In This Issue 5
marin warshay
4
olivia cohen
ingrid ren
2
The Routine of Nostalgia
Goodbye Strangers
Big Friendship aalia jagwain 6
Preserving the Magic dorrit corwin
X 7
ethan pan
Either Or 8
postCover by John Gendron
APRIL 15
VOL 29 —
ISSUE 8
FEATURE
Big Friendship on platonic and/or romantic relationships By ingrid ren Illustrated by connie liu @the_con_artist To sign “best friend” in American Sign Language,
lonely until college. Throughout my first semester at
promising students. By the time we reached high school,
hold your hand in front of your shoulder, palm facing in.
Brown, I met more people than ever before while also
teachers trusted us, and we got away with spending class
Cross your middle finger over your index and gently close
feeling unbearably lonely at times. I was jealous of the
time with our heads bent toward each other, whispering,
your remaining fingers. Hold it the way you might hope for
newly formed best friend pairs who I saw confidently and
talking shit, and guffawing. My mom called us “two
something half-heartedly. Perhaps a best friend.
exclusively confide in each other. Meanwhile, I dispersed
mean girls.” At the time, and maybe still now, we couldn’t
bits and pieces of myself among many, but I didn’t have one
understand why some adults talk about their college best
college best friend with whom to share my whole self.
friends and not their high school ones. One rainy day at the
*** Throughout grade school and high school, I always had
***
a best friend. The one who wore sticker earrings every day
beginning of our last year of high school, we sat in her car
before finally getting her ears pierced. The one I signed a
It seems like a rule when graduates speak of their time
and fantasized about going to UC Berkeley together and
handwritten friendship contract with in fourth grade. The
in college that they are required to sound so desirous they
being roommates. By continuing our best friendship into
one I spent hours with over Skype.
become delirious. Bestfouryears. Friendsforlife. What do I
college, we would establish ourselves as a best friendship for
do with myself if I haven’t experienced this? Will my eyes
life.
And to this day, the one who makes me laugh until I cry and who knows what I’ll dislike on a menu. The one who
never roll back into my skull with nostalgia? ***
holds my secrets within the lines of her palms.
~*** During my sophomore fall of college, a lonely semester
There were occasional transitory periods between best
Olivia is the funniest person I know. When we
endured online, Rhaina Cohen published an article titled,
friends, fade-outs and fade-ins, but I never felt platonically
met in sixth grade, we cultivated reputations as studious,
“What if Friendship, Not Marriage, Was at the Center
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, The big news this week is that one of our wonderful editors has miraculously returned from being stranded abroad! At long last, our staff is reunited. I feel like every other day seems to be ADOCH, with bright-eyed high school seniors flooding the green. They’re every bit as excited as I am exhausted. Got a real zest for life, those young folks. Meanwhile the last three years have aged me in such a ridiculous way. Ancient! Our issue this week is filled to the brim with shimmery feelings. In Feature, our writer reflects on the nature of friendship and the distinctions between platonic and romantic relationships. One
Things to Hit
of our Narrative writers shares memories from her years of babysitting, while the other recalls two incredible dogs named Oliver. In A&C, one writer grapples with her fond memories of Harry Potter given the author’s transphobia, while the second recounts her love of horror movies in the context of the movie X. Finally, in Lifestyle we’ve got another mini crossword! So take a stab at our original crossword, or consider the magic of friendship, or watch a scary movie with post-! We have the range. Whatever you’re seeking, I hope you find it in our virtual pages.
1. The Floor 2. The Town 3. Taiko drums 4. You know ;) 5. Bop it 6. Baseball 7. The Lights 8. It 9. Me up ;)
Feeling like an ancient & deeply rooted tree,
Kyoko Leaman Editor-in-Chief
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10. The joint
FEATURE of Life?” In it, she explores relationships between best
and identification as” one’s girlfriend. The physical and
If I fall out of love, will I regain those friendships?
friends who prioritize their commitment to each other over
emotional boundary delineating where the girls’ selves
***
romantic or sexual partners. Some of these best friend pairs
begin and end is blurred, uncertain. They are, and they are
This romantic relationship has taught me how
marry each other, using the societal importance of marriage
each other. To describe their closeness, he omits the space
comforting and warm it can feel to be with the same person
to symbolize their lifelong platonic love and promise to each
between the words girl and friends.
for a long time. The way we know what the other will find
other. These pairs create new names for themselves—best soul friends, platonic life partners, Big Friendship.
***
hilarious or devastating. The way our palms hold each
Becca and I met during my gap year between high
others’ bodies with gentleness and familiarity. The security
In the article, one woman describes her experience of
school and college and her gap year between college and
of knowing we have each other. I think I want all my best
losing her best friend to suicide. Goosebumps spotted my
graduate school. We spent 10 months volunteering on an
friendships to be Big Friendships and to feel this way, too.
arms as I read her heartbreak. Those around her, witnessing
AmeriCorps NCCC team together, sharing a room with
her grief, did not react to the death of her best friend the
two twin beds wherever we went. She was my last new best
way they would have for a family member or a romantic
friend before college and the best person I know.
*** I’ve been with my partner for over a year now, and I think he has become my college best friend, despite my
partner—who traditionally, through marriage, transitions
She supports local art and donates monthly to
resistance to calling a partner a friend. Society’s separation
into a family member. Without the legal recognition that
organizations she believes in. She tips an absurd amount—I
between platonic and romantic relationships makes it feel
spouses and family have, Big Friendships—and their loss—
once saw her leave a three-dollar tip on a six-dollar coffee
impossible, or at least embarrassing, to have a best friend
are not seen to be as important.
(Boston). She won’t enter a restaurant an hour or less before
boyfriend, one person occupying two distinctly important
***
closing because she knows the workers are cleaning up to
roles. I feel like I’m missing something, someone, by having
When I was seven years old, I thought “girlfriend”
leave. She adopted the most frustratingly energetic and
one man be my partner and best friend. In response, I
and “boyfriend” were bad (but also mysterious) words. My
needy dog from an animal shelter. She studied social work in
seek out and prioritize other relationships, trying to find
parents would tease me by asking if I had a “boyfriend” or
college and grad school and now works as a homeless liaison
a balance, but that has sometimes hurt my partnership
whisper-hypothesize about my brother’s “girlfriend,” all
in Cincinnati public schools. She sits beside you and listens
instead.
while smirking in that confident, older-than-you way. I would
to you speak, empathy and care evident in her responses.
blush and feel defensive, knowing there was something zesty
She makes me feel a little bit more hopeful when I get lost in
in their question, but unsure what. One day, I sat in front of
the world’s cruelties. She is my role model.
a blank Word document on my family’s desktop, the vertical
***
*** A writer I met told me she’s exploring an untraditional living situation. She and her partner live in a house with another couple they’re friends with as well
line blinking the seconds. I was intent on uncovering the
The recorded origin of the word girlfriend is from
as that couple’s child. I’ve been wondering if I could have
mystery of these words. With my little heart racing, I quickly
1859. It meant “a woman’s female friend in youth.” By 1922,
something beautiful like this, multiple relationships under
typed out “girlfriend,” clacking with my two index fingers.
girlfriend was taken over by straight men and came to refer
one roof. I hope I can, but I’m not sure.
Then, I right-clicked the word and in the drop-down menu, I
to “a man’s sweetheart.” And so, throughout time, a girl’s
Between college semesters, when I visited Becca in her
moved my cursor over to the Synonyms tab. No Suggestions.
childhood friend becomes a man’s girlfriend. Is she always
Cincinnati apartment decorated with plants, watercolors,
I was stumped. Was a girlfriend such a bad thing that there
someone’s?
and origami cranes, she told me, “I’ve been thinking a lot
was no other word for it?
***
about what it’ll be like when we live together.”
Looking back, I’m amused that I thought this was a curse
During sophomore fall, I surprised myself by
word. But at the same time, in romantic relationships, I cringe
entering my longest romantic relationship yet. I initially
at the idea of naming myself a girlfriend with a boyfriend.
refused monogamy despite weeks of intimacy and dates. I
Somehow, having a boyfriend as a woman makes me feel
had recently experienced the end of a relationship, and the
My best friendship with Olivia, our laughter
lesser. Less independent, less of a feminist. Something about
finality of losing a partnership and, admittedly, its friendship
and mockeries, has lasted over half of our lives now. Our
fitting a stereotype and wanting a man. Perhaps seven-year-
hurt twice over. I wanted a best friend, not a boyfriend. A best
relationship will likely last longer, I hope, than any romantic
old me was right to fear this word after all.
friend wouldn’t one day exit my life with the brutal wall of a
relationship. It’s unsatisfying that my loneliness from
breakup. But slowly, the two converged.
not having a singular college best friend seems to have
*** One of my English professors published an article called
***
“I like that you say ‘when’ and not ‘if.’” “I’ll follow you wherever you go.” ***
been resolved by having a college boyfriend. A best friend
“The Other Dancer as Self” in which he calls Toni Morrison’s
I once heard that people who fall in love lose two of their
boyfriend is only your best friend as long as he is your
characters Sula and Nel, girlfriends. He explains the idea of
closest friends. Thinking about two people I no longer talk to,
“selfhood as the dynamic relationship between one woman
this is true of my life, too. Perhaps this is why couples often
But I also wish I didn’t get so caught up in labeling
and her other, her girlfriend.” It is the “identification with,
call their partners their best friends and expect twice as much.
platonic relationships versus romantic ones. I don’t want
boyfriend, too.
“I tried to type ‘bag’ and it autocorrected to ‘vagene.’”
“I am not 5’7”, I am definitely 5’11”. Don't know why people say I have 5’7” energy.”
“The problem is that whenever I have short hair I look like Richard the Third, but whenever I have long hair I look like Tarzan.”
april 15, 2022
3
NARRATIVE to compare the love and care I’ve received from (platonic) relationships with the comfort and stability of my (romantic)
sentimental about a little girl I was paid to hang out with. I decided that I am.
relationship. I don’t want to push them against each other. I want to value all the moments of connection and laughter and care that make a relationship feel intimate and big, even if only for a moment. *** At the end of emails or letters in French, people sometimes write the word “Amitiés” as a sign-off. So, these messages are literally signed off with “Friendships.” But in context, the meaning is closer to the English sign-off “Best” or “Best wishes.” Are friendships the best wishes come true? I think so. Some add that the best romantic relationships are also best friendships. I still struggle to think of partners as best friends, but perhaps I can think of every moment of intimacy, every Big Relationship, as a best wish come true.
Goodbye Strangers
an ode to (some of) the kids I used to babysit by Olivia cohen Illustrated by joanne han Victoria Today I was on Instagram, and I saw a post from a girl named Victoria, whom I babysat from when I was in eighth grade all the way through high school. She was 10 when I first met her. I used to drive her to lacrosse practice and help her pick out the colors of her braces. I taught her how to play Egyptian Ratscrew and took her to Starbucks for pink drinks even though she wasn't allowed to have sugar. I gave her advice on her friend drama and helped her with her French projects and sat within eyesight in the hallway outside her door at night so that she could fall asleep. In the Instagram post, Victoria was dressed up for a school dance, wearing a tight, light purple dress. She had blonde highlights and high heels and a lipglossy white smile, and I realized with a jolt that she's 16 now, which made me feel sentimental, and then made me wonder whether I'm allowed to be
4
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Ed Ed was a year-and-a-half old. He had a tuft of bright red hair and skin that was so pale it was almost blue, except his cheeks, which were splotchy and pink. He and I had much in common: We both loved applesauce pouches and peanut butter banana toast and this show on Netflix called Spirit Riding Free, which was an animated DreamWorks production about a girl named Lucky who goes on adventures with her horse, Spirit. Ed was a plump, smiley kid, and I would have done anything to make him laugh. So I did. His favorite thing was when I would get on all fours and pretend to be a horse, and then keel over dead on my side. He would laugh like crazy, climb on top of my dead horse body, and jump up and down, which was not particularly comfortable, but I would do it again and again because he was so damn cute. And because I was getting paid $20 an hour. Theo Theo was a seven-year-old with shaggy blonde hair that was always covering his eyes. His mom thought it was cute when it was long, but his dad thought it needed to be cut. His mom also thought he had Type 1 diabetes because he was always asking her for water, but I think he was just really thirsty. He was stick-thin, all elbows and knees, with a little swollen belly. He was missing his two front teeth, and wanted to be a professional football player. Theo was known for saying things he shouldn't say. One time, I saw a friend of mine when I took him to the pool. As soon as my friend walked away, Theo giggled. "He's ugly," he said. Later that summer, I took him to get ice cream. He refused to get in the car when I was driving, so he ran all the way there—over a mile—while I drove slowly next to him. "You have big thighs," he told me as we sat next to each other on the painted bench outside the shop. "Are mine going to look like that when I'm older, too? I hope not." Lizzie Lizzie was only four years younger than me. I babysat her when she was 13, so she probably didn't
need anyone supervising her, but I think Lizzie’s mom just didn't want her to be lonely while she and her husband went out to dinner. Lizzie was a dancer, and she walked on her tiptoes all the time. She liked to show me her dance routines, leaping and twirling to various ‘00s pop songs streaming off of YouTube on her rose gold iPad. She practiced an eyeliner style on me that she had seen in a James Charles video. Once, she curled my hair, and the iron was so hot I could smell my hair burning; I dug my fingernails into my palms as she moved the iron closer to my ears. We watched Hallmark romance movies together and talked about her eighth grade school crush, Alex. When her parents came home, her dad would hand me a crisp $100 bill. He insisted on walking me home even though I lived four houses down, and their fat, cataractous chihuahua always yapped at me as I started down the street. Mason and Charlotte Mason and Charlotte were twin babies, both a year old. When I arrived at their house, their mom gave me some brief, casual instructions about how to work the TV remote and how small to cut strawberries so that the babies wouldn't choke. She carried one child in each arm—they sat poised and calm, regarding me emotionlessly behind matching pacifiers. It was hot outside, and as soon as their mother left, I carried Charlotte and Mason outside to play on the swing in their backyard. I brought two red popsicles, one for each of them. The sun melted the popsicles all over their chins, staining their white clothes, painting bright droplets all over the stone patio. We went back inside to clean up and I attempted to pick them both up at once, as I had seen their mother do with such ease just an hour before, but they squirmed and kicked, so I let them totter along next to me instead. Later in the afternoon, they both took a keen interest in Play-Doh (specifically, squeezing the dough into long tubes and trying to shove it into my mouth). As fun as this game was—for them—I had to pause to change Mason's diaper. I left Charlotte for a moment in the living room; she had abandoned her Play-Doh and was now busy trying to put her tiny feet into my sandals and waddle across the wood
NARRATIVE
floor. I successfully changed Mason's diaper (after three tries on my part and a significant amount of screaming on his part). When I returned downstairs, I found Charlotte sitting on the carpet, straddling a fifth of tequila. I put Mason down and he immediately wrapped himself around my ankle like a sloth, and so I limpgalloped over to Charlotte to extract the bottle from her (very) firm grasp. I desperately scanned the room for the source of the liquor (a high shelf above the couch, somehow) and then, blood coursing with adrenaline, scoured the room for a baby monitor camera. There wasn't one, thank God, or else I'd have been swiftly and decisively blacklisted from the Nextdoor Denver babysitters' community. I put Charlotte and Mason down for an afternoon nap and when their mom returned, I got in my car, turned on the engine, turned it back off again, put my head against the steering wheel, and cried, silently vowing never to have children.
The Routine of Nostalgia finding comfort in the little things
by marin warshay Illustrated by josh gendron It was around early October when I first met him. He was basketball-sized and soft as the classic fuzzy blanket I get on each birthday. His dark button eyes, nestled in golden fur, met mine as he propped himself onto his hind legs, front paws in my hands, looking like a distinguished gentleman giving me a handshake. I sat myself on the ground—my classic move to imply to his owner that I needed more than just one pet. After some
small talk with the owner, I asked what his dog’s name was. “Oliver, he’s two months old. I’m trying to tire him out so I can work at home,” he replied. I knew I loved this dog so much for a reason. Oliver. The best dog name, in my biased opinion. I had an Oliver for 17 years; 17 out of the 19 that I was when he passed away in June of 2020. For clarity, I’ll call my Oliver “Ollie.” It was a hot summer day when my siblings and I were awoken early in the morning and dragged outside. Here, we met this black and white bouncy ball made of fur. Ollie was instantly family. He came on car trips, he “signed” birthday cards, he took naps with us, he would even wait for us to eat dinner to begin his own meal. He was part of my home for 17 years, a part of my life I will never be able to recreate. The only word I can come up with to describe the day we had to put him down is horrible. Every other word feels too complicated. It was simply horrible. As someone who tends to look on the bright side of situations, I often try to look back and find the silver lining in letting go of Ollie. I think I’ve tried hard enough to admit that there isn’t one. Loss doesn’t glisten no matter what angle you look at it. Ollie is a part of my life for which I will always grieve. Ever since that day in October, I’ve seen Oliver more often than I did before, each time seeming to have grown about twice his own size since the last. You may have seen him around campus by now—his plentiful pelt is hard to miss as he plops down on the sidewalk, refusing to keep walking. His owner likes to say he’s worried he’ll lose Oliver one day in all of his fur. Oliver’s growth is a signal to my internal clock. A reality check for the passage of time. He has become a constant during my time on campus. The passing of time is easy to miss when you don’t pay attention. It sweeps by, and sometimes we want it to. We often don’t realize how fast it’s going until it’s behind us. Then, when a timestamp reveals itself, it’s a jarring feeling. It summons nostalgia: the distance between what’s here and now and what once was. I
know when I see Oliver around, no matter how lovely it is, he is always a reminder of a gap—the missing dog bed in our kitchen, the lack of barks when I come home, the silence. I am saddened by the loss of my past, and grieving for my future self. Missing what could have been, but won’t be. With warm months approaching, my nostalgia is more intense than ever. Memories of summer camp and being a kid, basking in the sun. The longing is like a cherry blossom tree swaying its blush pink petals in excitement; the harder the branches wave, the more petals they lose. I want to enjoy the moment I’m in, but I can’t help being sad that these moments are fleeting. *** As I sat down to write this, I realized I am wearing the same sweatshirt I was wearing the day we put Ollie down. It’s my most comfortable clothing item— oversized, off-brand Patagonia, patterned with blue and red stripes and lizards. It’s loose from years of my wearing it (only a quarter of how long my dad did before he gave it to me). Now, I sink into it. Curl the cuffs around the tips of my fingers to create a seal. Hug my own waist. Clench my fists. The fabric creases in a familiar way, in familiar places. The matted material is all I’ve known, yet I try to imagine what it felt like when my dad bought it. Where did he wear it? What memories did he make in it? This pullover is a palimpsest of the days my dad and I have both spent comforted by its warmth. Why is this covering so enveloping? So much more soothing than others? The thing I miss most about Ollie was the certainty of him being around, coming home from school to the tippity-tappity of his paws running down the stairs to greet me. The jingle of his collar when he was moving swiftly. His nose would meet my ankles to sniff a hello before running to the living room where he would wait for me to sit with him. Tail wagging, panting with excitement. Ollie was a constant I could expect. Once his presence was missing, my comfort was pulled out from under me. My routine was disrupted. His warmth was ripped from me. Now, the closest thing to his charm is a sweatshirt. april 15, 2022
5
ARTS & CULTURE Days pass and I have found new routines, but none that seem to satisfy the hole left from losing Ollie. I’ve been yearning for a way to cherish my time with Ollie beyond just looking at pictures. Seeing Oliver around Brown is always a happy moment for me, stitched with complicated threads of deep sadness. I want to commemorate Ollie in a consistent way, but haven’t found a repetitive motion that can do so, that can satisfy the way his “welcome home jumps” satisfied. *** It’s now April. As I walk through the Main Green, I spot Oliver’s golden shag. I hesitantly trot over to his owner and ask to pet Oliver. Not aware that we’ve met before, the owner repeats himself from a few months ago: “Of course!” he says, “I’m trying to tire him out so I can work at home.”
It was then that I realized I do have a routine. I do interact with my Ollie on a regular basis, even if it may look and feel differently now. The repetition of seeing Oliver and his owner walk through the Main Green feels familiar and comfortable. And the clothing I associate with my last moments with him is a constant reminder of the feeling of being held by Ollie for 17 years. For as long as I can remember. As I finish this piece, I slip on my sweatshirt once more. I slide my arm past the hole in the right sleeve, curl the stretched cuffs around my fingers, and hug myself around the waist. I keep my elbows close to me so I feel the fabric rub against my rib cage. My fingers press against the smudged keys of my laptop, evidence of which keys I use the most. I feel comfort.
Preserving the Magic on growing up with harry potter and being disillusioned by j.k. rowling by aalia jagwani Illustrated by josh gendron TW: Discussion of Transphobia “It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be,” Albus Dumbledore says in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It is hard to believe that these words were written by the same J.K. Rowling who now writes tweets full of blatant transphobia, insisting that she should not be villainized for claiming that “sex is real” after contesting the use of the phrase “people who menstruate.” “I’m sure there used to be a word for those people. Someone help me out. Wumben? Wimpund? Woomud?” she tweeted, implying that the only people who menstruate are women, and that all people who menstruate are necessarily women. Despite the backlash she received, she has unapologetically expressed her transphobic views several times since, including in a long article full of misrepresentations and flawed scientific reasoning that attempt to 6
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classify gender dysphoria as a phase most people “grow out of.” This is particularly dangerous given the immense platform and influence Rowling has. But it is not just her opinions—her actions are also tangibly harming the trans community. On March 12, she publicly supported Caroline Farrow, an anti-trans, anti-abortion, and antiLGBTQ activist. Around the same time, she also ardently opposed Scotland’s Gender Recognition Reform Bill, which would make it easier for trans people to legally change their gender. She is legitimizing hateful rhetoric and helping antitrans movements gain traction—Republican senator James Lankford even quoted her blog post to oppose the Equality Act in the US Senate in 2020. Like many Harry Potter fans across the globe, reading Rowling’s words broke my heart. These books quite literally determined the trajectory of my life—it is the Harry Potter books that taught me
that “words are, in [Dumbledore’s] not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.” Reading Harry Potter as a child, I felt that infinite magic for the first time, and I have no doubt in my mind that these books are why I have known since the age of 10 that the only thing I want to spend my life doing is studying, consuming, and producing words and literature. For the last 10 years of my life, every time I felt the looming threat of being disillusioned by reality, I turned to Harry Potter for comfort. But eventually it became more than an escape for me—it became my way of understanding real life and the people around me better. It was my model for friendship, resilience, and empathy. So more than anything else, I could not reconcile Rowling’s cruelty with the things Harry Potter taught me over and over again growing up—acceptance, tolerance and love. It was Luna Lovegood who taught me that accepting yourself when nobody else understands you is the most important thing, and Hermione Granger who taught me that accepting anything less than equality is simply not an option. So how is it that the same woman who created both my role models growing up is now refusing to accept that trans women are women? It is impossible to make sense of, and even harder to accept, when the fort of love and magic so many of us have lived in for most of our lives suddenly threatens to collapse. That is probably why so many fans have attempted to erase J.K. Rowling from memory, posting jokes about how the books magically appeared into the world of their own will—a narrative I am all too tempted to buy into myself. It is a comforting thought, being able to forsake the author in our minds while holding the books in our hands. But is it really possible to keep the books while leaving the author behind, or is it ultimately necessary to leave the books behind too? I first asked myself this question two years ago and I am still struggling to come up with an answer for myself. Obviously, the emotional resonance of the books, while profound, signifies very little when compared to the lives and rights of trans people. And it is not my intention to speak for trans people in any capacity—just to pose the question of whether it is possible to separate the impact of the books from the impact of the author. It is impossible to deny that the Harry Potter series has done a lot of good for a lot of people, not only changing lives but also saving them. Kacen Callender is a trans author who stated in their acceptance speech of the Stonewall Book Award in 2019 that Harry Potter saved their life; they planned to commit suicide as a child, and one of the reasons they didn’t was because they had to know how the series ended. Now, they are a writer themselves, and the author of the YoungAdult novel Felix Ever After, celebrating trans and non-binary identities. While they have made it clear that they believe we all have a responsibility to end our support of J.K. Rowling, they have acknowledged that the novels partially saved their life and inspired them to become an author. It was not Rowling’s intention to inspire trans and non-binary fans to become writers, but the Harry Potter series did that anyway. The books have a life of their own, then, far too great to be contained by the limits of her prejudice. In the midst of my crisis triggered by Rowling’s tweets, I went down a rabbit hole of reading stories
ARTS & CULTURE from fans whose lives had changed due to the series. From children who found a friend in the books when they had none, to a 28-year-old fan who recognized that one single line from Deathly Hallows saved her life by validating her mental health struggles: “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?” This only confused me more. If there is anything in a book that has the ability to save lives, is the book not worth saving? So when Daniel Radcliffe responded to Rowling’s tweets in support of the trans community, I clung to his words like they were single-handedly keeping my understanding of the world from shattering: “If these books taught you that love is the strongest force in the universe, capable of overcoming anything; if they taught you that strength is found in diversity, and that dogmatic ideas of pureness lead to the oppression of vulnerable groups; if you believe that a particular character is trans, non-binary, or gender fluid, or that they are gay or bisexual; if you found anything in these stories that resonated with you and helped you at any time in your life—then that is between you and the book that you read, and it is sacred. And in my opinion nobody can touch that.” “The birth of the reader must be required by the death of the author,” Roland Barthes said. If that is true, then Rowling is long gone, and Harry Potter belongs entirely to those who escaped into it when the real world did not have enough magic in it, to people who wrote queer fanfiction about their favourite characters, and to people like me, who looked at characters like Luna and Hermione and Tonks and saw parts of ourselves reflected in them. Still, I recognize the problem with separating the art from the artist. And despite the overarching values of acceptance it instills in readers, the series is not free of Rowling’s bigotry. The extremely stereotypical depiction of the only Asian character, outrageously named ‘Cho Chang,’ is hard to ignore. The “unregistered animagus” Rita Skeeter, who could illegally shape-shift between the form of a human and a beetle has inspired speculation—the fact that she abused her shape-shifting abilities for malicious purposes, coupled with the masculine descriptions of Rita (having “mannish hands” and
a “heavily jawed face”) has pointed to the strong possibility that she is an embodiment of Rowling’s transphobic views. This complicates the process of bringing about the “death of the author” whilst preserving the life of the book, but it does not change the fact that they are lives worth preserving, and it does not make it impossible to do. It instead means that for as long as Harry Potter is still talked about, the cultural conversation surrounding the series—and more importantly, the author—needs to be even louder. We don’t separate the art from the artist, then—or pretend the books magically appeared out of thin air, or that they are flawless. We instead acknowledge the flaws, reject the hatred. We denounce the artist for failing the art that is no longer hers, and we take pride in taking it beyond the realms of her control where we continue to make it our own. “Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who deserve it,” Dumbledore told Harry once. For those who packed their books away because they believe Rowling no longer deserves to benefit from the Harry Potter franchise: it is possible to continue living in Hogwarts without paying Rowling any dues. By preserving already yellowing copies for as long as possible so as to never have to buy another one, by buying used copies instead of new ones, and by purchasing fan-made, instead of official merchandise. Hogwarts will always be there to welcome us home, and it will never require that we help Rowling fund transphobic legislation and organizations. I cannot say that any of this is a perfect solution, and I do not claim to offer one. Nothing I have said is a definitive answer to my question, but it is the only one I have for now, the only one which offers the possibility of preserving the light without tolerating the darkness. Harry Potter taught me that love is transcendental, and more powerful than any hatred could ever be—I can only hope that the love and the magic the books bring to the world burn brighter than Rowling’s prejudice.
X
the film, the factor, and the epoch by dorrit corwin Illustrated by elliana reynolds Lights flicker and reflect across our frightened faces as we pick popcorn kernels out of our braces. We laugh uncontrollably, to mask the pure terror that resides beneath. Desperate to encounter an adrenaline rush like the drugs we’re too young to take, we spend most of our free time riding roller coasters and finding movies that make our stomachs lurch. Once we’re approaching the 100-foot drop or the cinematic climax in which we know all the characters will be viciously killed before our eyes, we convince ourselves that we’re not scared at all. It’s completely predictable. We know how this ends. There’s no reason to fear the inevitable. *** The only thing scarier than a horror movie is a room full of fourth-graders watching one. At age 10 (Roman numeral X) my friends and I started a horror movie club. Admission was highly selective; the two requirements were that your parents let you watch PG-13 movies and that you weren’t scared of horror films. We even created a Gmail account (horrormovieclub13@gmail.com), from which we would send official horror movie club newsletters and meeting times to our five fearless members. The horror movie club was one of my earliest forms of rebellion. There was something liberating about the naked eye encountering images it was not supposed to see. There still is nothing like the sensation of physically cringing out of deep discomfort, which occurred several times during my most recent horror watch: A24’s X. It wasn’t that I was too scared to look, but rather that I was physically repulsed by watching an old woman creepily grope a young girl in bed and then attempt to kill her. Watching X fit into my conception of the horror genre as an adult, which is one of perturbed escapism and inquisitive shock. My experience with horror has changed with age from one of pure adrenaline and rebellion. Back in 2011, our parents insisted the horror movie club start with the classics. Supportive of our endeavors yet hesitant to let us barrel full throttle into contemporary R-rated projects, they hoped
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LIFESTYLE shouting, “Yuck!” out loud, as the truck blasting “The Reaper” ran over a dying body on the ground. West does not shy away from gore—we see bodies battered and broken on screen from cars, guns, and even a menacing alligator. But the carnage is intentional and symbolic; it adds substance to the film’s examination of bodies as both sexual and mortal entities. The viewing experience brought me back to the horror movie club, though this time I was surrounded by strangers and old enough to pick up on subtext. In this film, Wayne repeatedly tells Mia that this porno she’s starring in is going to be her big break. “You’ve got the X factor,” he tells her. So does X as a film; horrifying, jarring, and thoroughly amusing, it’s got all the makings of a horror movie club favorite. But I wouldn’t advise letting your fourth grader watch it. In fact, I’d insist you do not.
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“Maybe that’s the secret: The whodunnit makes you a nine-year-old viewer again, but the resolution proceeds to complicate your carelessness.” —Rob Capron, “Screen Memory,”
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early horror films would be enough to quench our wicked desires. Alas, we ended up cackling at the embarrassingly low-quality special effects present in Poltergeist (1982) and Jaws (1975). Despite watching Jaws on an outdoor projector while we swam around our friend’s pool with imaginary sharks waiting to pounce, none of us emerged from the viewing experience afraid of the ocean. Instead, we wanted more. Unfamiliar with the precise perversions and practices of the horror genre, we relished the suspense spiraling through our spines during The Shining (1980) and The Birds (1963). We experimented with supernatural psychological thrillers like The Sixth Sense (1999), which made us think in addition to feel. It was the first movie we watched that necessitated us paying careful attention to the plot, which was a good exercise for our scattered 10-year-old attention spans, but we craved true horror. Eventually, we made our way to true slashers like Scream (1996) and Fright Night (1985). Even at our young age, we knew how dumb these movies were. It was not evident to us at the time, however, whether or not they were trying to be. My favorites remained the ones that told realistic stories and made me care about the characters so much that I was devastated to see them die. The horror genre has historically contained some of these—The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Psycho (1960)—and has trended in this general direction in the decade since my graduation from elementary school. Amongst myriad corny remakes of classic horror films have emerged tasteful original projects like The Witch (2015), Get Out (2017), A Quiet Place (2018), and Midsommar (2019). Directors continue to take risks with genre-bending horror films that encapsulate much more social commentary than they do bloody bodies and murderous monsters. Most recently, I was brought back to my fourthgrade horror movie craze with Ti West’s X (2022). A group of actors drive to rural Texas to make an adult film, and when their elderly hosts catch a glimpse of the sex scenes in action, the couple becomes increasingly physically sinister. A24’s signature grainy sepia blankets a film that dives headfirst into the subversions and proximities of sex and death. The meta, sex-obsessed, gory plot unravels like a semi-gimmicky crossover between Boogie Nights (1997) and Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), with a consciousness akin to Cronenberg’s Crash (1996). It’s a bloody love letter to the 70s/80s slasher slate with a heightened nuance created within the themes of sex and beauty. I could have done without the random acoustic “Landslide” cover, but the placement of “The Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult was brilliant. The whole theater held its breath and laughed concurrently, with a few members of the audience even
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