post- 10/01/2021

In This Issue Beautiful World Lily Willis 6

Adult Swim Sylvia Atwood 5

Head Over Heels

Kaitlan Bui 3

Keeping Austin Weird?

Allegra Friedman 2

Dorrit Corwin 7

Time on My Side Alexandra Herrera 8

We're Back

postCover by Rèmy Poisson

OCT 1

VOL 28 —

ISSUE 2

FEATURE

Keeping Austin Weird? the fight to maintain the character of texas’s capital

By Allegra Friedman Illustrated by John Gendron

It’s 11 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I’m with my friend Grace at the closing party for an exhibit at a hostel turned bar/art museum/tattoo studio/thrift store under the highway near downtown Austin. The scene is painfully At the same time,

trendy: loud house music, people wearing sunglasses indoors, and an open bar with four types of exotically

Austin’s

politics

flavored tequila to wash it all down. The exhibit, branded

too.

1971,

as an “immersive art experience,” feels like a glorified

Amendment

Instagram photoshoot. When I catch a glimpse beyond

national voting age to 18. The

the other guests’ phone cameras and into each room,

college town’s voting population rapidly

I see people posing on a throne of fake flowers, a teal

expanded as student-run social justice coalitions sprung

about how you

piano that doesn’t work, and a neon pink sign that says, “I

up, and people of color got elected to City Council for

could only find a

NEED SPACE.” I like the “black hole room,” a pitch-black

the first time. By the mid ‘70s, the city had elected a

community like this here

closet with stars projected onto the ceiling. It’s empty in

“hippie City Council,” led by former campus activist

in Austin, where nudists

here—too dark for pictures.

Jeff Friedman, who rose to the mayor’s office in 1975

look like cowboys. KAW

I leave the closet and strike up a conversation with

at the age of 30. Austin’s radicals and its establishment

still resonates; this city

the glitterati waiting to take photos in front of an indoor

began to merge, paving the way for its reputation as a

tree. They’ve all moved to Austin from L.A. and can’t

counterculture capital.

In

shifted, the

26th

lowered

the

is weird, and proud of it.

This offbeat, anti-establishment attitude motivates

believe how much nicer everyone is here. But they’re not:

I’ve seen how Austin’s ‘70s legacy resonates

Austin’s love for local businesses. In fact, KAW began

one girl asks me how I “got on the list,” and another one

throughout the city today. Local and touring musicians

as a protest slogan against big box stores. Journalists

slaps me with her fan when she thinks I’m cutting her in

perform here every night of the week at over 250 venues,

Elizabeth Devitt and Juli Berwald recount how Steve

line at the bar. I show her the drink already in my hand,

more per capita than any other city in the U.S. And every

Bercu, owner of the local bookstore, BookPeople,

smile passive aggressively, and decide I’m ready to leave.

year, nearly one million people flock to the city for the

adopted the phrase from librarian Red Wassenich as

This wasn’t the scene I expected in Austin. My aunt

Austin City Limits Music Festival and the South by

a rallying cry against the Borders store opening down

and uncle, who lived here until the mid 2000s, used to gush

Southwest film, music, and technology festival. Austin

the street. Bercu and other business owners printed

over how the city somehow combined Texan pride with

votes blue, and with its many advocacy groups, gay bars,

bumper stickers encouraging locals to “KEEP AUSTIN

laidback, live-and-let-live liberalism. Most importantly,

and cultural heritage events, it seems like a liberal,

WEIRD,” with their logos at the bottom. “The point was

they’d insist that Austin held onto its small-town, artistic

accepting place.

to support local businesses,” Bercu explains. “Everyone

The city’s unofficial slogan, “Keep Austin Weird”

roots even as it transformed into a national tech hub.

got it immediately.” Soon, Borders withdrew plans to

a

(KAW), reflects its disdain for societal norms. At first

counterculture hot spot. Local author and historian

glance, it just makes sense; there are plenty of “weird”

Some Austinites argue that nowadays, KAW has

Joe Nick Patoski explains in an interview with Texas

places around Austin that reflect its idiosyncratic culture.

lost its authenticity. Along the South Congress tourist

Highways Magazine that Austin became a music

Thirty minutes west of downtown, for example, lies

strip, visitors peruse tie-dye T-shirts, beer koozies, and

capital when Willie Nelson and other musicians fled

Hippie Hollow, Texas’s only clothing-optional public park.

keychains plastered with the phrase, now trademarked

Nashville’s “corporate” country music scene in the

I visited on a crowded Sunday and tried to maintain eye

by the company Absolutely Austin. On their anonymous,

early ‘70s. The city started attracting people “who

contact with an older man who chatted with me about the

lo-fi site, the creators of KAW complain that these

wanted to make music, not necessarily build a career.”

weather while he watered tulips in the nude. Watching

tchotchkes and marketing campaigns point out the

Patoski pinpoints this influx of artists and their

him greet the other visitors made me realize that I stood

“boring irony” of the movement today: Absolutely

anti-establishment attitudes as the beginning of the

out not just as the only person wearing pants but also as an

Austin’s oversized mugs that say “Keep Austin Weird:

“Alternative Austin Business Model”: people making

unfamiliar face; he and the other regulars, identifiable by

Support Local Businesses” are made in China, not locally.

things for the sake of creativity, not profit or, now,

their lack of tan lines, all knew each other. Passing a man

Trademarking the slogan, KAW’s creators argue, is “sad

Instagram followers.

wearing only a Stetson hat as I walked to my car, I thought

proof that commercialism is winning.” These diehard

Austin’s

history

supports

its

image

as

open the store.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, After weeks of climate change playing with our emotions and wardrobes, it’s definitely crisp now.

It’s the hot (cool?) topic of Ratty line conversations, the underfoot crunch, the peppy squirrels and skunks ev-ery-where (@brownumemes if you need visual proof ).

We at post- are going through some pretty autumnal transformations as well, thanks for asking.

We have a new website (at the old URL), newfound wisdom (what PSL stands for), and a new office where we can holler at each other over the emotionally complex indie/pop tunes blasting from our shared Spotify. Clearly, it’s time for hot post-it fall, and you are invited to metamorphosize with us.

Then again, if you are watching summer trail its fingers longingly out the window of the car speeding past you, buckle up that seatbelt. We are traveling

in Feature to the notoriously weird Austin, Texas, to find out how it earned its fame. In Narrative, one writer ferries us back to people-watching at public swimming pools, while the other returns to Brown after two years with the mindset of a nostalgic camper. The Arts & Culture pieces offer us passports, one to Ireland for a review of Sally Rooney’s (Normal People) latest novel, and one to California and Colombia for a gap year during unusual times.

Finally, Lifestyle grounds us in our home base with tips on how to make the most of being back.

On that note, returning to the post- office (huh) has reminded me how random we are. One minute, we are scrutinizing the subtleties of sensitive word choice, and the next, dissecting our family relationships or singing along with German absurdist music.

That’s what I have to say for tonight.

1. Ways to Gather in Groups of More Than Five (thank you Russell Carey) 2. Childhood Games to Play for 45 Billion Won 3. Reasons I’m FALLing for You 4. Ways to Work “It’s Getting Cold” into Dead Conversations 5. Justifications for Drinking a PSL 6. Acquaintances You Can Wave At But Not Say Hi 7. Songs with Autumnal Vibes 8. States

From my tunnel to yours,

Olivia Howe

Editor-in-Chief

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Top Ten Lists that Didn’t Make the Cut

9. Positive Integers Under Eleven 10. Ways to Procrastinate Making a Decision on Backpage

NARRATIVE individualists see KAW today as a glorified marketing

in Austin predates its counterculture reputation: a press

and a terrible sunburn. His name is Sean, but he goes by

strategy rather than a genuine effort to highlight the

release from the City of Austin African American Quality

Farmer Peppy, and he spends the next 20 minutes talking

city’s grassroots weirdness.

of Life Initiative details the city’s 1928 plan of “urban

to me about his tech startup and the vision that inspired

But it’s a popular strategy nonetheless. “Despite its

renewal,” which drove African Americans and Hispanics

him to start an urban goat farm on the outskirts of town.

countercultural bona fides,” Devitt and Berwald write,

to East Austin so that white families could take advantage

He hosts goat yoga classes every weekend with doom

“weird has economic power.” Since KAW’s inception,

of the west side’s green spaces and better infrastructure.

metal music, which he claims “embodies the spirit” of

places such as Denver and Portland have launched

The city remains segregated, and historically

current Austin music. Basically, attendees do yoga while

similar campaigns. Many of these cities are state capitals

Black and Latino neighborhoods now face increasing

the goats climb on them and men with intense beards and

and most have strong artistic communities. Importantly,

gentrification, forcing many people of color to leave

eyeliner thrash on their guitars in the background. Pretty

Devitt and Berwald say, they all have a “grassroots urge”

the city entirely. Local government reflects Austin’s

weird.

to maintain their unique identities amid rapid population

overwhelming whiteness: the City Council has made little

Farmer Peppy doesn’t care about the fancy people

growth. Ironically, the image drawing people to Austin

racial progress since 1971, when it “informally agreed”

from L.A. or how I got on the list tonight. He came to

every year is the very thing jeopardizing it.

to hold one seat each for Latino and Black members.

dance, he says, and he’s about to continue the party at

As more and more people move here, artists and

Since then, neither group has held more seats. And

a neighboring gay bar. Grace and I hitch a ride, and ten

musicians rely on KAW as a phrase of economic necessity.

recent pushes by voters to increase police funding and

minutes later we’re flying through the street in the bed

Housing prices are skyrocketing, pushing out many of the

criminalize homelessness further contradict the capital’s

of Peppy’s turquoise Ford pickup truck, which he’s filled

creatives who make this city so great. John Kunz, owner

mythic image as a “drop of blue in a sea of red.”

with hay for the goats. We pass by the high-rises and

of Austin’s Waterloo Records music store, has worked to

Outside the closing party downtown, I think about

cranes downtown, and I wedge my legs between two bales

confront this mass exodus since 2005. He founded the

how Austin’s reputation conceals the ongoing segregation,

Health Alliance for Austin Musicians (HAAM), which

exploding housing costs, and displacement happening

At the club, I hear the bass reverberate from the

makes affordable healthcare accessible to the city’s

here. In the face of these challenges, it’s time for KAW to

street. Inside, two men dance together in boots, cowboy

low-income musicians. In the past five years, HAAM’s

evolve, for the city to embrace not just local businesses

hats, and clear vinyl pants with rainbow piping down

membership has grown to nearly 3,000, reflecting

but specifically BIPOC and Latinx ones. Standing under

the legs. There’s no list, just dance music, cheap drinks,

Austin’s rapidly increasing cost of living. “Doing things

the highway that divides Central and rapidly gentrifying

and people having a good time. I remember the L.A.

because they’re cool, and not to make money,” like

East Austin, the need for this change, and the activists

transplants at the party and feel that now, at the end

Patoski wanted, doesn’t cut it anymore.

demanding it, become impossible to ignore.

of the night, I’ve finally arrived at the creative, weird

of hay so I don’t go tumbling out.

It’s difficult to say, then, how much KAW protects

Before I take out my phone to call a ride home, Grace

Austin ideal that my aunt and uncle told me about years

or threatens Austin’s weirdness. The city’s image as a

pulls me back inside. There’s one more person she wants

ago. Hopefully, it will survive, and this generation of

bohemian, tolerant place certainly misleads, though, with

me to meet. I reluctantly walk back to the dance floor and

Austinites will demand a new version of “weird” that

regards to economic equity and racial justice. Segregation

see a man with curly, bright red hair, a floral button down,

celebrates the city’s diverse artists and culture.

“What's PSL? Piss, shit, lemonade?”

“This plant is making itself naked.” (concerned)

I call my YeYe several times a year, usually during the holidays when he sends me gifts in the mail. Our calls always follow the same structure: I say hi, he asks which one of his grandchildren is calling, I thank him for the gift, he asks me if I’m at school or at home. Then we finish.

Three minutes of his Chinese and my English going head to head until one of us no longer has any idea what the other is saying. I’ve never been super close to my YeYe (or any of my grandparents), but I feel overwhelmingly guilty that I can’t hold a real conversation with him. I picked up more Spanish in three years of high school instruction than I did Chinese across eight years of weekend school. Embarrassing.

I don’t know why I resisted it for so long, but I finally came around to learning Chinese seriously. Hopefully, my Chinese New Year call with YeYe can last four minutes this time around.

—Ashton, Chinese, 20 redenvelopestories.net Our identity is where our best stories come from.

Stories from the Asian community at Brown University covering relationships, self-acceptance, career paths, food, politics, and more, read in three minutes or less.

October 1, 2021 3

NARRATIVE

Head Over Heels a confession

by Kaitlan Bui Illustrated by Anica Aguilar ig: anlouira I love you has been on the tip of my tongue for the past month. I want to climb up to the top of the SciLi and shout it at the top of my lungs, which is admittedly (a) not allowed and (b) kind of dangerous. But still, I’d do it for you, even if only in my imagination.

You are my super-swag gal-pal, and my forever roommate. You are the person who first cried with me at Brown, our young freshman hearts stricken with insecurity—and you are the one who, after three years, still screams into a karaoke mic like a caffeinated chihuahua. You are my chosen sister, and my actual brother, and his friends, and her friends, and my family. You are the saintly Chinatown employee who slipped two free chicken wings into my order, and even if you didn’t realize it, you cooked me my first homemade meal in Providence. You held the elevator door open for me when I was late to class, and you bumped into me at the real freshmen orientation. You are the stranger I saw on my way to dinner yesterday. Yes, you, reader—you. I love you, I really do.

They say that repetition devalues meaning, but I just can’t help myself. Being here at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, in flesh, bone, and 4K technicolor feels like a fever dream.

I am holding onto every wisp of community and friendship that I can, clinging to it all like a child clings to her mom, pretending to be calm and asleep when what she really wants is to be in those warm arms forever.

I’ve been telling people that my senior year feels like freshman year all over again, with all the excitement and eagerness of a fledgling bird, minus

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the insecurity. Granted, there do exist niggling voices that tell me I’m still not good enough, I want people to like me, I hope I didn’t seem dumb in class just now, I hope I’m not sabatoging what could have been a “perfect” college experience, I’m eons behind, is anything I’m doing right at all? But then, no, I tell myself. You know what, I survived a pandemic, and I have people who care about me.

I’m here and in love, and that’s all that counts.

It occurred to me the other day that if being “head over heels” signals an exhilarating romantic journey, then we are all irrevocably in love. I mean, unless we’re hanging upside down on the monkeybars, our heads are literally always over our heels. We’re walking to the SciLi, and the Blue Room, and New Dorm (not Greg, you animal), our brilliant heads peeking over our shuffling heels.

And we say hello to each other in passing, and we say, “Let’s grab a meal sometime soon,” and we hold the doors for and lend pens to each other.

Somehow, we collide at these exact moments, in these exact ways. Whether or not we’ve met before, somehow we spark an iteration of love. Isn’t that a beautiful idea, that we’re all in love with little bits of each other?

Autumn is a poem I stumbled upon the other day, which starts with “In the evening, / every arrangement feels intentional,” and ends with “The porch swing creaks, / and there is no name you know / for this feeling / that the world is full / of just about everything / you haven’t lost yet.”

Autumn is also a season fast approaching, its arrival in Rhode Island signaled by chilly weather, the scent of pumpkin spice, and a plenitude of

colorful, withering trees. In one respect, autumn is a season of departure—literally “fall.” In my first semester at Brown, I did feel like everything was falling apart: everything I knew about the world, everything I knew about myself. But now back for my fourth and final year of stomping on the Pembroke seal and stashing Ratty bananas in my backpack, I wonder what it is about New England autumn that feels so... lovely. This year, autumn reminds me “of just about everything / [I] haven’t lost yet.” And I wonder why that is.

I mean, the unfamiliarity of freshman year hasn’t fallen away (haha, get it), and I imagine it never will. I still wonder what I’ll do after I graduate, what my friends think of me, if I’m phoning my mom enough. I have not grown wellversed in predicting the future. I’ve only become more comfortable drifting with the current of life, like a bright red autumn leaf slipping from one season to the next. I keep wondering why that is.

And although they say that repetition devalues meaning, I can’t help but to keep basking in the wonder.

Is it because I’ve finally reached my “point of maturity”? Is it because a year and a half of quarantine rattled me into gratitude? Is it because, according to Today@Brown, I am now a fourth-year, or because I learned how to pay my own utility bills?

Maybe the real answer, as it always seems to be, is you. Maybe it’s why I love you so much, and also why my heart, for the fourth and final time, is so full.

NARRATIVE

Adult Swim pool goggles

by Sylvia Atwood Illustrated by Rèmy Poisson ig: remyp_art I like to stay as still as possible when I’m in the pool, slouching, my body submerged up to my eyes. I stay like this for as long as I can, holding my breath, letting the pressure build in my chest until I release it all at once. The bubbles come barreling out of my nose with a thunder only my submerged ears can hear. Each pop at the surface flings droplets into my eyes. My outstretched legs lock against the gritty floor, keeping my spine sandwiched into the far corner of the pool. Without moving my shoulders, I tilt my head back all the way to take another breath before leveling my face again with the water’s crisp surface. The blue blanket hugs my cheeks, tickling me as it reflects the movements of the men and women around me.

Closest to me is a group of preteens, boys and girls playing monkey in the middle. Each girl stands hunched over, hair hanging in two heavy sheets on either side of their faces. The girls sway more than they swim, shifting their weight slowly back and forth between dense feet. They maneuver their bodies in the water with caution, as though operating heavy machinery for the first time.

I can see the girl standing closest to me from behind. White skin stretches painfully across her shoulder blades. The vertebrae push up at the surface, forming a dotted line like the seal of a plastic package. Her skin yields to the green straps of her bikini, absorbing their contour in swollen pink lines that will stay deep and bright for hours. I imagine how she tied the straps in her bedroom: carefully, her fingers fidgeting with the cords, arms clamped awkwardly against her back as if awaiting handcuffs.

The lifeguard blows her whistle steadily, meaning it is now adult swim. Many of the younger mothers

take this time to glide up and down the pool at a steady pace, swinging their elbows and lifting their knees with purpose. They keep their backs arched and necks stiff so as to keep the dangly tips of their ponytails from dipping under the water.

I am nineteen years old. Technically, I’m allowed to stay in the water during adult swim. I am not an adult but this is one of the times that I am.

After hearing the lifeguard’s whistle, the young girls trudge towards the edge of the pool, the boys striding close behind. The girl in the green bikini is the first to find herself on the step ladder. Once out of the concealment of the water and into the bright, blank air, her movements take on a new sense of urgency. She scurries across the hot concrete towards a stack of towels, elbows and knees flashing in the sun. I watch as finally, in one twirling motion, she swaddles herself in a towel and breathes out softly.

After quickly wiping her face, she bunches the extra fabric against her chest in one tight fist and picks up a few more towels with the other, now taking slow steps back towards the pool.

The boys are getting out of the water by now.

Some of them make use of the step ladder while others hoist themselves up over the tiled edge, taking the opportunity to demonstrate the sparse yet spectacular beginnings of arm muscles. The girls seem to take note of this new development, their eyes lingering as they sway in the water, waiting for a towel from their shrouded friend.

Two middle-aged women in tankinis swimwalk past me, their breasts heaped atop pool noodles tucked tightly under their armpits. One woman burrows the dull painted nail of her thumb between the fabric and the flesh, sliding upwards and releasing with a snap. I watch as they clock the young teenagers, the boys now out of the pool and stretching their shimmering limbs against the mild air. Behind them, the girls sit in their terrycloth cocoons, hunched around a table like shrimp on a cocktail glass. The two women look at each other with slanted eyes and stretched lips.

A man with a hairy back and a swim cap stretched over his skull is finishing a lap. He slaps his shiny, thick arm down against the pool’s edge and pulls his torso up out of the water, baring his heaving chest to the sun. His skin, blaring white, is carpeted with coarse black hairs. They twitch as water droplets snake between them. Each bead makes its way down through the thicket and back toward the pool, leaving behind a jagged, slimy trail that glows fluorescent blue against his skin. Soon he lowers himself back into the water, letting his arm slide off the edge with a neat plop before he disappears beneath the surface entirely.

From across the pool, I submerge myself too. I open my eyes underwater to watch him, but the blue blots out all of the sun-bleached details from before.

My eyes burn.

I used to wear goggles to the pool. My line of sight would sometimes stumble upon bodies sneaking a moment of poorly concealed intimacy: a finger tracing shoulder to elbow to wrist, a leg slipped in between another’s knees. It reminds me of when I was younger and would kick up chunks of dirt behind my house to reveal the world of glistening worms and beetles beneath. I would watch as they writhed and scurried, desperate for cover, until I toed the dirt clod back into place and quickly patted it down.

The hairy man is wearing goggles. I realize that he would see me if he simply chose to look. He would see me floating just beneath the water’s ceiling, hair suspended above my ears and slowly curling around my head, clumps of bubbles escaping from my mouth.

I imagine him at his house later, telling his wife about the strange person he saw in the pool. He would tell her how he saw her through the field of stalky blue legs while in the middle of his fourth lap, and she was staring at him, without goggles. He would turn on the shower and his wife would say something in return, but she’d have to speak up over the water. He would tell her, his voice carrying clearly, how it was adult swim and she looked like she shouldn’t have been in the pool.

October 1, 2021 5

ARTS & CULTURE

Beautiful World, Where Are You or how rooney taught me how to love

by Lily Willis Illustrated by Elliana Reynolds In a McDonald’s somewhere between California and Rhode Island, I was waiting for an M&M McFlurry. I had one week and one car to get myself to Brown for the fall. I received a jarring text: “SALLY ROONEY HAS A NEW BOOK OUT?!?!?!”

I almost forgot all about my McFlurry. I was annoyed at the insinuation that my friend knew something about Sally Rooney that I didn’t. Here was my holier-than-thou abstinence from social media, once again biting me in the ass. A quick Google search “confirmed” what I had not known: the new Sally Rooney book was coming out a week from that day. It had a cover and everything.

Cerulean blue, with the title “Beautiful World, Where are You” blocked out in white letters.

Celebrities, apparently, were already tweeting.

Maggie Rogers was raving about it, Elise texted.

I did not want to think about the title’s possible meaning. I did not think about how my road trip was like my own little quest to find a beautiful world. I thought about whether or not I needed to get gas, since I had already stopped.

I ate my McFlurry outside, next to the highway, mostly scooping the M&M’s from the top. In the trunk of my car I had the things I had never been able to fly with on my way to school: the quilt from my bed, one mug, and a box of books. Some of the books were random, brought along because they were stored on the floor next to the already full bookshelves of my bedroom. But a few of them were my little travel companions, superstitiously chosen to keep me safe. Maybe it was because I had with me Rooney’s two other novels, Conversations with Friends and Normal People, that I made it through the 14-hour drive from Des Moines to Cleveland despite the intermittently torrential rain. You never know!

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I slowly McFlurried my way through this country, towards our beloved Providence, toward the friend who had given me Conversations with Friends. Every mile I drove was a mile farther from my family—my brothers and their sports games and school plays, my parents and their ability to listen to me monologue for hours, my dog and her stinky breath. But I also soared (at a pace often well above the speed limit) closer to the world I had built here—staying up late conversing with friends, close-reading poetry for some kind of “degree,” and eating too much By Chloe (which my editor would like to note is now, regrettably, renamed “Beatnic”).

I am bolstered by Rooney’s dedication to finding importance in the mundane. Her fiction is full of banal day-to-day activities that seem significant, significant activities that seem banal, and lots of unexpressed interiority while trying to connect with your closest people.

I was having this feeling, as I drove through upstate New York, of being weirded out by the state of the world. It is creepy, all the strange things that we do—this “country” we have here, built up of little McDonald’s lining highways full of people sitting in cars, texting each other about tweets, all trying to get through the day—probably wanting to feel a little bit connected—probably feeling less connected than they’d like.

I survived the road trip, unpacked my car, and made plans to walk to Books on the Square for my copy of Beautiful World. I surveyed my bedroom, the bed with my familiar quilt on it, the tiny desk by the window, now stacked with more books than could fit on the shelves. I was grossed out by my obsession with these material goods. Shouldn’t there be some other way to live than spending money at a McDonald’s and then a bookstore and then talking to your friends while people had actual life and death needs that were going unmet?

One of the characters in Rooney’s new book thinks a similar thing; she describes feeling dizzy as she looks around at the accumulated wealth represented by the convenience store she is in, the ease with which she buys her packaged lunch and all that goes into that one little product. But she buys the lunch anyway. I bought the book.

It is strange to me, the degree to which people (myself included) inhale these books. Yet here I am, writing an overly romanticized ode to a book which

is far from perfect. The writing is pretty good. I’ve seen Rooney do things with a sentence that most people couldn’t do in a novel—seasons pass, hearts break, entire rooms appear in my mind’s eye. But when I talk to people about her books, we do not linger on the details of syntax or diction.

These books have sparked late-night conversations about interpersonal power dynamics, class, and gender; they have incited arguments with some of my close friends. They do not handle all issues with equal dexterity, nor should books rooted in such subjective personal experience be looked to for allegorical resonance.

The American assumption that Rooney’s books— rife with self-referential white people—are universally relatable, is foolish. As characters, however, these protagonists are so deeply flawed it is hard not to buy into their humanity.

Once I was sold, I was much more susceptible to the ways this book would mess with my emotions.

Take my mounting anxiety about love. I am normally a reasonably positive person, but a summer of heartbreak led me to feel as if it might be better to swear off love forever. Okay, that’s not what I meant, I just said that to be dramatic. I do think I know how to love, and I didn’t learn it from Sally Rooney last week.

I had sworn off sex, to be precise. It had entirely too many negative externalities, despite attempts to mitigate them.

Reading Beautiful World, Where Are You, I realized that swearing off sex may have been an overreaction. Rooney, with grace and compassion, brought me into a world of complex characters doing silly things, in spite (and perhaps because) of love. Friendships strain, people get hurt, miscommunications abound. But throughout it all, there’s an optimistic streak. It’s as if the answer to the title’s question is: right here. In these little ordinary things we do lies the beauty the world has to offer. Sitting at the computer late at night writing an article for post- while your roommate eats a quesadilla is both where you look for and find the so-called “beautiful world.”

In reminding me of what there is to love in this world—even if it’s just a book by a writer who lives across an ocean—I felt something open up again.

Alas. Maybe love will be back on the table.

ARTS & CULTURE

Time on My Side my gap year through music

by Dorrit Corwin Illustrated by Joanne Han Providence, Rhode Island. October 30, 2020.

Snow crunches under my Nikes, and frigid air bites my cheeks as I cross the Main Green for the first time since March. Where is the fall foliage? Where is… everyone? Tomorrow is Halloween. Will people party in pods? How does COVID college work? I’m finally home, but I’ve never felt more out of place.

Bob Dylan’s soft harmonica hum of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” fills my chilly ears with existential dread. Between University Hall and Manning, the sight of my three best friends taking photos in the first snowfall brightens my spirits. I start running to greet them, but I stop before they see me. I want more than anything to reunite in their arms, but I don’t know if that’s allowed. Can I hug them if I keep my mask on?

Will someone report them for interacting with a visitor on leave? I pull up the hood of my jacket and solemnly tiptoe back towards Sayles.

Next on my “inbtwn” playlist, which has been carefully curated to soften the sharp void of my impromptu COVID gap year, is “On Melancholy Hill”

by Gorillaz. This song brings me solace when I’m high, which I’m not right now, but I might as well be. This scene feels apocalyptic. Trippy. Lonely. Empty. This is not the homecoming I’ve spent the past seven months aching for… But then again, what did I expect?

Chicago, Illinois. November 12, 2020.

It’s my first time in Hyde Park since July 2017, when I left my tour of UChicago halfway through because I was getting hives at the mere mention of core curriculum. My friend Alex’s apartment is much more fun than its surroundings—pool floats inhabit the grass-like rug beside the oversized bay window in their living room. Her roommates skateboard into the kitchen, dressed in trench coats and oversized beanies, dancing to “Orinoco Flow” by Enya as we make fried rice.

Alex and I sail away on Enya’s staccato violin to the center of campus. Like most college quads right now, it’s empty. This one might be devoid of students regardless of COVID… Perhaps that’s just my aversion to this place shining through.

Amidst the chaos, my boss calls me to discuss my progress on script coverage assignments. “Is that a lifesized stuffed giraffe behind you?” she asks through the Zoom screen. I’ve been telling her (and everyone) that the more life experiences I gain, the more material I’ll have to write about. She knows this is just another one of those future anecdotes.

Los Angeles, California. December 20, 2020.

This cuffing season is a particularly brutal one to bear. Every third or fourth customer I help is buying a tree with their significant other. I smile blankly at them as they quarrel over how many strands of lights to buy for their seven-foot Douglas Fir. “I think we should add one more. Better safe than sorry, right?”

The girlfriend looks over at me expectantly. “Right,” I reply, “definitely.”

My coworker roller blades through the endless rows of trees, wishing a Merry Christmas to anyone who meets his line of vision. “You got someone special in your life this holiday season?” His curiosity is genuine. I know he and my boss have been conspiring about which of the guys who have come to visit me at work is my boyfriend. The answer, unfortunately, is none of them.

The one I have my eye on decided to spite me by buying his tree at our rival lot down the road, and as my

frigid fingers fumble around in my pocket for my phone to see if he’s texted me back, I realize that only three minutes have elapsed since I last checked. Christmas carols blare from the overhead speakers, but what’s stuck in my head right now is “The Waiting” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I’m growing impatient, wishing on a plastic star tree topper for some real Christmas magic.

Santa Cruz, California. December 31, 2020.

It was my rookie mistake taking the scenic route.

My dad’s voice in my head is rife with exasperation: “You didn’t Waze your road trip?!” I’ve failed him. I lost cell reception somewhere around San Luis Obispo and am driving on less than a quarter tank of gas. But, the view outside my window is too breathtaking to warrant taking the Five. “This Year” by Beach Fossils reverberates through my Jeep. It cleanses me at the precipice of every new year; I believe every word.

When I wake up on January 1, tired but only slightly hungover, I’m ready to seize 2021. I perch on a rock at Cowell’s Beach pretending to watch my friend Gus surf, but the dots bobbing up and down in the distance are completely interchangeable. “Where’d All the Time Go” by Dr. Dog plays through my AirPods as somebody in the distance sinks and is gone in the blink of an eye.

Anapoima, Colombia. February 2, 2021.

For the first time in my life, I’m up with the chickens. My morning task is to scream “POLLLLO POLLO POLLO” until the flock runs to me while I sprinkle dried corn kernels onto the nearby ground for them. I let Margarita the donkey out of her stall and another day on the farm begins.

Other than the tarantulas that burrow in the corners of the kitchen and jump out when I’m washing dishes, I’ve discovered paradise… or maybe a cult? It’s a fine line walked by vegetarian cooking, sunset yoga, and communal manual labor in the middle of the forest of central Colombia.

Natalia plays “La Llorona” by Ángela Aguilar, and other slow Latin American alternative pop songs, as we stretch our arms towards the sun setting beyond the grove of mango trees. As I weed the garden I listen to “These Days” by Nico—reflective of life right now.

Simple yet complex, mundane yet exciting, and the closest I’ve come to nature in a long time.

Tulum, Mexico. June 1, 2021.

The playful disco chords of “Sunny” by Boney M. flood Gitano, a jungle-inspired restaurant in the heart of Tulum. Everyone says this is the new Cabo (though I’ve never been). Maybe it’s the fact that this is my first time in a club since before the pandemic, or maybe it’s the mezcal, but I’m subliminal. “The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here…” Cheers to that. Let’s hope so.

Woods Hole, Massachusetts. July 11, 2021.

The white sand beach is deserted save for my four friends and me. We frolic in the crystal clear waves, “Floating” by Raveena bending our bodies towards the baby blue sky. Later tonight, we’ll share wine and a charcuterie board on the roof of one of the houses by the harbor with Alden’s extended family. They’ll ask the five of us what we’ve been up to since we saw them last summer, and the three of us who’ve graduated will be able to gloat tactfully about moving to New York City to pursue fancy yet understated careers in tech and art. Alden and I will reiterate that we’re only rising sophomores and our biggest concern right now is choosing a dining hall meal plan for the fall—the distance between us and our treasured friends feeling larger, yet our bond feeling stronger than ever.

Groton Long Point, Connecticut. August 8, 2021.

Sea breeze rustles my hair as I slow my cruiser to watch a family of deer grazing in the bushes. This is it: the final stretch. I’m “In Between Days.” This song by the Cure plays through my head daily now, the way it bookends each episode of The Inbetweeners.

I’m unpacking boxes of clothes I haven’t laid eyes on since March 2020—an unintentional time capsule.

I’m registering for classes and ordering posters for my dorm room, trying to process the fact that when I get where I’m going it won’t be as perfect as it once was or as I want it to be. But this is what I should be doing, and school is where I’m supposed to be, regardless of the imperfect state of the world.

One last family beach cookout, one last swim in the Long Island Sound. August is coming to a close, and it’s time for my seemingly endless summer to end with it.

Providence, Rhode Island. September 4, 2021.

Just like that, I’m back. In some ways it feels like I never left. In other ways, I feel an immense amount of distance, but not necessarily difference, between the person I was when I left and the person I am today.

Socially, I’m a junior. Academically, I’m a sophomore.

Either way, “Time is On My Side”…

I feared I would regret taking the year off when many of my close friends chose not to. I return to Brown feeling incredibly grateful for my chance to hop off the hamster wheel and float through space for a year. Sometimes you’ve got to take a gamble and roll some stones.

And yet, it’s good to be home.

Listen to the full playlist here:

October 1, 2021 7

LIFESTYLE

We’re Back: Really Back.

by Alexandra Herrera Illustrated by Solveig Asplund Can you believe it? No—really—stop and think about it for a moment: We’re all (for the most part) back on campus! For many of us, there’s an overwhelming sense of appreciation for some hint of returning normalcy after a year and a half since that fateful email from CPax. Now that everyone has had a chance to settle in, here are a few simple bucket-list items for you to make the most of your hot Brown-student autumn!

Try a new coffee shop You may try convincing me otherwise, but I know that the vast majority of this campus runs on caffeine.

While there are several on-campus options to make a quick pit stop before hitting the libraries, I highly recommend changing up your routine and exploring surrounding local coffee shops! Near the south side of campus is the simplistically named The Shop. Try one of their specialty matcha lattes as well as their homemade

bread. Also on Wickenden, you can find a wide variety of roast drinks at Coffee Exchange. And, just in case you want to make your own at home, they also sell a large selection of coffee beans. Other places to get a quality drink and strong aesthetic vibes are Dave’s Coffee and Bolt Coffee. They are well worth the walk!

Talk to someone new in one of your classes Want to know the quickest way to meet new people? Turn to the people you see every week in class! Nothing builds camaraderie quite like crying over problem sets or essays together. This might feel especially relevant to first-years and sophomores, as they’re still meeting many new people. But honestly, it also remains true for upperclassmen who spent the last year sticking to their COVID-19 pods. Most of us only spend four years at Brown, so we might as well step outside our usual friend groups. They could end up being your best friend, a study buddy, or even your significant other. The possibilities are endless! Just remember, it’s not weird to introduce yourself and ask if they want to get a meal. The other person will probably appreciate that you did! In these pandemic times, we’re all relearning social interactions, so don’t stress it.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe

“It feels strange to see my breath in the air at the same time as I can see the water breathing against the sand, the confluence of whites and grays and blues that is a beach in winter.”

—Siena Capone, “6 Ways of Looking at a Petoskey Stone,” 9.25.20

“Resting in a booth of a California Pizza Kitchen, I felt that I’d finally made it in life.”

—Robert Capron, “Twice Upon a Time in Hollywood,” 9.20.19

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

Dress up and go out Have a fit that’s been sitting in your closet, begging to be worn? Despite what you may believe, you don’t actually need a specific occasion to wear what you want.

Whether it’s class, a nice dinner, or a hike up Thayer on a Friday night, there’s definitely an opportunity to express your style. If you’re going to dinner though, might I suggest Rosalina, a charming Italian restaurant downtown? Having worn sweatpants and pajamas for most of quarantine, I will be the first to hype you up and say go for it! Also, have you noticed the new crispness in the air? Summer is sadly coming to a close...so give those summer fits a spectacular finale!

End a late night at Jo’s This is a Brown University classic for a reason! For upperclassmen, there’s an inherent nostalgia to this tradition. Inhaling the smell of a spicy with, adding Jo’s sauce, and grabbing a side of fries or mozza sticks is the comfort meal we all need from time to time. Gathering around the table and reliving the night is the cherry on top of any outing. For underclassmen, I recommend making Jo’s the regular late-night spot for you and your friends. You will learn to appreciate its chaotic charm and greasy goodness.

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editor Danielle Emerson Leyton Ho

Copy Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Samuel Nevins Eleanor Peters

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

Editors Kelsey Cooper Julia Gubner Kyra Haddad Jolie Rolnick Chloe Zhao

HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Joanne Han

Want to be involved?

Email: olivia_howe@brown.edu!

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COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Jiahua Chen Briaanna Chiu Layout Designers Alice Min Angela Sha STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Dorrit Corwin Danielle Emerson Jordan Hartzell Ellie Jurmann Nicole Kim Liza Kolbasov Elliana Reynolds Adi Thatai Victoria Yin