post- 02/25/2022

In This Issue Joseph Suddleson

5

Ellie Jurmann

4

Emily Tom

Ellyse Givens

2

A Symphonic Sermon

The Entropy in Me

Dreams from My Mother

Spirituality on the Mat 6

Post- Spring Chickens

Lily Seltz 6

Spring Memories

Terrible Mothers & Terrible People 8

postCover by Jake Ruggiero

FEB 25

VOL 29 —

ISSUE 2

FEATURE

Spirituality on the Mat a meditation on yoga and meaning

By Ellyse Givens Illustrated by Joanne Han, IG: joaanne

At Yoga Six, the breath is our Bible. Follow it, and

Growing up without organized religion, I never

But when the pandemic hit, the whole world paused,

you will find your way. Interestingly enough, though,

thought I would have a spiritual community, a place

which meant that I had to, too. I began going to outdoor

my body doesn't like to exhale fully. There’s comfort in

within which souls differing in age, origin, and

yoga classes with my mom. Frankly, I did it because I

the tiny reservoir of air I stow away in my lungs–always

perspective somehow find synchronicity. But I found

wanted to keep her company, maybe find a meaningful

there, just in case. Yet I exhale slightly, and surrender

this at Yoga Six Carlsbad.

mother-daughter bonding experience during such

a bit more to its sinking trajectory, easing closer and

Two years ago, I would never have expected myself

tumultuous times. But my body didn’t want to bend. It

closer to emptiness. It’s painful–my body so desperately

to be here. I used to hate yoga. Its call for stillness

wanted to sweat, empty, purify, and repeat. Don’t tell me

yearning to resupply itself. But I pause for a moment

angered me. I didn’t want to worship my body; I didn’t

to worship myself just as I am….I ought to be so much

longer, allowing another faint puff to seep from my lips,

want to be still. My body needed to be changed–at least

more than this.

and open my eyes. My mother is beside me, breathing.

according to the stinging expectations of competitive

And yet I found myself at the studio more and

Ted is in front of me, in his usual place. Jorie, Dan,

sports regimes. A 40 minute spin class could rid 300

more often. And at first, I didn’t understand why I kept

Kristie, and Drew are here too. Here, in emptiness, in

calories from my body. The faster I pedaled, the higher up

returning. Yoga isn’t exercise, I would scoff to myself.

complete exhalation, my body reaches its fullest state;

the leaderboards I climbed, and with that productivity

But I couldn’t ignore how much it soothed me. The

the air of these people and this place fills my lungs with

came praise. So why would I ever slow down? I didn’t

teachers weren’t icons I admired from afar but souls

air more plentifully than I ever could myself.

feel that I could.

moving alongside me, their voices loosely guiding my

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I’ve been thinking about the small, quiet spaces between the frenzy. This has been one of those weeks that requires running a thousand hours and forgetting to sleep. Midterm season, man. You know how it is. But I always manage to steal a second to sit still. In the wee hours of the night, when my brain becomes impermeable to chemistry, I turn on Wizards of Waverly Place and forget how to produce coherent thoughts. I’m trying to be grateful for the quietude of children’s TV and an empty mind. Another space I’m grateful for (though one I would never call quiet) is the chaotic little oasis of post-.

This week, it’s giving tree. Tree as in tree pose: In Feature, our writer discusses the role of yoga as a spiritual practice in her life. Tree as in impending springtime: Our Lifestyle piece includes reflections from our post- editors on their favorite spring

memories. We also have our first ever post- original crossword in the Lifestyle section this week! New beginnings… Much like a sprouting sapling. In Narrative, one writer discusses her connection to her home in Hawai’i, while the other considers the role of entropy in her life. And in A&C, we have one writer recalling his experience at the Boston Symphony and another comparing the novel The Lost Daughter with its movie adaptation.

Truly, what’s giving tree about this week is the branching conversation of prod night. Our brave editors really say the damnedest things on these post- evenings. No matter what happens in a week, no matter how fast my mind is spinning along, I always slow to a joyful stop at post- and enjoy the wild vibes of it all. And hopefully, when you read our issue this week, so do you.

Take care,

Kyoko Leaman Editor-in-Chief

2

post–

Children 1. Boss Baby 2. The girl from the ring 3. Jesus?

4. The Boxcar Children 5. Of the Corn 6. The one from Baby’s Day Out 7. Just A Little Guy 8. Stuart Little 9. Kevin (of Home Alone fame) 10.

All the editors of post- as sweet babes

FEATURE body’s contortions through space. I didn’t need to

One of my favorite moments in class is Vrikshasana

yoga classes, which had recently been implemented at

compete with the person on the mat beside me–it was

(“Tree” pose) because everyone does it a bit differently.

all five schools, were religious in nature and in direct

from them that I learned, that I was inspired. I didn’t

Some with their hands stretched like branches to

violation of the First Amendment. The final ruling

need to put on makeup before class–the hot room of

the ceiling, others with them entwined in Paschima

was that the yoga program was not religious, yet the

Yoga Six Carlsbad welcomed me even in my most naked

Namaskarasana, (“Reverse Namaskar”) behind their

parents appealed and eventually brought the case to

and unpolished state.

backs–yet we all stand strongly together, looking

the California supreme court. In 2015, the state appeals

I started working behind the front desk of the

forward, as one. I have never felt more interconnected

court again deemed the program to be secular.

studio in January of 2021. It was my first ever job. I spent

with other human bodies, more comfortable and

Some Christians, like the president of the Southern

my Monday mornings, Tuesday afternoons, Thursdays,

deserving of my space in the world, than I do while

Baptist Theological Seminary R. Albert Mohler Jr., argue

Fridays, and weekends at the studio cleaning toilets,

practicing yoga.

that yoga is inherently against Bible teachings. A spoof

contacting members, answering the phone, greeting

Yoga Six is my home. These people are my angels,

in 2003 showed a Christian minister, who, when asked

students coming to class. I loved the rhythmicality of

scheduled to step into my life at just the right time. This

if Christians should practice yoga, said that he thought

the studio, the way the same people came in and came

practice is sacred to me, transporting me to alternative

Sunday school curriculum ought to have included

out, the same lights switched on and switched off, just

universes of ease, of contentment, of warmth, ones that

the “lessons about the evils of everything Oriental,

as swiftly and seamlessly as we flowed from Parivrtta

I never thought could exist. I cannot help but think of

including Yoga.” Yet just the same, representatives from

Trikonasana (”revolved triangle”) to Ardha Chandrasana

Yoga Six as somehow divine.

the “Take Back Yoga” campaign argue that American

(”half moon”) during class. The tranquility was a

***

variations of yoga (“goat yoga,” “yoga and wine”) cannot

shock to a body like mine, so accustomed to screaming

Despite its widespread adoption by Western

be considered true yoga whatsoever, and are not related

volleyball coaches and timed exams and 8 minute mile

wellness culture, yoga holds deeply religious roots. Yoga

times. I think it healed me.

to the practice’s Hindu aspects.

is one of the six major houses of thought in Hinduism,

So what does it mean that I, a white, agnostic girl,

***

coming from the Sanskrit word yuj, meaning to unite.

found some form of immaterial meaning at a tiny yoga

When I was young, I searched for God everywhere.

Krsna (or Krishna in English), the eighth incarnation

studio that others would liken to a gym visit? Is it sacred,

Without attending a mosque or a temple or a church, I

of Hindu god Vishnu, spoke of yoga as a means of

or is it just exercise? It depends on who you ask, but it

wondered if the universe would forget about me. Is there

achieving moksha–a form of spiritual emancipation

seems I’m hardly the only one to find spirituality in an

anybody looking out for me? I remember trying to talk

considered by many Hindus as the highest goal of

uncommon place. Today, less than half of Americans

to Him once, clasping my hands together and inhaling

life. Yet yoga in these texts seems to be considered

consider themselves members of a house of worship,

deeply. But I didn’t know what I was supposed to hear.

a meditation technique of disciplining the mind and

which hasn’t been seen in nearly a century. However,

What does a higher power sound like? How will I know

body; distinguished “positions” and “postures” are

nine in ten Americans believe in a higher power–even

that one is listening?

not mentioned, according to the University of Chicago

if it is not God as described in the Bible. Belief in the

Divinity School.

intangible is not waning. It is just being discovered in

I never found God. But I can’t help but think of my Yoga Six teachers as keepers of something holy.

Yoga’s Hindu origins are diluted in westernized

Jen loves every human in her classes so fiercely; in her

settings like Yoga Six, frequented mostly by joggers and

***

presence, I live truly authentically. Tori, my manager,

gym-goers wanting to tighten their abs and decompress

In my Religious Studies class last semester, we

holds such heavy weight on her shoulders yet somehow

after hours in a desk chair. To many at Yoga Six, their

read a brief selection of sociologist Anna Swidler’s book

simultaneously shows so much love to both herself

practice is anything but spiritual, simply a way to

“Talk of Love: How Culture Matters.” In it, she argues

and to others. Melissa is a mother, courageous and

sweat and increase flexibility. But for others, for me,

that culture is not something passively lingering above

relentlessly kind, to both her beautiful daughter and to

it is so much more than movement. It is community;

us, but a toolbox. Our eventual articulation of culture,

me. Cearra renders beauty from nothing, in her art and

it is healing; it is love. For me, yoga is through which

including our spirituality and religion, is affected by

in her life; her spirit touches beyond what the eye can

I found my own sacred ritual, the guardian spirits,

how we “filter” the culture to which we are exposed, and

see. These women at Yoga Six Carlsbad have convinced

the access to an alternative reality that I never felt

which “tools” we choose to incorporate into our own

me that ‘guardian angels’ may actually be real.

that I had without organized religion. Yoga means so

view of the world.

Just the same, I never thought I would find a ritual, a practice that rendered instant community, that

many different things to all of us, yet we stand as one in Vrikshasana nonetheless.

different places, and expressed through different means.

At Yoga Six, I think each of our inhalations will be composed of different substances. For me, I take in the

grounded me to both the Earth and to myself. To me,

Is yoga a spiritual practice? Some American

magic, infectious love, self devotion, and a belief in the

physical activity was meant not to fulfill and enrich my

Hindus argue that American yoga is not Hindu enough,

immaterial from the hot room,. For others, it is patience,

soul but to rid my body of its contents. In yoga, I find

advocating for Hindus to “Take Back Yoga,” the name

stillness, and secular tranquility that they draw from

something different. The slowness gives me time to

of a campaign spearheaded by the Hindu American

the studio, that they take in to replenish their lungs.

appreciate my body’s uniqueness, to admire the way in

Foundation. Some non-Hindu Americans agree. In 2013,

We enter the same space–exposed to the same “tools”—

which it transforms from one shape to another, similar

two parents in my Encinitas, California elementary

but inhale only what we need. Yet we breathe together,

but still distinctly mine amidst other bodies in the room.

school filed a lawsuit against our district, arguing that

nonetheless.

“I have decided that it’s girlboss season until the trees start blooming. As soon as I see a blossom, girlboss season is over. I can’t do any more work."

“Wait…am I the nudist?”

“I feel like we should just bring back lying for fun.”

February 25, 2022

3

NARRATIVE

Here and There small island, small world

by Emily Tom Illustrated by Connie Liu

In my dreams, I wake up in my childhood bed. I make my way through the house that is no longer my own and find my mother sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window. The sky is a sheet of gray, a blank face.

I cannot even see Diamond Head. My mother cradles a black-and-white portrait of an old woman in her lap. I do not recognize the old woman.

I say, “Who is that?”

My mother says, “She doesn’t want you to leave.”

Her eyes fixed on the photograph. The blank face of the sky.

I say, “Why?” She repeats, “She doesn’t want you to leave.”

I ask, “Am I dreaming?”

My mother says, “You can’t leave. She says she doesn’t want you to leave. You can’t–” In my dreams, I cannot escape my mother’s love.

—– My sister is two years younger than me, but she’s a better driver, so I sit in the passenger seat as she takes us through Waikiki. We are at a red light, trying to turn right onto Kuhio Avenue. But then a Honda blocks the intersection, and then a lifted Tacoma truck cuts us off, and then a tour bus speeds in front of us, and then, just before my sister makes the turn, a gaggle of tourists steps into the crosswalk.

My sister stares at the tourists, in their swim trunks and sunglasses. She watches them walk past and, with a straight face, whispers, “I’ll kill you.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say, but I’m laughing.

“I will,” she says. “I’ll literally run them over.”

And suddenly we are both yelling through the windshield, yelling, “Move! Move! Hurry up!” yelling, “I will literally run you over!” Both of us glad our parents took a different car. Both of us knowing we will always have to stop for tourists.

—– Why do you want to go so far away? There’s a good college down the hill. You want to get out of here that badly? What are you going to study? Oh. But what are you going to do with an English degree? The East Coast is so far away, how will we even see you? There’s no reason you can’t just stay here. Who will take care of your mom and dad? Airplane tickets are expensive when you go to the East Coast. Are you sure you want to go so far away? Just wait for the winter, and you’ll want to come 4

post–

right home. And–Oh, the food’s good.

—– The mountain shrugs its mossy shoulders to the sky. We walk between the two peaks, ants crawling up the spine of a sleeping giant. Gravel crunches beneath our feet. We would have thought it sounded like snow, if we had known what snow sounded like, but so far all we’ve seen is endless summer. We drink sunlight like nectar.

Here the wind is sharp as sea glass, and goosebumps prickle my skin. Josh finds an extra flannel in his car, and I wrap it around my shoulders, and for a moment I wish I were a baby again, swaddled. “We’re like penguins,” Josh says, “huddling for warmth.” At least here the air is fresh, sweet and bright as lilikoi.

We make our way to the cliff of the Pali. It is a steep drop, with bushes and trees littering the rocks. There is a rock barrier guarding the cliffside, and I peer over it, the stones against my ribs. Near the lookout, a beehive lays crushed on the ground like a corpse. Dozens of bees hum from the brush, invisible static, as they search for the hive.

Three hundred years ago, blood ran in silky ribbons down the mountainside. The O‘ahu warriors were cornered here, the enemy before them, the cliff behind.

They had the choice to surrender or die. They leapt over the edge. I imagine them now, tumbling through the rocks and brush, like loose change spilling from a careless pocket. They kissed the ground, blossoming on the rocks like roses. Now, at night, they circle the island, a line of spirits marching from the mountain to the ocean.

They carry torches, scar the night sky with the smoke. I turn to Josh and ask him what it would feel like to fall.

—– No longer in my dreams, I find my mom in the kitchen. She stirs a pot of chicken noodle soup with a wooden spoon. I sit at the counter across from her. “I probably won’t even get in,” I say. “Like, there’s no way I would get in.”

“But you have to apply,” my mom says.

“I mean, yeah, I’m going to apply,” I say. “I’m just saying, I’m not going to get in. So don’t worry about it.”

My mom looks at me. On the stove, steam swirls from the pot of soup. “You really want to get in.”

Not a question, but a statement.

My eyes prickle with tears. I don’t even know why. “Yeah.”

“Then you’ll get in,” she says. “And you’ll go.”

She doesn’t say it, but I know what she means is: You’ll go, but only for four years. You’ll go, and then you’ll come back.

—– My mom is right. I do go, and it is everything I thought it would be. It is the clock tower, its face a glowing yellow moon. It is the blizzard that washes the world in white, the snowballs we chuck at the stop signs. It is the sunset from the edge of the city. It is a football game that we already know we will lose; we cheer anyway. It is karaoke until two in the morning. It is sitting on the train with a book open in my lap, watching the world in its yellow leaf. It is us, huddled beneath the tentacles of the pipe organ, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders.

I want to melt down every moment, keep them in a heart-shaped locket around my neck. But time is like water between my fingers. The scene always ends, and a new one arrives, burning just as brightly.

—– I fly home for Christmas. My mom asks about my friends, and I tell her I love them, and it’s true. She asks if I enjoyed myself, and I tell her it was the happiest I’d ever been, and that’s true, too. “But I’m happy to be home,” I say, “where I don’t need to wear slippers in the shower.” She laughs at that.

I do not say that everything at home feels so much smaller now. The mainland had bricks crammed together to form a sidewalk, cars shuffling bumper-tobumper past the overflowing bookstore, buildings so close together that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended.

Now I am walking down the street, past my house, and I cannot shake the feeling that none of it is real. The plumeria trees, the stray cat lounging under the mailbox, the surfboard standing in my neighbor’s garage—it all feels like a movie set now, two-dimensional, plexiglass and styrofoam. I stop in the middle of the road to look at the parrots, half a dozen of them, strung along the telephone wire like the beads of a necklace. A car rushes past, swerving around me. I returned to the island, and I realized I had outgrown it like the womb. I came home, and I realized I had become the tourist.

NARRATIVE

The Entropy in Me disorder is only the beginning

by Ellie Jurmann Illustrated by elliana reynolds I always believed that my body at rest perfectly demonstrated the thermodynamics principle of entropy. I now know that to be true, but not at all in the way that I originally thought. But before I get into what I got wrong about entropy and my own nature, I should explain how I came to think of entropy in my reference frame in the first place. The standard definition of entropy usually is something along the lines of “a measurement of the disorder of a system.” Further, there is a natural tendency for systems to maximize their entropy. Basically, I understood entropy like I understood myself: perpetually tending toward chaos of the highest degree.

Until maybe a few months ago, I thought it impossible to wake up before noon, or without being in a state of complete and utter panic.

I thought it radical to put clothes back on the hanger instead of throwing them on the floor.

Establishing anything resembling a routine, being able to see the floor of my bedroom, getting more than 4 hours of sleep on a weekday—I never knew these as anything beyond fantasy. …

“Ellie, how many times do I have to tell you?

It’s bad enough your room looks the way it does, but it’s unacceptable to turn the entire house into your pig sty.”

This is a comment my dad made at least once a day.

I would then reply, “We all have our weaknesses, and this is mine. It is actually scientifically proven that the universe tends toward disorder. As do I.” …

Where I went wrong was not entirely my fault— oversimplified explanations of chemical concepts were at least partially to blame. While entropy as a measure of disorder may not be wrong, per se, this wording can still be very misleading. A chemical system naturally works to achieve a more stable state, one in which it is in equilibrium. The idea of “disorder” here attempts to explain that a system is more stable as a gas, with particles able to move more freely and with a higher degree of randomness than those in, say, a crystalline-structured solid.

You may be wondering why you need to understand what entropy actually is, especially if you fall into the category of folks currently recovering from mild PTSD from high school gen chem. I have always loved chemistry—if you wouldn’t have guessed—and I automatically look for ways in which the principles and theorems found in my textbook apply to my everyday life.

However, I needed to ask myself if I have stretched this science too far. By trying to extend the concept of entropy to my crippling inability to make my bed or wake up in the mornings, was I inadvertently using the second law of thermodynamics to justify my poor habits? Further, does entropy really make sense of my chaos, or was I just using my chaos to make sense of entropy?

Regardless of what thermodynamics has to say, staying organized and maintaining a routine are my Achilles’ heel. They are demons I battle on a daily basis in order to stay afloat amid the hecticness of college life. Nevertheless, I persisted. I am no hero nor champion of some impossible feat, just a girl who recently managed to find some semblance of order in her life. I have thought about how I am a reflection of the concept of entropy ever since I learned the concept in tenth grade, so my recent journey toward taking the reins of my life has felt contradictory to my own programming and my understanding of myself. I was worried that my hypothesis of my innate desire to maximize the entropy in my life, which I have been developing for the past half a decade, was suddenly made null.

But having a month-long winter break to get my life in order allowed me to do a full 180º with my habits, and I now have not only some semblance of order, but healthy and stable habits.

I contemplated scrapping the idea of writing about how I relate to entropy, since apparently I am no longer tending toward disorder. I go to bed at a reasonable hour, get eight hours of sleep every night, and I even do yoga in the mornings. Oh! And my room is completely clean, and everything I own is in a proper place. But before I fully abandoned this multi-year thought project, I decided to

refresh my knowledge on entropy, to see if I could find some loophole to make sense of how I no longer was maximizing my own disorder. Unless, perhaps, I still will eventually descend back into chaos, but I have somehow gained enough energy to temporarily exist in a more orderly state—at least for the time being.

Upon my most recent internet dive into entropy, I discovered something interesting: entropy is not actually a measure of disorder, as it is frequently explained to be. This is the point where I noticed a nuanced discrepancy between what entropy is and what I understood it to be.

Instead of viewing entropy as chaos or disorder, it should be viewed as the randomness of the position of particles or atoms in a system. This subtle yet important rewording removes the connotations typically ascribed to “disorder” and “chaos.” Such language often creates feelings of disarray, a lack of balance, and instability, when the contrary is actually true: the more entropy a system has, the more stable the system is, and the closer it is to being in equilibrium.

Maybe I am just projecting when it comes to the images evoked by the words “disorder” and “chaos.”

Still, the misconception that a greater degree of entropy is simply a greater amount of disorder, as in more of a jumbled-up mess, overlooks how such disorder on the atomic level contributes to an increase in stability of the overall system.

This misconception is the same one I had of myself. I am not actually tending toward disorder, like I always believed I am. The “disorder” I claimed to have was not actually stable, nor was it bringing me even remotely close to my equilibrium point. As my dad liked to point out, I was always very noticeably out-of-balance in all realms of my life. Understanding how the disorder in my life actually accomplished the opposite of what an increase in entropy accomplishes made it easier for me to realize one of two things. Either A, the laws of my nature are contrary to the laws of thermodynamics, or B, misconceiving how entropy works justified my poor habits and kept me from utilizing my full potential and from achieving stability and balance. Personally, I would like to believe the latter is true, especially considering just how much better and easier my life has been since I got my shit together.

According to the second law of thermodynamics, I, too, maximize my entropy.

Spontaneity and being a bit all-over-the-place may be what comes most naturally to me, but this does not mean I am destined to exist as a hot mess at all times. The ultimate goal in any system is to reach equilibrium, and I am no exception nor special case. In misconceiving the idea of entropy, I misconceived who I am and what I am capable of. And while the conclusions of a single lab report likely wouldn’t be enough to have me questioning all that I know about myself, this science is still invaluable to me. So, I’ll read my chemistry or physics textbook a bit more closely than I have before, hoping that I’ll discover something totally new about myself; it could have me revising—or even completely rewriting—my own theory of everything.

February 25, 2022

5

ARTS & CULTURE

A Symphonic Sermon

a 21 year old’s defense of classical music concerts

by Joseph Suddleson Illustrated by Lucia Tian Though I’m sure to piss off more than one Rhode Islander (assuming that any Rhode Islanders ever read this) by saying this, it seems that one of the greatest assets of going to college in Providence is its proximity to Boston. For those willing to embark on a short journey via train, bus, or car, a larger urban playground awaits. I’m obsessed with trains—the commuter rail, Amtrak, the T. If it has wheels on tracks, consider me smitten. Aboard the train, insulated from the cold New England air, I look out to the side and watch the world go by in a visually stimulating blur. Gazing from the window of a moving train, I can observe the world from a position of safety and comfort. Gliding through towns and forests, across rivers, near lakes, marshes, and derelict factories, I let my mind wander wherever my attention takes it. One chilly November night last fall, I boarded train 1812 for Boston by myself, the collar of my dark maroon polo shirt peeking out from underneath a brown sweater while a pair of black leather cowboy boots hid below my stacked Levi’s 501s.

I was on my way to see the Boston Symphony Orchestra perform at Symphony Hall.

I’d never seen the BSO before, but I had seen the LA Philharmonic at Disney Concert Hall and the Hollywood Bowl, so I knew that I ought to dress nicely; a collared shirt, a sweater, a pair of dark denim jeans, and cowboy boots were somehow the most formal articles of clothing I had with me at the time. There was also something that felt a bit rebellious, something of the avant-garde, in bringing the Wild West into Symphony Hall, that hallowed shrine of the Boston Brahmins.

But, in all honesty, I didn’t really think much of my clothing at the time. I wanted to listen to music and that, more than anything, was and always will be the most important determinant of attending a concert, be it Beyoncé or the BSO. To purchase a ticket to the performance, I used my BSO College Card. I created an account using my university email, paid a nominal upfront fee of $30, and was able to reserve a free ticket the week of for almost any BSO performance for the entire season. Despite the reputation of classical music—its aura of complexity and elitism—the BSO’s College Card program makes it far more accessible than most other

live music happening today.

I got off the train at Ruggles station with Symphony Hall just a short walk away. I passed briskly through packs of Northeastern students, crossed over a light-rail tramline track, and observed the myriad of storefronts and fast-casual eateries before an elegant neoclassical building confronted me with its ornamented brick facade. Of course a building like this isn’t necessarily out of place in a city like Boston, but it had a unique magnetism for me all the same. I’d come all this way for Symphony Hall, but nobody else seemed to pay it any mind: It was a Saturday night in a college town, after all.

I imagined I’d enter through the building’s majestic column-set southeastern end, as if through the mouth of some stately red dragon. Instead, I snuck inside the beast between the scales on its belly, walking through the northeastern flank on Mass. Ave. Finally making my way into Symphony Hall, two things became immediately apparent: Most of the other concertgoers looked between the ages of 70 and 90, and I wanted a drink. This was a high-society function after all, and those usually provide ready-access to alcohol, do they not? Wandering up a grand coiling staircase in the far corner of the interior, I found myself in an intimate little hall decorated with portraits of musical giants associated with the BSO and a bar served by a bartender in a fancy suit. I spent the rest of the evening until the show began sipping a criminally overpriced Manhattan and engaging in the age-old pastime that is people-watching.

The program that night consisted of two parts: Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 and Dvorak’s Symphony No. 7. The Rome-based pianist Beatrice Rana and visiting Russian conductor Dima Slobodeniouk would take up the piano and baton respectively. I was vaguely familiar with both of the pieces, recalling their opening bars most of all: The sweeping romantic rush of the Tchaikovsky concerto and the ominous intensity of the Dvorak symphony were sure to make a delicious contrast in the program.

My ticket was for a seat on the highest balcony, so I climbed the staircase once again and passed through a door into the music hall. A cream-colored coffered ceiling hung with resplendent chandeliers is the firmament over which a sea of aged wooden-seats and luscious velvet carpeting fills with the anxious buzzing of concertgoers. Plaster reproductions of classical statues standing high in niches along the perimeter walls witness the commotion below and confirm the aesthetic priorities of those that put them there. Everything looks towards the stage at the opposite end of the rectangular hall, set within a gilded

frame crowned with a shield bearing a single name: BEETHOVEN. Maybe it was the setting, or maybe the Manhattan hitting my bloodstream, but everything began to feel like I’d stepped into a warm, golden Merchant-Ivory production.

Now this isn’t meant to be a performance review, nor do I possess the critical knowledge necessary to intelligently critique the work of classically trained musicians, so I’ll just say that the music was engaging and moving, and all the players seemed to know what they were doing, exercising the skills of their craft with precision and joy. That is, except for a moment in the first movement of the Dvorak symphony, when the conductor was waving his arms with such enthusiasm that he accidentally released his baton and threw it somewhere amidst the string section. To my surprise, everyone just carried on as if nothing was amiss. One of the string players nearest to the launched baton reached to the ground and offered the stick back to the conductor after the first movement had concluded; he politely waved him off (refusing to reclaim the symbol of the podium) and finished the piece by shaping and extracting music from the orchestra with his bare hands. Yes, even professionals can make mistakes, and yes, the show must indeed go on.

More than offering verbose descriptions of the music I heard during the performance, I can instead say with certainty that I was something I am too often not: there. My mind may have stayed back in Providence when I rode train 1812, or it may have daydreamed imaginary lives for all those strangers I passed in the fading light of a cold Boston evening, but when the sounds of the orchestra filled my ears, I was right there in my seat––squeezed between an overweight old man and a frail looking older woman, but there nonetheless.

I relished every minute of it.

With nothing but a modest initial investment and a sense of curiosity, students like me and you can hop on a train to Boston and delight in some of the greatest musical masterworks of human history. Up till now, I’ve only attended the BSO alone; I hope that changes soon and that more people take advantage of this unparalleled opportunity to face life’s greatest mysteries as brought to you by one of the world’s greatest orchestras.

Terrible Mothers & Terrible People the lost daughter, from across the gulf

by Lily Seltz Illustrated by John Gendron I’ve been told movies on airplanes always make you cry. And so I guess I’m willing to concede the possibility: It was just the airplane.

It might have just been the airplane because no one I’ve talked to, no one my age at least, has really loved The Lost Daughter. To be fair, it’s not a fun movie to watch.

I queued it up this winter break mostly because I thought I was supposed to see it, the way we were all supposed to see The Queen’s Gambit last year.

It’s a supersize serving of smart female stardom: Olivia Colman and Jessie Buckley acting, with Maggie Gyllenhal as director, and adapted from an Elena Ferrante novel of the same name—it had to be good!

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ARTS & CULTURE

and to her daughters at home: Leda is better at her job—in a way, a better “mother” to her students— when she’s not also engaged in mothering her own children. But while both motherhood and teaching are work, only one is character-defining. Mistakes in the workplace are forgivable. Mistakes at home, for mothers, are not. __ “She’s a terrible mother,” Sophie had said, and

For a hundred minutes, I watched The Lost Daughter mostly unmoved, sipping ginger ale under my mask and vaguely admiring the cinematography. I registered a mild sense of dread as angry people and sharp objects fell into view: a clear lead-up to an inevitable act of violence. And then, at minute 110 or so (spoiler incoming) our protagonist, Leda, gets stabbed with a hat pin.

I usually only cry at the end of movies, but typically with about forty minutes of warning: the lump in your throat, the tension in your knuckles and the balls of your feet. Here there was none of that. Just two hands flying to my mouth, and then waterworks. I didn’t want her to die. __ There is some ambiguity as to whether she does. Leda, the middle-aged, academic protagonist on a vacation to Greece, drives her car to a darkened beach and collapses near the water. In the last scene, it’s dawn; she sits up, she calls her daughters, she peels an orange. Is it real? A dream?

The afterlife?

I discussed these possibilities with my friend Sophie over break, waiting for my building elevator.

“I hope she lives!”

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t care. She’s horrible.”

I felt something in me rise to Leda’s defense.

“No, she’s not.”

“What are you talking about?” Sophie is forthcoming in her convictions about Art; this is something I have gradually learned to appreciate about her. “She’s a terrible mother.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. __ Sophie’s right, of course; Leda is a terrible mother. There’s no debating it. The movie and the novel are both crammed with wrenching interactions between a frustrated, spiraling Leda and her two young children, Bianca and Marta. She throws her daughter’s doll out the window. She slams doors and breaks glass. She screams at Bianca when the girl cuts her finger attempting an affectionate gesture, and withholds the begged-for kiss that would cure all. Most of all, though, she leaves.

This desertion, of course, is what cements her status as a bad mother—not the transient physical violence she inflicts upon her children nor the fits of proximate rage. In the novel we learn that Leda’s mother was similarly volatile, but “she never left us, despite crying that she would.”

Let’s not contest that abandonment is among

the ultimate maternal sins, but let’s think a little more about what this judgment implies. Leda distances herself from her children in order to gain, or regain, self-definition: to become her own self. “I was another person,” she says. She was “finally the real one.”

According to Ferrante and Gyllenhal, the only thing that mothers are really, really not allowed to do is stop being mothers. That means the only thing that mothers are really, really not allowed to do is just be themselves. Why can’t motherhood and selfhood exist in tandem? Why couldn’t Leda have made a space for herself at home? One of the strengths of The Lost Daughter—both as novel and film—is its convincing portrayal of motherhood as all-consuming and character-defining.

Leda struggles to explain her choices, first to herself and then to Nina, the young mother with whom she becomes fascinated and entangled. “I loved [my daughters] too much and it seemed to me that love for them would keep me from becoming myself,” she says in the novel. In other moments she is more blunt. “How foolish to think you can tell your children about yourself before they’re at least fifty. To ask to be seen by them as a person and not as a function.”

Leda observes a similar dynamic between Nina and her daughter Elena. Nina “seemed deaf and blind,” she says; “she seemed to have no desire for anything but her child.” But all the more chilling is the way that motherhood, and its defining, consuming potency, reaches beyond the mother herself to touch daughters, too. Ferrante describes Elena’s passionate care for her doll, whose role as a symbolic daughter to the child is cemented when Elena and then the doll get lost in sequence. Both crises spur comparable levels of panic, mobilization, and general systems failure. For those who haven’t seen the movie, it bears mentioning that this latter event—the loss of the doll—is Leda’s fault.

Motherhood is not only all-consuming at an abstract or passive level. Motherhood is work.

There is a little caveat in the capitalist insistence that you are what you do; that is, you are your paid work. For women, you are your unpaid work, and paid work ought to be secondary. We ask women to strike a “work-life balance” where a large part of “life” is also labor. So society inflicts extra violence: The work of motherhood defines and consumes you, yet we refuse to call it what it is.

In the novel, Ferrante draws parallels between Leda’s relationship to her students at university,

I had agreed. But I think what Sophie meant to say, her subtext, was this: She’s a terrible person.

Because if motherhood is everything, if it is allconsuming, then a bad mother is not just bad at her job—she is bad at being.

In movies and books, bad people get punished.

I think this is the core of the frustration I’ve heard expressed, by friends and critics, about The Lost Daughter. A Brown Daily Herald review says as much: The movie “lets its deal with its audience go unfulfilled.” There’s not enough action: We expect some “terrible harm” to come to Leda, but “no serious emotional consequences materialize.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that there are no serious emotional consequences (recall: waterworks) but the reviewer has a point: There are no gunshots, no sword fights, no death. The protagonist’s survival is even clearer in the novel, which opens with Leda in a hospital bed, recovering easily from an “inexplicable lesion” in her side. The ambiguity in Gyllenhal’s ending lets viewers project their desires onto the screen. Should she have died, or not? But I like Ferrante’s approach. She doesn’t die. The expected punishment is withheld. Leda is a terrible mother, yes—but does she have to be a terrible person?

Leda carries with her a horrible error, colored and compounded by scenes that increase our hatred of her. I don’t feel unjustified in disliking this protagonist. But, to quote Leda’s defense, “What had I done that was so terrible, in the end?

Years earlier, I had been a girl who felt lost, this was true.” Leda leaves her children with their father; three years later, she comes back. Years after that, she steals a doll. She may be unlikable, even selfish, even morally corrupt, but death should not be the punishment for unlikability. Likability is not only a biased standard, but the stakes of its judgment are also inconceivably higher for women. Ferrante refuses to do what writers, filmmakers and real people have done for centuries: She does not punish Leda gravely for her small sins. __ Here I am on an airplane, watching The Lost Daughter at 30,000 feet. I’m not a mother yet; I am just guessing and inferring and conjecturing.

But that matters, the distance I feel from Leda. It speaks to the totality of her transition into motherhood, and the impossibility of knowing what’s on the other side if you’ve never experienced it before. Motherhood is you, whether it suits you or not—or at least, if that’s what many will believe— and I don’t yet know if it suits me. No one can know; some of us have a stronger hunch than others, but that’s it.

Watching the movie gave me a sense of alienation, yes, but also a sense of identification. I think about the young Elena, in her dedicated care for her mother, Nina, and her doll; I wonder how motherhood has already reached out and touched me before I’ve gotten there. Maybe it was just the airplane. The hat pin dives into Leda’s side, the plane begins its descent, and the ropes have already been cast across the gulf between me and her.

February 25, 2022

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LIFESTYLE

Spring Memories a collection of short stories

by Post- Spring chickens Illustrated by John Gendron Stepping into Spring

By Emma Schneider Every spring of my childhood when the snow was finally half melted, I would go to the golf course near my house. On a sunny day, I would take off my shoes and run in the half-snow until my feet felt frozen. There would be icy water which would squelch between my toes in the grass, and the smell of wet earth. When the cold became too much to bear, I’d bury my toes in the sand of the sand traps. The snow was so cold, and the sunbaked sand was so warm, and from the sensations in my feet I’d know it was really spring. Leaving the sand trap, my feet would be coated in a thin layer of sand and I’d have to walk home barefoot, practicing for summer.

First Love/ Late Spring

By Siena Capone My first Spring Weekend, we all dressed… ambitiously, to say the least. Not enough clothes for the still-chilly April weather, but hoping desperately that dancing would make up the difference. The event had a near-mythical significance on campus, and since my favorite artist was performing, I piled my hopes high, anticipating the date that we would all gather on the Main Green and open our hearts to Mitski opening hers. The day of, the crush of the crowd was terrifying, but I felt the lightest I’d felt in ages—not even the tallest man could smother my joy while watching Mitski on stage. Because it really was all it had been cracked up to be. I’ll always remember, in the days after, how two muddy pairs of shoes sat outside each dorm room in my hall.

Floating Along

By Kyoko Leaman I think it’s the sense of spring that makes it my favorite season. Some ineffable quality to the air that makes those precious months feel a little lighter than all the others. I mark out my time based on which flowers are blooming: Are the crocuses up yet? The daffodils? Oh—it must be getting nice out, because the tulips are starting to pinken. Keeping a floral calendar makes the passage of time softer, easier to bear.

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

Sitting in damp grass watching my friend’s tennis match outside our high school, cheering with no regard to the scoreboard. Escaping College Hill for a picnic down by Providence River despite the remnants of winter chill. Driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway as the mist burns off the mountains, noticing the crocuses blooming on the verge.

Campus

By Alice Bai The week before the pandemic closed down college, I was looking forward to the budding weeks of spring to come. It was a good weather day, the first breath of warmth amidst the monotony of Providence winter, but the breeze still carried enough of a cold bite that I wouldn't have worn shorts if I hadn't been determined to treat the day like the start of the new season. I went on a run with friends, something I never do, and afterwards, we sat on the terrace in front of Andrews and listened to a pop-up band ambiently covering Vampire Weekend from across the way.

The world would shut down soon after that, but I remember at home I would go on walks by myself and admire that the flowers had still bloomed.

When Everything Aligns

By Kimberly Liu Something you don’t forget easily is the spring warmth. In spring, whatever is chilly and uncomfortable, like early dusk or wind that hurts your face, is lumped in with the retreating winter, and whatever is lively and touched by the golden glow is associated with the spring. Spring.

The much anticipated rejuvenation, the reawakening… My favorite spring memory is when I exited my high school building after a late bio lab and realized that not only was it temperate and balmy, but still light outside, and that I was free for the weekend to enjoy my birthday, and that the boy I liked liked me back. Maybe it wasn’t just that one moment, but the memories of that entire spring— touched by the season of joy, flowers, defrosting old hobbies, and being truly alive.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kyoko Leaman

“I want to give myself the closure that writing often brings. But I want it to be without any strings attached.”

—Victoria Yin, “Attempting to Write about Writing” 02.12.21

“For the moment, TikTok’s popularity doesn’t seem to be letting up, but perhaps, as all trends tend to do, the faux-intellectualism and angst of e-boys and soft-boys will die out eventually.

In the meantime, I’ll continue scrolling endlessly on TikTok, admiring the e-boys I encounter from afar.”

—Gaya Gupta, “The Era of E-boys” 02.14.21

FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Andrew Lu Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Emma Schneider Section Editors Joe Maffa Sam Nevins

post- Mini Crossword 1

by Ethan pan ACROSS 1 Exposed, like those on a certain Brown subreddit 6 Douche bag for assholes 7 Author of "The Raven" 8 It bears a lot of weight, or you do if you're wearing it 9 Act like a bearish investor DOWN 1 "Bears, ____ , Battlestar Galactica" 2 Late editor-at-large of Vogue magazine and '70 Brunonian 3 Fit for a king 4 It often ends in a shortened education at Brown?

5 "Rats!"

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editors Danielle Emerson Leyton Ho LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Kimberly Liu Section Editors Tabitha Lynn Sarah Roberts HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Connie Liu

Want to be involved?

Email: kyoko_leaman@brown.edu!

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COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan Copy Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Eleanor Peters Tierra Sherlock SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Chloe Zhao Tabitha Grandolfo Natalie Chang

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Jiahua Chen Briaanna Chiu Layout Designers Alice Min Angela Sha Caroline Zhang Gray Martens STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Olivia Cohen Joyce Gao Zoe Creane Danielle Emerson Kaitlan Bui Julia Vaz Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay