do it anyway.

When I asked my brother for music recommendations a year and a half ago, he sent me “Thirteen” by Big Star, a song I’d heard a hundred times but never really listened to. The melody repeated in each bar for a few seconds—a few comforting guitars communicating in their own metallic language—until the vocals kicked in. To me, the singer’s voice sounded the same as any other folksy man from the ’70s, but there was a sincerity and uncertainty that I clung onto. I decided to really listen for the first time: Won’t you let me walk you home from school? Won’t you let me meet you at the pool? I knew the song was from the point of view of a thirteen year old, but I heard it clearly at eighteen.

I don’t know how to tell people how much they mean to me. I tend to go overboard, unable to hold a conversation without saying, “You’re so amazing,” “You’re incredible,” “There’s no one like you,” etc. I knit scarves for people I’ve just met and respond immediately to texts after a week of radio silence. They’re usually either annoyed or think I’m really nice. To the latter, I respond, “I’m really not, I just like you.”

My freshman year, over winter break, I wrote emails instead of texting. I would call friends to do crosswords or talk about our days, but in an effort to be more intentional with my time, all the time I spent on my laptop was with a working document on one side of the screen and a friend’s email on the other, matching my responses paragraph-for-paragraph. I sent 15 emails to one friend, totalling 15,000 words. We exchanged songs and poems and stories; we discussed our days and families, our experiences with religion and vulnerability. The only text sent between us for a month was a photo of a poem titled “Eleanor” that he saw through a store window at night. Another friend told

me it was “the most romantic thing she’d ever heard,” but it didn’t feel that way at the time. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s like that. I just care about him.” He and I never talked about it. Caring was enough for me.

Emails make a relationship feel tangible. It’s time I dedicated to that person. It isn’t just a text that I sent while I was making breakfast. It’s an hour of picking the right things to say, the right poem to send, the right place to split paragraphs. It’s edits and rewrites. It’s black on white. It’s care.

There’s a sort of urgency in those halfway-toantiquity modes of communication. They tell the recipient that you spent 1,000 words’ worth of time thinking about them, and they demand being seen immediately. I don’t have the patience for a letter. I don’t like wasting time putting pen to paper or finding a stamp or waiting for USPS to drive past your house. I care about you, and you should know that today.

+++

Walking up Brown Street, I tucked my nose into my scarf and listened to “Thirteen” again. I focused on stepping twice between each crack in the sidewalk and tried to count how many guitars were playing at once. Distracted by the strings bouncing off each other and my inability to decide between two and three, I tripped. The last verse always comes before I think it does: Won’t you tell me what you’re thinking of? I felt it caught in my throat. I make fun of people for asking, “Do you hate me?” but really I’m the exact same way.

I force myself to make mature choices, but it’s completely out of my nature. I’ve been taught that growing up implies some sort of emotional detachment. No tax-paying, 800-credit-score-having adult should care so deeply what other people are thinking. I try to stifle my feelings, but my insecurities don’t dissolve through logical thinking. I backtrack, I relapse, I bounce between “I think we’re becoming friends” and “I don’t think they like me very much” on the daily. I want to ask people to tell me what they’re thinking of. I want to tell them that I’m thinking of them. I write an email instead. +++

Throughout the spring and summer, I wrote letters in Word and texted them to a friend, saving them all to

a special folder on my desktop. Reading them back now, I come across the line, “I hope you like your nails! I can change them if not,” while listening to “Thirteen” on repeat. Would you be an outlaw for my love? If it’s so, then let me know. If it’s no, well I can go. I won’t make you. Stress and care pull back-and-forth, sawing me in half. I’ll write and edit a series of letters, but still worry whether the other person likes me as much as I like them. I’ll paint your nails, I’ll make you mittens, I’ll eat a hundred meals with you, I’ll ask you to be an outlaw for me, I’ll show that I’ll be an outlaw for you, but insecurity remains. I feel a need to qualify everything I say to avoid embarrassing myself or making them uncomfortable. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t stop me from showing that I care. I worry about being overbearing, but I love either way.

Sitting on a friend’s carpet, she tells me that I shouldn’t wear my heart so visibly on my sleeve. She warns me that I care too quickly and leave myself too vulnerable. She talks about the guy she’s seeing, sending him passive aggressive texts during our conversation and saying that she doesn’t care about him. I wonder if she could let herself care if she hadn’t been hit in soft spots before. I twiddle chopsticks between my fingers and watch clouds move outside her window. I know that I’m incredibly—and often stupidly—emotional. I spend an embarrassing amount of time lamenting. I feel pathetic most of the time.

Still, I think she’s wrong. I would rather people know I care about them and not reciprocate than remain detached. The pain of unrequited care is worth them knowing they are loved. I can live peacefully loving without being loved back. I want to spend time caring, even if the object of my affection doesn’t feel as strongly as I do. I would rather hit send than leave love unsaid.

I know she was just trying to protect me from regret, but I don’t want to keep myself guarded out of fear. The care I expressed for someone years ago wasn’t a waste of time just because I don’t feel the same way now. The past is the past; the present is the present. There’s always a possibility that someone will say something that hurts me and irreversibly damage our relationship. Still, it’s nice to come across a photo of something I made for them or an email I sent to them. There isn’t shame in having cared.

When I had a fight with a friend that resulted in us not talking for two weeks, I came across the folder of our virtual correspondence. I didn’t open the letters, but I didn’t delete them either. I think it’s nice to have a record like that. Something that once was.

I end emails with “yours always” because it will always be partly true. I’m nineteen writing this article, I’m seventeen writing poetry with my friend about a guy I no longer like, I’m fifteen at a sleepover with two girls I barely know anymore. I wear fluffy socks to bed that were given to me by a guy who called me a whore. There’s an album cover on my wall that was shown to me by someone I try not to think about nowadays, but I know that some part of my life was spent happy to be around him. Part of me still lives in all of these pockets of the past and still cares about people who aren’t in my life anymore. The time I spent caring for them wasn’t wasted, the attention not misplaced. Even if we hadn’t made up after the fight, part of me would still be hers always.

+++

I’ll happily endure any pain that comes with sharing affection. I’ll care, even if I know it’ll end with me getting hurt. I’ll spend time on you. I’ll write you an email. I’ll hit send. I’ll admit that I care a lot, and I’ll be a little embarrassed by that fact. I’ll walk you home from school. I’ll meet you at the pool.

Won’t you tell me what you’re thinking of?

a parody of patriarchy

the lesbian supremacy of DriveAway Dolls

by Malena Colon

Illustrated by kendra eastep

My friend and I were, of course, both delighted to see Pedro Pascal's face grace the screen when we settled in our seats to watch Ethan Coen’s recent film Drive-Away Dolls. We subsequently delighted as we watched his character get brutally, almost cartoonishly, killed off in a matter of seconds: Is that it?

The film swiftly pivots to an unflinchingly graphic lesbian sex scene, introducing us to Jamie (Margaret Qualley), one of the film’s central characters. The transition is certainly abrupt for shock value—but besides this, it is a bold declaration that this isn't your typical male-centered narrative that has long been worn out. Following an oblivious male coworker’s flirtations with an apparently lesbian Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan), a transition into a lesbian bar scene, and a bitter breakup between Jamie and Sukie (Beanie Feldstein), audiences understand very quickly that this is not a movie in which someone like Pedro Pascal takes the lead. Instead, it is a movie about women, about lesbians, about queerness. A story that is told from the margins but not overly concerned with dwelling on its marginalization. Here, lesbians reign supreme: They embark on a road trip to the deep South, discover an important political secret, and outsmart the bad guys.

If you come to Drive-Away Dolls expecting more of the zaniness and absurdity you normally get from either one of the Coen brothers, then great: You’ll get it. But for me, if there’s any movie with a female-centered narrative, my ears are perked up and listening. Considering the recent range of ventures in female-centered movie-making—such as Birds of Prey, Barbie, Lady Bird, Madame Web—and the fact that this is a male-directed movie, I’m interested in exactly how this movie will be perceived. Especially given the differences in popularity these movies have seen— from Madame Web’s utter failure to Barbie’s immense commercial success—I’m keen to find out what sort of future this is going to spell out for women in movies in general. And while I do not think Drive-Away Dolls

accomplishes becoming, or even strives at all to be, the ultimate queer feminist manifesto for 2024, I discovered many delightful aspects while watching.

In this film’s universe, the “scary men” and other authoritative figures are rendered impotent by their bumbling foolishness. In typical Coen fashion, this sets off a series of ridiculously unfortunate events that make for quite a few good laughs. One particular scene stands out: Goons Arliss (Joey Slotnick) and Flint (C.J. Wilson) break into Sukie’s home, hoping to interrogate her about Jamie’s whereabouts. However, Sukie is no mere victim to Flint’s boneheaded aggression. She herself is a cop and easily overpowers him, and—much to Flint’s chagrin—willingly offers up the information about Jamie when asked by Arliss; none of the macho interrogation stuff was even needed in the first place. And then there’s the conversation with the women's soccer team, in which Arliss, a self-proclaimed smoothtalker, is convinced he has them all charmed and wrapped around his finger until it turns out they’ve sent him on a wild goose chase. The movie revels in its parody of the patriarchy, painting both politicians and crooks alike as inept buffoons, stumbling through a world they believe they have control over.

At the same time, there are a few weak plot points that might seem to whittle down the film’s logistical plausibility. Why the mix-up with the rented car, an error seemingly so easy to avoid? Why leave the briefcase in the trunk at all if it was so important? I would argue that these questions can be chalked up to the foolish decision-making of the men, further cementing the film’s parodic tendencies in regard to male-centric narratives that often take themselves too seriously. For instance, the mysterious briefcase invokes memories of Pulp Fiction, and the severed head in the box is reminiscent of the film Se7en—but what we find inside doesn’t remain a mystery for long. It’s something way more far-fetched and ridiculous than what we could have possibly imagined: a collection of dildos molded from politicians’ penises. While this certainly heightens our sense of the movie as a parody, it also feels surprisingly resonant with today’s world. Despite being set in 1999, it serves as pointed commentary on the sheer farce of contemporary politics, in which our politicians are increasingly absurd and embarrassing.

The film’s irony and boldly feminist sentiments come to a head when Marian and Jamie exchange the dildos (and Pedro Pascal’s head) for a million dollars from the conservative Senator Channel (Matt Damon), whose own penis mold Marian and Jamie had quite

some fun with. In this scene, the senator laments—in typical mansplaining fashion—their perverse use of the dildos, proclaiming how wrong it is to commodify his body in such a way. Because yes, clearly women know absolutely nothing about sexualization and objectification. Clearly they are completely unfamiliar with the experience of being reduced to their body parts for the pleasure of others without consent.

This particular point in the film recalls a shocking and hilarious image from earlier: a dildo mounted onto Sukie’s wall, once a gift from Jamie, that Sukie wants her to take back. This visual commands the audience’s attention not just because of its utter unseriousness, but because it is a refreshing change to see the male appendage disembodied and flaunted like a trophy, purposefully designed for the amusement and enjoyment of the female characters—a subversion of the male gaze, so to speak. And so I suppose this begs the question as to whether this movie—or any femalecentered movie, really—is able to construct at least a semblance of what we might call the female gaze.

Much like Pedro Pascal, Matt Damon was a name I was rooting for when I first saw the movie’s cast list. But, defying my expectations, Damon’s antagonist role as Senator Channel is somewhat of a mockery. He blunders and is shot by Sukie, then duly blasted in the media, his career presumably over. Meanwhile, the main female characters come out on top by the end.

I believe the film might signify the imagined end of the patriarchal order, paving the way for us to envision this wacky, road-trip crime caper as a queer feminist paradise in which seemingly average lesbians triumph. This notion is underscored by the image of Pascal’s severed head lolling around—another disembodied appendage of the male body—symbolically looming over the film as a reminder of its subversive overthrow of male power.

In the film’s closing, the title Drive-Away Dolls is actually revealed to be Drive-Away Dykes, boldly flashing on the screen as if the film is finally “coming out” to us viewers. And in seeing this, I can’t help but reflect on the future of cinema. Will we see more female and queer leads who challenge the status quo in the coming future? Can we come closer to establishing a “female gaze” in cinema, even from within the confines of patriarchy?

Well, I certainly hope so. It’s about time.

For now, you can catch me visiting the movies next month to watch the upcoming Love Lies Bleeding, another lesbian-centered film, waiting to see what this one has in store.

note to self

AKA if I was Dory from Finding Nemo

by Daphne Cao

Illustrated by audrey wijono

The trope of memory loss in media, though overused, has always fascinated and frightened me. The idea of losing your memories—the very things that make you the person you are—and becoming completely unaware of your identity in an instant sounds terrifying.

As I see the amnesia-afflicted protagonist scramble to piece together who they are from little notes their past self left for them, sometimes I wonder: what kind of notes would I leave for myself?

So, allowing a little suspension of belief (because, really, would I still be at college if I couldn’t remember things for longer than an hour?), here are six of the most essential pieces of information I would need to—

Note #1: Your memory only lasts an hour. Your name is Daphne Cao and…

Let’s get the technicalities out of the way. Nobody wants to suddenly find themselves unable to recall who or where they are or how they got here.

It’s a cliché of the memory loss trope, but informing my memory-less self of basic biographical information, like name, age, birthday, usernames/emails, social security number, and passwords, is pretty crucial. And, honestly, I’m sure I could work out any of the missing information if I had full access to my phone and computer.

Granted, if I wrote all of that down on one note, I’d probably spend all my time fighting off everything from identity theft and credit card fraud to my emails getting used for someone’s tenth free seven-day trial, so perhaps I’d give this note to a trusted person to keep safe…

Note #2: You’re concentrating in English and you live in New York (no, not like the city— you’re from the suburbs, about a 40-minute drive away).

Now what would I do if I couldn’t answer the obligatory “What are you concentrating in? Where are

you from?” icebreaker whenever I meet someone new or am supposed to introduce myself in a seminar class? I may be unable to remember any new people I meet with this memory loss, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be cordial with the foolproof, I-have-no-idea-what-else-tosay-but-don’t-want-awkward-silence college small talk.

Note #3: Your 10 closest friends are…

Censoring the second half of this note to avoid any possible tension with those who didn’t make the cut, I’m sure my amnesia-afflicted self would want to know how familiar they are with the people around them.

Although done semi-subconsciously, I know I become a completely different person when I’m talking with my closest friends compared to passing acquaintances. I can’t imagine the embarrassment I would feel if I used an inside joke I had with one friend group with another. Or, worse, if I brought up a gettogether to someone who wasn’t invited to it (which, shamefully, has happened even with all my memories intact).

In essence, this note is just a reminder to myself that these people know me enough that I can let loose, no filter required.

Note #4: You have a mom, a dad, and two siblings. Make sure to text and call them back.

In a similar vein to the last note, I’d like to at least have basic information on the people I’m closest to. On top of that, I think they’d want to know that I’m doing alright even while away at college with memory loss.

I already have too many accidentally missed calls and texts from my parents even with my memory, and I don’t need that number to increase.

Note #5: DON’T eat at the Ratty.

Look, the Ratty is the most convenient option for a Keeney resident like me and, granted, hiking all the way to the other side of campus just to get a half-decent meal is less than appealing. And, really, you can get used to the underseasoned meat and suspiciously oily vegetables and either not-quite-ripe or just-beginning-to-rot fruit after a while because, frankly, that’s the best you’re gonna get at a college dining hall.

But while my tastebuds can become accustomed to Ratty food, my stomach refuses to agree with it. I’ve spent

enough time trying to focus on my work due that night or what my friend is saying to me while my stomach feels like it’s a ticking time bomb.

So, honestly, I’ll gladly take the hike when the Ivy Room is closed or getting old.

Note #6: You love to write and are committed to writing a page a day, so don’t forget to.

What would I be if not a person defined by their passions?

Okay, kind of a lie. The first half is definitely true, but saying I’m committed to writing a page a day is a bit of a stretch; it’s more like semi-committed-when-I-feel-likeit-and-have-the-time.

But if I’m going to suffer from memory loss, I may as well try to take advantage of it as much as possible. Perhaps the illusion of momentum will be enough for me to turn that semi-commitment to real commitment just as long as my memory-less self doesn’t realize there’s a suspicious lack of these supposed “one page a day” writing pieces.

Overall, it’s hard to narrow down all the necessary information you would need to know if you suddenly couldn’t recall a single thing about yourself. Certainly, if I lost my memories and all my past self had left were these six notes, I’d be cursing myself out in my head for missing plenty of important details.

Like, thanks for telling me to not eat at the Ratty, but what even are the other dining halls? How do I get there? Where do I keep my room key? Or even my ID for that matter? Do I really have to walk up that giant hill just to get back onto campus? Also, what the hell is a plane tangent to a curve and why did I leave all my readings for the night before they’re due???

Amusing irritations aside, I know that, more than anything, I would miss the people I’m close to the most. Though this list started as just a silly idea, considering what would really be the most important pieces of information has made me think about what I value most in life. And, yeah, it may be as cliché as the amnesia trope itself, but it really is the moments and memories I’ve made with those I love.

So, hopefully, I won’t need to utilize this list anytime soon. (Knock on wood!)

restful rythyms

a guide to my favorite fabric

by Katherine Mao

Illustrated by Kaitlyn Stanton

Work culture consumes us. Our Google Calendars are piled with one event after another. Our days pass in a flash. Amidst this relentless pursuit of productivity, resting is often conflated with laziness. A few weeks ago, on a long drive back to Providence, my friends and I listened to a podcast by The Atlantic called “How to Rest.” The episode talked about how the culture surrounding rest is based on a flawed mindset that our lives constantly have to be jumping between two ends of a spectrum: doing everything or doing nothing. Although sleeping, lounging, and bed-rotting are certainly crucial activities under the umbrella of rest, rest can also be practiced in other ways. Rest is allowing yourself to engage in activities that are less energy-intensive and can provide a sense of peace—a break from the rigid structure of your daily routine. By reading this article, you are already engaging in a form of rest. So inhale… exhale…let’s begin.

1. Connect with nature.

Breathe in the crisp early morning air. It feels rejuvenating, with earthy undertones reminiscent of dew-kissed grass. When all of campus is dormant, the world is pure, untarnished by others. Bathe in the luxury of having the world to yourself before the chaos of the day ensues. As the day unfolds, continue to find joy in lingering. What’s typically a brisk five-minute half-walk-half-jog to the Blue Room can always be turned into a tranquil 10-minute stroll. After class, take a leisurely walk around the neighborhood and relish in the beauty of your surroundings. Explore areas that you haven’t before. Notice the quaint architecture of buildings you’ve become accustomed to glancing over, the melodic dance of shadows in the wind, the hues and textures of the sunset that seamlessly melt into one another. As you bask in the sun or appreciate the calm of a cloudy day, tune into the natural rhythms of the Earth. Let the Earth’s kindness be a reminder of the grace you deserve to give yourself. The simplicity of the outdoors

is easily overlooked, but once realized, spending time outside fosters a sense of grounding.

2. Cultivate meaningful relationships.

Sweet friendships refresh the soul, so invest completely, deeply, and authentically in them. Nurture your friendships like you would your romantic relationships. Create connections more intertwined and intricate than the patterns found in the New York Times game. As important as shared interests and personalities are, it’s also invaluable to be able to find solace in one another. Find those who can feel with you in your happiness, sadness, and every messy emotion in between. Allow yourself to let go in their presence.

My most cherished times are spent sprawled on the floors of my friends' rooms, wrapped in the warmth of the pillows and blankets on their twin XLs as time unravels quietly in the background of our conversations. In these conversations, we are vulnerable about the past and think towards the future, a careful balance that temporarily detaches us from the present.

What aspects of our parents’ parenting styles resonate with us the most and which will we want to reflect in our own teachings? How have our relationships with others, in all forms, influenced who we are? Share knowledge with people who will accept your perspectives and values in all of their complexity. Share the books that have touched your soul, the music whose lyrics have held significant meaning at various stages of your life. Discuss current events. Fantasize about hypotheticals. Banter as you critique the absurdity of reality TV, laugh through fond and embarrassing childhood memories. Embrace the freedom of youth.

3. Seek comfort in places.

Despite the sarcastic meaning our generation has created for the phrase “I know a place,” I find it to be a heartwarming concept. I see it as an indication of belonging. These are places that have a gravitational pull on you, where you subconsciously find yourself time and time again. For me, a couple of places around campus fit this description: The Coffee Exchange, Tea in Sahara, Seven Stars Bakery. However, a place doesn’t necessarily need to be a constant, specific location. It can be any general atmosphere that is comforting to

you—the coziness of a bookstore, the warmth of a cafe, the creative outlet of an art studio, the openness of a sports field. Anywhere that feels like home is a place that is worth going back to. Whether you feel inclined to share a place with others or reserve it as a sacred ground for yourself, it’s important to physically be present in those spaces as often as you can.

4. Indulge in the pleasure of hobbies.

For a while, I struggled with the word “hobbies” because I was stubbornly invested in the notion that they had to be something you do consistently and skillfully. I've come to realize that “hobby” is actually a loose term.

A hobby can be any activity that you find joy in doing, regardless of how frequently or how successfully you do it. A handful of my friends have their sights set on the Providence half and full marathons approaching in a few months. I would guess that not all of them admit to being a “runner” in the conventional sense, in that they aren’t members of the club running team, excross country or ex-track athletes, or born with natural endurance. Some others, myself included, enjoy playing pickleball but are by no means pickleball connoisseurs. Finding courts in the Providence area has proven to be quite difficult, but the joy of playing might be enough to justify invading some tennis territory (oops).

Writing is another hobby that I’ve only recently learned to appreciate. I’ve always been a reader, but writing was a more daunting task. As a computer science student, the only writing I’ve allowed myself to partake in over the past three years has been a conglomeration of disjointed phrases, structured formulas, and broken lines that usually left me frustrated and discouraged. As I’ve spent more time letting words flow creatively and letting my imagination roam freely, I’ve found comfort in writing. Whatever meaningful activities give you peace and happiness, carve out the time for them.

A new month has dawned. As we emerge from our winter slumber, we ease into the warmth of spring. As we approach the anticipated break at the end of the month, make time to slow down during the weeks in between. Take moments to unwind from the fastpaced lifestyle that can come with being in a college environment. Embrace a simpler, more intentional way of life that prioritizes authenticity and connection.

by AJ Wu

Across

1 4 7

With 8-Across, a kind of father figure? Artistic category

Relating to the Chinese

“I knew his stories wouldn’t leave me for a while, and I wondered if there was any part of our lives that he’d hold onto and remember, too, once in a while, as a part of the exchanges that happen when lives collide briefly in an ever-shifting world.”

Damian Wasilewicz, “Hostel-Hoppers” 3.17.23

“Forget being jaded, edgy, or cool. Irony is overrated and cynicism is toxic. Instead, keep up the attitude that good will always triumph over evil.”

Malena Colon, “Optimism, Hedonism, and Hair” 3.18.22

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Joe

David

Down

Shocking EMT treatment, for short "That's _____!" (Distressed parent's rebuke)

C-3PO or R2-D2

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