Cover by Lulu Cavicchi
blood, not semen
on the boxes we have to check because we’re told we’re wrong about ourselves.
by Ivy Rockmore
Junyue Ma
by
Illustrated
I was only seventeen when I ejaculated into the cup that my future children would be frozen in. I was about to become a mother, whether I wanted to or not.
I could do nothing but quell the trembling in my fingers as I unbuttoned my pants and placed the cup on the tilted counter. Squatting on scratchy white paper laid out over my makeshift bed, I stretched into a flimsy medical gown that offered little comfort or privacy. The longer I stared at the room's gray walls, the more I realized even the shade itself couldn't commit to a tone. Taupe? Burgundy? As my eyes grew sore, I realized perhaps it was even baby pink, though that might have been too on the nose for a sperm bank.
The room smelled musky. Weeks-old semen was stuck to the walls and stained on the bed like a Jackson Pollock painting. Even the supposedly newly washed blanket, which who-knows-how-many men had wiped their youngsters off with, had little specks of white embedded in its cloth.
Sitting on the white tarp, I looked up at the nurse, wideeyed. I wondered if he did this every day—mechanically explaining how much semen was necessary to provide a sample that could produce children in 10, 20, 30 years. The kind that’ll last you a lifetime. I gave him a little nod, almost like a salute, the same type you’d give to an acquaintance you pass on the Main Green. Hi there. I acknowledge you. Good day!
Letter from the Editor
Dear Readers,
I’ve been thinking a lot about delight recently—the ways in which it manifests in the world, and the ways in which it appears before me. Delight is ephemeral; I use my butterfly net to swipe at the world and capture those glimmers of joy, letting them fly around and metamorphize in my mind. The other day, I made good on my resolution to wake up at 8 a.m. every day by waking up at 8 a.m. just once. What a great feeling, to shoot up against the extra weight of gravity that I usually fight in the mornings. But like many delights, it’s short lived; the next day I got caught hitting the snooze button two, three, four too many times, admonishing myself when I finally got ready to take on the world. I’ve been reading Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights, an experiment in finding a bit of joy everyday, and I noticed that many of his delights are marred by the impurities of the
After the nurse finished his spiel, he smirked, saluted back to me, and tiptoed out the door, but not without remembering to leave me magazines. Certainly, the nurse wasn’t so kind as to give me the latest copy of The New Yorker (or post- Magazine), but Juggs. I laughed, flipped through the pages, and got grossed out. On the seventh page, a woman rode a horse in a way that was supposed to be erotic, but instead it reminded me of the carriages at merry-go-rounds that I used to ride as a child. I began to cry.
Even when I was small enough to comfortably fit in those carriages, I knew that I would never have children. But years later, the state of Texas informed me that I could not undergo feminizing hormone replacement therapy without freezing my sperm.
I came out as a trans woman to my family in the months prior, and I chose to be called “Ivy” because that’s what my mother would have named me if I was cis. Popular narratives of the transfeminine experience speak toward issues of passing, name changes, pronouns, and coming out, but few talk about what hormones actually do to your body.
Yes, you grow breasts, and no, your voice doesn’t become more high-pitched. Sometimes you shrink a bit, and your hips will get wider. Your hair will become thinner, less visible, but it takes time, more than you’d like. You’ll get sad, then happy again. Your mood swings will become more common
world around him, a reminder that most of what is good is often not forever.
This week in post-, we’ve got some stories at an inflection point too. In Feature, our writer details the story of her medical transition and journey to find joy. Meanwhile, in Narrative, one writer explores the way that the fairies from her childhood built her world, while the other writer learns about the eternal mystery of his parents through the music that they enjoy together. One of our Arts & Culture writers is celebrating the long-awaited rise of Charli XCX, and our other writer is picking apart the act of feeling itself, where emotions come from and how they evolve. Finally, in Lifestyle, our writer reflects on her past four years through books that she’s loved, ones that she wants to share with all of you. Of course, it wouldn’t be an issue of post- without a crossword, so make sure you get the chance to check that out before you run off as well!
and you’ll notice crying isn’t just for graduations, funerals, or convocations, but moments like when the waitress reads your credit card and says “You don’t look like a boy named Nathaniel.” Your appetite will increase, and you’ll gain some weight. But most significantly, within six months, you’ll be sterile. Unable to produce. Done and gone.
All of these effects (except for breast growth, with the possibility of a mastectomy) are reversible, and you can go off hormones at any time. Within a few months, you can be a man again if you really wanted to. But sterility is the one thing medical providers haven’t figured out how to bypass yet.
Our culture posits that children are a life-or-death decision. Or perhaps a life-making decision. But for me, it was more than that.
“Are you interested in being not just a woman, but a mother?”
The answer was already decided. ***
I begged and pleaded with my doctor.
“But I don't want a kid! Why can't I just adopt if, I guess, I eventually want one? I know I don't, but please, just—"
“Ivy, it's the law,” my doctor replied, his jaw set like stone, lips trembling. “If you want to go through with this, this is just another hurdle you'll have to face.” He assured me I wouldn't have to use the frozen sperm sample. That I just
Today’s delight, perhaps unsurprisingly, has been this wonderful first issue of post-. Looking around—as we welcomed our new editors, welcomed back our vintage editors, and celebrated the fact that we all made it to this exact place in space—I can’t help but feel a deep sense of satisfaction, a breath of relief, that the year is off without a hitch. It’s a bittersweet feeling, my last semester of post-, surrounded by fleeting delights. I do promise that we will make it as amazing as we possibly can this semester, so stay tuned, and share the delight of post- with your friends this week!
Absolutely elated,
Joe Maffa Copy Chief
needed to have the option if I ever changed my mind.
My pediatric endocrinologist—who worked with me for over two years—was lovely, sweet, and caring. He saw me change and grow and smile more—brought the light back to my cheeks. But he still couldn’t get me out of this situation. I thought my mom would step in. I looked at her like a puppy, chin tilted upward, eyes glistening with hope. Please? Mom, won’t you save me? But to my dismay, albeit with my understanding, she agreed with my doctor.
I’ve always had a close relationship with my mother growing up and she remains my closest confidante. Yet motherhood was something I always feared. For one, because of the sheer responsibility parenthood it entails—but beyond that, I feared the gender dynamics of being a trans mother and the ostracization of trans families in a world that is often violent to them. And what about my potential future child? Even if I get over the barriers of being a parent, how might my identity affect the way they’re treated?
My mother repeated this same sentiment over and over when I began transitioning. She deeply feared the potential harms it would cause—to employment, schooling, romance, and my overall happiness. But she encouraged me to follow my heart.
The spirit of transitioning is simply to pursue happiness. That’s all it really is about. Whether or not I’ll ever “truly” achieve it remains uncertain, but the essence lies in the effort. And in order to do so, I found myself having to forfeit my autonomy. My mother couldn’t save me from this lack of choice, even as my biggest advocate. And so I grunted, dragged my feet to the front desk, and booked the appointment—signing away a piece of myself in the process.
Here I was, a teenager barely on the cusp of adulthood, forced to carry out a task that could result in a new human life—or multiple lives. These lives would be suspended in an artificial frozen state, waiting for an unknowable future that would never come. (I told myself on repeat: I’d never let it.)
To become a woman, evidently, one must stroke. And so I did. I looked toward the clock: It was 3 p.m. on a Wednesday. My fingers seemed to take on a life of their own, moving with a newfound sensitivity. They grew tails. I closed my eyes and begged my brain to conjure up an image of somewhere else entirely, somewhere far away from this sterile room. I kept my eyes shut, putting all my energy toward ejaculation. The poet Ocean Vuong describes penile ejaculation as if one is expecting blood to rush out of the phallus rather than semen. In this eerie room, my semen appeared to be blood, as if my body was playing some satanic twist on water into wine. Pints and pints of crimson poured forth with the unstoppable force of a ruptured dam.
TOO FAST, I thought—my hand shaking as I grabbed for the plastic cup, trying to catch at least some of the flood before it was too late. The room seemed to pulse with the weight of something huge and terrifying happening inside me. As I released, my whole body shook like it was coming
5.
6.
7. Brat Pack
apart at the seams. It was like I was emptying out not just my semen but my entire being, spilling my guts into this tiny cup in the middle of nowhere.
I was a mother.
Trans motherhood was something I feared, but regardless, I took the first step because I had to. What does that mean? That I really did it and created this potential future child? That I somewhat willingly participated in this strange, clinical ritual? I'm never going to be able to give birth in the typical way, so perhaps this was my parturition. Somewhere out there, a piece of me is frozen in time, suspended in a state of eternal possibility. What do I do with that? It's a thought that fills me with awe and dread, with wonder and disgust.
***
Two years later, the assault on reproductive rights—not only in The South, but America writ large—has never been more dangerous. Far-right lawmakers are not only attacking abortion after the fall of Roe v. Wade but even attacking procedures like IVF (in vitro fertilization), emphasizing a “pro-natalist” approach to population growth that incurs the so-called natural ways of child making. Their strategy is in opposition to what scares them: the foreign, the abject, and even the trans woman. Certainly, over time, this strategy will lead to greater instability and difficulties for queer and trans people to have children in a system that is already unreliable.
Further, I’ve since had to end care with my doctor. I can only speak with him in passing emails and life updates because the government of Texas argued the clinicians were “child abusers” and thus sued to close the entire pediatric clinic down. My clinic no longer exists— wiped from the Internet, the state, and what I know as my home. Even though my doctor enforced this policy, I was still denied access to his care when I needed it in the years after.
This twisted turn leaves me puzzled. The state made me preserve my sperm before it allowed me to be trans. I was coerced into this act. And now, I might not even be able to use the frozen children they forced me to churn out—urged to put out genetic material but unable to access the very sperm I created.
The law told me loud and clear: I can't be trusted to make a decision of that grandeur. Its tone channeled the same paternalistic attitudes that question trans people's reproductive autonomy. That I can’t be trusted. That I don’t know what I want. Now everyday is especially fraught with this question because it feels like I am bound to something.
Someone made me commit to frozen children. And now, I'm left wondering what that commitment means in a world where reproductive rights are under constant threat.
Our medical and legal systems are paternalistic— pretending to know us better than we know ourselves, while rejecting us at every turn. We check boxes and do things because we're told we're wrong about ourselves.
But the truth is, we never are.
8. Queen Elizabrat 9. My ungrateful shit-eating sister 10. Bratatouille
a letter to my fairies on unspoken sacrifices
by Katheryne Gonzalez
Illustrated by Kaitlyn Stanton
I used to believe in fairies.
The kind with gossamer wings that left trails of sparkling droplets and gentle ripples in the water. Ones that would scatter light across blades of grass, leaving them perfectly sunkissed. Those playful sprites that sat atop dahlias and nursed withered shrubs back to health at a moment’s notice. I even believed in the elusive ones, appearing only under the cover of darkness, sitting cross-legged on the tip of the crescent moon.
Believing in their presence was as natural as breathing. Despite the rumblings I’d heard about the man Upstairs… and the man Downstairs… and the jolly man on the North Pole, their stories didn’t ingrain in me as deeply as my fairies. I refer to them as my fairies because that’s how my aunt introduced them to me. Very matter-of-factly, she explained that they were my fairies, my friends, my protectors. That as long as I was kind to others and listened to my parents, they would, without a doubt, look out for me. That as long as I worked hard and believed in myself, they would reward me. That as long as I was good, the universe, and the fairies, would be good to me, too.
A six year-old-girl with a highly active imagination and no older siblings to reveal the truth about magic does not take this sort of information lightly. Pretty soon, everything I ever thought, saw, or experienced could be traced back to my fairies in one way or another. It was confirmation bias at its finest. When I won my first spelling bee, they had whispered strings of letters in my ear. When a dragonfly landed on my finger during recess, they had steered it there to delight me. When the shadows in my bedroom were especially menacing, they transferred warmth from their tiny palms into my night light to lull me to a peaceful slumber.
Part of the unofficial terms and conditions of having fairies was that you were supposed to keep them a secret. My aunt warned me that telling others would drain the source of the fairies’ magic. She said my friends would be so overcome with jealousy or sadness that they would want to take them away from me. You don’t want to make others feel bad, do you?
“Do you think it’s rude to bring a bookbag to a darty?”
“I
have never seen such a wellcrafted group of annoying people.”
1. Charli xcx
2. Bratwurst
3. Bratz dolls
4. The B(ratty)
Veruca Salt
Bratislava
This never sat right with me. How could I truly embody the prime tenet of kindergarten— namely, “sharing is caring”—if I was depriving others of a world full of magic and wonder? Why was I any more deserving of the fairies’ joy than my friends? Are the others in my life—parents, teachers, friends—blessed with their magic, too? However, I was not one to question authority, much less to break promises, so I reluctantly kept this magical world to myself.
In exchange for my secrecy, I spent most of elementary school hounding my parents with questions. There were the fairies from Pixie Hollow , from Winx Club , and from my parents’ stories, and I could not reconcile all of their depictions. I felt like a detective searching for inconsistencies with red yarn and pushpins. My parents, bless their hearts, tried their best to keep their stories consistent, but I was relentless. It was only a matter of time until they told me to redirect my questions straight to the source. So that’s exactly what I did.
Whenever I had a question or wanted something desperately, I wrote letters on my finest sheets of construction paper, adorned them with Lisa Frank stickers, and placed them on my bedside table for the fairies to retrieve overnight. The letters would be gone by morning, but their postal system operated similarly to Santa’s so that they read them but never directly responded. My questions remained unanswered, and my most vulnerable hopes, worries, and prayers were sent out into the ether. That said, whatever disappointment I felt from my futile attempts at opening a dialogue usually subsided when they did deliver. Every toy, every Nintendo game, every book I asked for, their magic was able to procure. Against all odds.
I don’t think I’ll ever have the right words
to express what my fairies truly mean to me. Discovering the truth about their identity felt like someone pulled back a curtain on reality, revealing a room I didn’t know existed and that I can no longer unsee. Believing in an omniscient entity that I would never have to face relieved me of the guilt of asking for things I knew we could not afford. As my belief in the supernatural subsided, it was gradually replaced with an acute awareness of our financial hardships. Had I known it was my parents all along, I wouldn’t have asked for so much. Had I known how hard they were working, I would’ve vocalized how much I appreciated them. Had I known how often they put my needs above theirs, I would’ve addressed the letters to them instead.
But I didn’t know, and that’s an important truth I’ve had to accept.
It’s taken me years to shake the feeling that I took advantage of them with my naivety. That I should’ve known better or made more of an effort to uncover the truth or possibly even repay them. That I would never keep my children in the dark because I owed them the uncensored truth. At one point, I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I demanded full transparency about our circumstances. I felt entitled to and deprived of essential information, as though my teenage self could realistically undo years’ worth of adversity.
I very rarely believe that ignorance is bliss, but knowing what I do now about my parents’ quiet sacrifices, I’m grateful to have been preoccupied with my fairies. Part of me yearns to have written to them for a little longer, to have delayed my immersion into the adult world by a few years—but that’s not what happened. Instead, I’m left with the Herculean task of accepting that there are things beyond my control. I’d be lying if I said I’ve achieved this, but I seek solace in knowing that one day, my hard work will allow me to provide my parents and future family with fairy magic of their own.
generational mixtape let
me listen to your life
by Jedidiah Davis Illustrated by fiona mcgill
Nope. Nope. Not that one. Ehh… Definitely not that one. Nope…
A hazy quiet fell upon the kitchen table as I scrolled through my Spotify Liked Songs to queue some mood music for family game night. My little brother slouched next to me with his head on the table, and my mom sat across from me, absentmindedly shuffling the Uno deck. The cards’ rhythmic swishing filled the silence as I swiped endlessly through my catalog of songs. Hundreds of options, and yet somehow, none.
“Any song recs, Mom?”
It was a half-hearted attempt. A little pointless even. All I’d ever heard my mom listen to was Christian worship songs and classical music—great in their own rights, but not quite fitting for game night. Still, I’d been slowly tiring of my recent rotations of Raveena, Hovvdy, and Charli xcx. The speaker sat in wait. My mom’s eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought, her shuffling continuing, trancelike.
I tried again: “What did you listen to when you were my age?”
The question seemed unremarkable. Yet the shuffling stopped abruptly, and the room froze from the break in rhythm. Then, a smile burst across her face, and she hit her head lightly, as if trying to knock loose some old memory until… eureka.
“Get Wild by TM Network!”
The song’s album cover featured a trio of Japanese men with great swoops of styled hair. Very J-idol. And also, very unlike my mom. With my deck in hand, I pressed play. A subdued but instantly catchy melody crept out from the speaker. Then the song burst into dazzling showers of ’80s synths, accompanied by punches of electric guitar and an energetic male voice singing to “get wild and tough!” Our focus had completely drifted from the game as my mom kept breaking out into fits of laughter and singing along to the lyrics.
“Mom, it’s your turn,” my brother and I would repeat, but our groans were drowned out by the sheer joy from across the table. As the final chorus faded out, my mom looked up at us, eyes gleaming from behind her fan of cards.
“Can we listen to another one?”
After that, game night was all but forgotten. We were on a one-way trip down music memory lane. My mom shared with us the soaring rockstar melodies and chorus of “Barefoot Goddess” by B’z, the sweet lilts and nostalgic production of “Slow-Motion” by Akina Nakamori, and the inimitable soul and emotion of “Stars on Earth” by Miyuki Nakajima. And with each new song came a scene born from reminiscence, all coming together to form a visual album of her life.
“Like this?” I laughed and pointed at the crowds of girls cheering for a shirtless band member on my phone screen. She nodded with her head in her hands and giggled uncontrollably. She regaled us with teenage memories of one-woman dance performances in her room to the pumping tunes of J-rock bands and the many tears shed for ballads of life’s cruelty towards love.
After about an hour of storytelling, I asked my mom for more recommendations and compiled them into a playlist. Today, it’s populated with even more stars, like “Plastic Love” singer Mariya Takeuchi, pop
rock duo Puffy AmiYumi, and city pop artist Taeko Onuki. Call it nostalgia or unlocking a memory, but during that game-night-turned-listening-party, my mom seemed to glow with a quality I hadn’t seen before. Turns out, she hadn’t listened to any of these songs since before she met my dad.
I believe the revelation, when you are suddenly aware that your parents had a bustling life before you, will inevitably hit everyone one day like a wave in the ocean: you see it and know that it is there, but sometimes, it still knocks you off your feet. To spend an hour learning something about my mom that was so different from the idea I had of her in my head was exciting, but it also left me with questions. If these songs were so dear to her heart and her memories, why was this the first time she’d listened to them in decades? When I asked her, she paused.
“I don’t need to listen to them anymore,” she eventually replied.
I’d never heard someone mention needing a song. Don’t we listen to songs because we want to? Because we enjoy their melody, lyricism, or message? But not all songs are like that. Sometimes, songs only serve a brief purpose in our lives, whether that’s a time of heartbreak, self-discovery, low confidence, or even just wanting a good cry. Regardless of her love for these songs, my mom no longer needs to be likened to a barefoot goddess, to be told not to hide her scars, or to be moved to tears mourning the unsung heroes of the world. The person she is today has what she needs, but I’m grateful to have gotten to know the ways music provided for the person she used to be.
After this, I felt inspired to ask my dad about his own favorite songs. We sat together one night in the living room as he dug up songs from his memory and I queued them. He’s more of a CD and cassette type of guy, and as each song transitioned to the next, he would muse, “Man, technology today, I’m tellin’ you.”
In the dimly lit room, we bopped to the funk and shimmer of Cameo’s “Candy,” grooved to the claps and saxy slides of Evelyn “Champagne” King’s “Shame,” and heeded the hard truths and solemn flows of 2Pac’s “Changes.” The visual album my father put together surely had its fun times, but more than my mother’s, it was edged with struggles and a reliance on music to keep going. The high disco energy of “Shame” was sobered by memories of needing the song to get himself up each frigid morning of college, a thousand miles away from family. Earth, Wind & Fire, popular for their uptempo songs, was a source of support in the darkness of his ’20s with the soulful, steady beat of
“Keep Your Head to the Sky.” The next morning, I woke up to over 100 texts from him with links to even more of his favorites. That’s my dad: I asked for songs, and he gave me songs.
In the last few years, I’ve become more appreciative of his stories and lessons. There’s almost a half-century between me and him—49 years to be exact. Whenever we have long chats, I feel and cherish the love that comes with those 49 years of life between us. But at the same time, I feel the unavoidable dread that, sooner rather than later, the day will come when that number of years between us will start to decrease. Before I drove up to Providence this fall, my dad gave me a crash course of everything I needed to know about the car. I was admittedly not very excited for the auto lesson, but he told me to listen carefully so that I could teach my own kids one day.
“That’s okay, Dad, I can just have you teach them.”
I tried to say it with a smile but could tell by his weak laugh that no amount of sugarcoating could hide the bitter possibility that had entered our minds—that he might not make it to that day.
“Still, it’s important for you to know.” He smiled back.
Music is timeless, and our access to it and its stories is greater than ever. I’ve fallen in love with so many songs and artists that my parents loved. Because of that, I feel like I’ve gotten to know them from that time of their lives too. The comicdrawing, rock band fangirl from Tokyo who was always busting moves in her room, and the young record-breaking athlete and multi-state champion wrestler who I shared more struggles with than I realized. Two individuals, from opposite sides of the planet and different backgrounds, who somehow crossed paths underneath this wide blue sky. One of my favorite songs from my parents, “Ito” by Miyuki Nakajima, tells the story of how two people, one a vertical thread and the other horizontal, can together weave a cloth that may someday keep someone warm or cover a wound to heal. Every song comes to an end, but I’ll have these songs, passed down from my parents, to comfort and remind me of them no matter how far apart we are. What songs will I pass down to my loved ones? When you listen back to your own life, what scenes will come together and with what soundtrack? One of the beautiful powers of songs is the way they are linked to memory. They’ll remind you of more than who you are right now. They’ll remind you of everything you’ve ever been.
she’s everywhere, she’s so julia on Charli xcx’s slow rise to—and rejection of—mainstream success
by Sofie Zeruto
Illustrated by emilie guan
If you did not know Charli xcx before, you certainly do now. Simply put, BRAT is everywhere. Literally. It’s a viral dance on TikTok. It’s an unlikely part of a major presidential campaign. It’s on CNN and Fox News. Your mom knows about it— maybe your grandma too. Your 13-year-old cousin is all excited about the new “BRAT” update in the viral Roblox minigame “Dress to Impress.” “BRAT Summer” is inescapable. It’s a new youth lingo. It’s a color and a font. It’s an adjective and a noun (“that’s BRAT”.) Frankly, it’s starting to get old.
There comes a point in the life cycle of an Internet trend when it enters the mainstream media and is cool no longer. Think “Pokemon Go to the polls,” a now ironic, then cringe-inducing, line uttered by 2016 presidential nominee Hillary Clinton at the height of the app’s fame. Historically, the BRAT trend should have died pretty swiftly after Kamala Harris’s campaign adopted the BRAT aesthetic—lime green and a blurry, stretched-out arial font—for its Twitter banner. Yet arguably, “BRAT Summer” is becoming “BRAT Fall,” driven by the success of the bonus track “Guess featuring Billie Eilish” along with the upcoming remix album led by a new single, “Talk talk featuring troye sivan.” Despite all the oversaturation, “BRAT Summer’s” transcendent popularity lies in the fact that Charli xcx is a fantastic pop artist who will go down in history as one of the most influential figures of the genre. As her slow emergence from cult favorite to main pop girl unfolds, many may be surprised to know that Charli xcx has been cultivating her sound, image, and influence in the music industry for quite some time.
Charli xcx has been creating music since the 2000s, having gotten her start on MySpace; however, my first foray into her music was her 2020 pandemic-inspired album how i’m feeling now. Passing the hours laying on my bed, scrolling what was Twitter at the time, my home page became peppered with mentions of the artist Charli xcx and this great new project she had released. I decided to give it a listen. Marked by a careful juxtaposition between gritty beats and glittery synths, selfindulgent lyrics and intimate love confessions, how i’m feeling now quickly became one of my favorite albums. Charli worked on the album over six weeks during the height of the COVID-19 lockdowns, soliciting fan input on tracks and even collaborating with fan producers on Zoom. The resulting work was an honest and nuanced chronicle of the time, with songs like “anthems” yearning for a return to normalcy and songs like “detonate” reflecting on the emotional turmoil caused by isolation. It was an experimental yet accessible take on pop music and, at the time, Charli xcx at her best.
Despite her capacity to go “mainstream” as a pop star—evidenced by her self-proclaimed “sellout album” Crash and songwriting credits on radio hits like “Señorita” by Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello—Charli xcx has spent her solo career intent on staying true to her creativity and artistic vision. Her late long-time collaborator, friend, producer, and artist SOPHIE was a key part of this vision. Although their collaborations
are now heralded as groundbreaking, they were not always so revered. “Vroom Vroom,” perhaps one of the pair’s biggest hits today, was panned by many critics after its release in 2016. A Pitchfork article called the track and its EP of the same name “pointedly uncommercial and abrasive” and “dead behind the eyes.” Six years later, Lollapalooza festival goers would scream their disagreement with this assessment at the top of their lungs. Charli xcx, SOPHIE, and additional frequent collaborator A.G. Cook of PC Music have long driven mainstream pop icons from the shadows, with collective songwriting and production credits on big industry names from Lady Gaga to Beyonce to BTS.
Aside from musical influence, Charli xcx has an exhaustive list of influences for her style and image as a pop star, which is the subject of BRAT’s opening track “360.” Like all of the icons featured in its music video, from established artists like Chloë Sevigny to the newer-wave likes of Julia Fox, Charli xcx is proud of the fact that she “went her own way and she made it.” “360” is both an ode to and an anthem for artistic integrity, agency, and the “misfits” brought to light on account of nothing but their own merit. It’s both a rejection of the industry and an exploration of the ability to become an icon purely by self-determination. It’s a blatant celebration of femininity in all its forms, and while some may argue the lyrics to be boastful or even “bitchy,” they belie a complex picture of what it means to be a feminine-presenting artist in the current age. And with that picture, we are properly introduced to the concept of a girl who is BRAT in all of her genius and imperfection—a girl who Charli has been embodying for the entirety of her career.
Charli xcx has made great pop albums before, and to the long-time fan, BRAT is just another banger in the catalog. So what made BRAT stick for everyone else? Perhaps it was the desire for “new
blood” in the pop music sphere, with new artists like Chappell Roan and Sabrina Carpenter rising through the ranks following a run of lackluster projects from the industry’s more established names. Or maybe BRAT’ s success is indicative of a broader acceptance of the queer subcultures that Charli xcx has long revered and accredited her music and style to, despite not being queer herself. Or maybe it was just ingeniously marketed, with a simplistic yet instantly recognizable album cover, TikTok snippets of songs leading up to the release of each single, and a series of private (yet highly documented) DJ sets leading up to the album’s release. Or, I argue, the success of BRAT is a testament to Charli xcx’s existence in pop culture as a BRAT before she put a name to it. We can’t help but be obsessed with her.
It’s only logical that after last year’s Barbie summer, we had to have a BRAT summer—a grungier, sister embodiment of femininity in the twenty-first century. Some would argue it is a more holistic portrayal of feminine self-worth and imperfection. Now, at the summit of the pop music industry, we have Charli xcx, there by her own uncompromising means and accord. What will she do now that she has reached this peak that she has admittedly desired and spurned for so long? Seemingly, her answer is to create remixes and hold onto the era’s significance for as long as possible.
After, my guess is that she will return to creating out-there pop music with industrialsounding dissonant synths and autotune while continuing to care less “if you love it, if you hate it.” While the world loved it this go-around, a BRAT’ s central goal is not about being liked. Still, while BRAT’ s unprecedented success may not be replicated for quite some time, we can trust that Charli’s influence will continue to permeate from the niche to the mainstream, at all angles, 360 degrees.
i’m not sure why i’m crying
“worms” by pile and escaping over-intellectualization
by Eleanor Dushin Illustrated by Cho Kang
TW: substance use
In the spring of my sophomore year, I sat at my desk in an empty triple and listened to a live performance of “Worms” by Boston-based band Pile on repeat. It’s the first track on A Hairshirt of Purpose , yet it doesn’t set the tone for the album. Its slow and gut-wrenching delivery is a far cry from the drum-and-bass-heavy rock of the other tracks. It’s the only song from the album that I listen to.
I could feel my bones corrode, my skin melt, my muscles atrophy. I was oversleeping and undereating and ignoring weeks of overdue assignments. The mascara I was wearing would stay on my face for another three days. Weeks of feeling horrible without knowing why went by. My journal went untouched.
“Worms” became my fourth most-listenedto song of the year. The soft yet metallic chime of the guitar is still burned in my mind. A couple hundred plays later, and I still have no idea what the words mean.
Even so, shadows of experiences I’ve had and people I’ve known flashed across the backdrop of my mind as I listened. Like catching a glimpse of something that reminds you of the dream you had last night—but you’re not really sure how, and you’re not really sure what you dreamt about. I caught brief glimpses of the past without knowing why. Pain of a sort I hadn’t felt in four years bubbled in my chest. I felt stupid and pathetic
and like all my life’s muck and grime was stuck in place no matter how hard I scrubbed, no matter how hot the shower was. I heard the guitar again. My head hurt.
I sometimes conduct a case study on my own emotions. I’m trying to get a step ahead of myself, to fast-forward the development of my prefrontal cortex, to understand myself through strict analysis. Why do you feel this way? Is it because of the events of May 25, 2019? Why haven’t you fixed it yet?
In some cases, this served me well. I know that I can be neurotic and defensive and judgmental. I know what I expect of others and what I expect from myself. I know how much time I need to spend alone in a day. I know myself. But I don’t know myself purely through existence—I know myself because I’m constantly living inside my own head. I stare at walls at parties, going through every possible factor to figure out why I want to leave. I take long walks in unfamiliar places and try to put a name to how I’m feeling until all I can think about is the pain pulsing in my knees. I can’t feel without intellectualizing. I can’t just feel.
And so I crave nonsense, something that doesn’t warrant understanding. I sit on my phone and stop scrolling at the sight of a .png image of a brick with the words, “we r ALL TRAPPED in the SAME body.” I don’t know what it means. I love it. At museums, I walk up to the pieces I don’t understand. A spread of pastel durags on an 8x9 wooden panel. Blurry blocks of pink and orange by Rothko in a white-walled corner. “I like this one,” I say to whoever is next to me. I don’t pretend to know what the artist is trying to say anymore. I listen to music constantly, searching for something other than myself to dissect. No matter how long I listen, I simply don’t get it. I
don’t need to. I’m not supposed to.
I lay down and listen to “Worms.” Rick Maguire’s voice flows into a cracked, invested pain and ebbs back into low tenderness: acceptance. I let the shadows walk by and I try to focus on them, but I don’t need to look too hard or speak to them. I only need to know they’re there.
+++
“I would never dream of blaming it on you / so please don’t ask me to stay / any longer, anymore.”
In the host’s bedroom at a party, a friend told me about her love life.
“Do you, like, really like him?” I asked her. “It’s okay if you do.”
She didn’t give me a very clear answer. Her hesitation and the softness with which she spoke about him meant yes. “I just think I should end it before it gets too bad,” she responded. “Before it gets to be too much.”
My heart ached for her. For the next week, every time I thought about it, I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell her I’d felt the same way, but I couldn’t quite grasp exactly how she’d felt, and I couldn’t grasp how I’d felt. Something beyond pathetic and beyond hurt. Something without words. I stopped thinking there.
+++
“An odd but deep calm washes over me / And from this distance I take in the heat / from the glow / from your burning skin.”
The summer before Brown, I worked full time at a deli in my town. It’s a small business that, in the summertime, is essentially run by drug dealers and 20-year-old girls. I was never very close with a lot of people in high school, so by the end of the summer, I spent most of my free time with my coworkers. By the time I left for Brown, one of them had become one of my closest friends. We sat in cars and swam in lakes
for hours on end, and she updated me on the men she’d met at parties.
My first semester, she overdosed three times: once on cocaine, twice on Wellbutrin. I only knew about it through weekly text updates, and only one of my friends at school knew. I haven’t seen her in a few years. I don’t think I’ll ever give back her copy of her favorite book. I’m not completely sure if she’s still alive.
Her shadow passes me by.
+++
“It was never supposed to happen to worms like you / to worms like you.”
When I was in high school, a baby deer broke its back in the woods behind my house. It stayed there for three days, my family supplying it with water. We called the three closest animal rescue organizations in the area (none of which were closer than 45 minutes away) to no answer. Around 9 p.m. on the third day, I looked out to the front yard and saw a doe chasing a coyote in circles. An old couple driving home stopped their car in the middle of the road where the coyote had dragged the fawn. They talked to our neighbors and my mother before driving on. Five minutes later, when they returned, I hid in the basement and blared music through my single working AirPod to avoid hearing the gunshot.
+++
Watching Rick Maguire’s live performance, my chest tightens as he sighs and wipes his mouth at the end of the video. The emotion in the presence and the absence of his voice makes it hard to breathe. I run my hands through my hair and dig my nails into my scalp. I feel the song in my stomach and my neck and behind my ears. I feel it to the point of tears. I feel it, and I can’t really tell you why.
help! school is making me illiterate!
getting you out of a reading slump with recs based on your class year
by Emily Tom Illustrated by Junyue Ma
Being an English and Literary Arts concentrator makes up about 40 percent of my personality. But as soon as classes start, I suddenly forget how to read. Very rarely do I find the time or motivation to pick up a book for leisure.
This is the year of change (and not just because Kamala Harris says so). I strive to remain literate, and I hope you do too. Whether you’re a firstyear asking yourself, “What is post- magazine? I thought this was the Herald?” or you’re a senior who’s having a post-grad crisis, you deserve a highquality reading experience. Here’s a list of five-star books from my Goodreads shelf, made specially for your class year.
Freshmen
The Details by Ia Genberg
My first year at Brown felt like a fever dream, so a book about a woman with a fever seems fitting. Originally written in Swedish and translated by Kira Josefsson, this novel follows a woman that is bedridden with illness, as she reminisces on four lost relationships in her life. The prose is quick,
honest, and deeply vulnerable, so much so that you feel like a voyeur. The author invites you to look at her most passionate and ugly moments, and embrace them as part of the human experience.
To any anxious freshmen reading this—I know starting life in a new place can be daunting. You probably miss home and the people you left behind. This book reminded me that none of those past relationships ever truly disappear.
Sophomores
Couplets by Maggie Milner
I discovered Brown alumna Maggie Milner last spring when she visited campus for a poetry reading. Couplets is a semi-autobiographical novel written in verse about a young woman who breaks up with her boyfriend and explores her queerness. I started this book as a poetry skeptic, and I left as the newest member of the Lit Arts poetry track.
When I entered sophomore year, I was full of confidence, solely by virtue of the fact that I was no longer a freshman. But I still had so much to learn. Couplets is for everyone—those who feel like they have it all figured out, and those who are still on the journey of self-discovery. (Also according to my roommate, “Sophomore year is canonically when you realize you’re gay.”)
Juniors
The Vegetarian by Han Kang
Junior year is the year most people lose their minds just a little. Suddenly everyone is taking the MCAT, or they’re studying for the LSAT, or they want to apply for a Fulbright, and they’re telling you all about it. I know it was enough to make me a bit insane.
And I love stories about women who go insane. The Vegetarian is no exception. After a series of violent images overtake her mind, the protagonist attempts to cleanse herself by refusing to eat meat, much to the dismay of her husband and family. Translated from Korean by Deborah Smith, it’s a novel about patriarchy and rebellion.
Seniors
Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman
A classic (and a bit heavy-handed as a recommendation, according to my roommate). I first read Einstein’s Dreams for a class my first year, and it made me cry in the SciLi. So of course, I need you to read it too.
As I enter my final year at Brown, I’ve been feeling sentimental. This book is a series of vignettes meditating on the passage of time. A fictionalized Einstein dreams each story as he develops the theory of relativity. The result is a collage of different universes—one in which time repeats on a loop, another where time speeds up as you approach the core of the Earth, and so on.
When I got teary-eyed upon my first read, it was over a passage about time being frozen. A mother hugs her child, but this child will never grow up, never move away, and never leave her arms. When I was 18, I read this and cried for the childhood I had just left behind. Now, in my final year of college, I feel grief and gratitude at the same time. They’re two sides of the same coin after all.
I’ll always cherish my time at Brown, and I’ve been reminding myself not to grieve it before it’s over. I hope Einstein’s Dreams helps you remember how rare and precious it is that we all exist in this moment together.
First Impressions
by Aj Wu
Illustrated by Kaitlyn Stanton
“The crowd mentality, the one affecting the coat population on campus today, needs to be one of inclusivity and support, under whatever circumstances or for whatever reason.”
Sean Toomey, “The Tan in Man” 9.23.22
