post- 11/04/2022

In This Issue

4

Marin Warshay

Ellyse Givens

2

Woven into the Seams

Ceaseless Sequentialities Jacob Gelman 5

A Body in Flight, But Not in Motion 7

Sarah Frank

Alaire Kanes 6

Spreading Kindness on Campus

A Dream of Dance

postCover by Lucid Clairvoyant @l.u.cid

NOV 4

VOL 30

— ISSUE 7

FEATURE

Ceaseless Sequentialities a reflection on time and milestones

By EllYse GivenS Illustrated by Connie Liu

Chairlifts have always scared me. I remember

screamed as I tumbled headfirst down a small slope of

Unlike everyone else around me, I simply could not keep

when I had to board one for the first time, swiveling

snow. My small body eventually skidded to a halt atop

up with the conveyor’s continual motion.

my skis atop the faded red line dyed into the ice below

the slipperiness.

I don’t ski much anymore. Yet, that feeling of falling

me as I waited for the seat. I looked back over my right

I spit out some beige colored snow and looked back

off the chair, of loss, of I can’t keep up with everyone

shoulder, anxious to get the timing right. The chair

at the sky above me. My chair had already traveled far

else, still feels familiar to me, despite the fact that I

was coming—my chance. I was ready. The cushion

ahead of where I had fallen. I missed my chance.

stand atop concrete and not snow. The chairs I keep

touched the back of my hamstrings and I bent my knees instinctively, just like my dad told me to.

***

missing have only grown more important: experiences,

I eventually learned how to use the chairlift,

milestones, pleasures that I cannot recover. I fear that

My backside collided with the chair—I had

shifting my weight backward into the cushion instead of

the right people, the right opportunities, the right

succeeded. But this euphoria turned out to be fleeting.

surrendering to its forward trajectory. But I still vividly

ideas are passing me by—chairs that won’t return.

My skis were stubborn. They didn’t leave the ice,

remember vividly the feeling of falling off, of wiping

This fear plagued me as I smeared a tear off of my

although my body had. I found my weight propelled

the white dust from my goggles and finding dozens of

phone’s screen. The face looking back at me was crying

forward into space, the chair’s force overcoming me. I

otherwise cordial skiers staring at me in confusion.

too. There was too much distance between us, we went to

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I am cursed. I, personally, am cursed. In the year 2020, I purchased Rina Sawayama tickets. They were a truly coveted possession, which a religious reader of post- would know based on my article “Turn the Page Together” from a couple years ago. Of course, the world came crashing down shortly thereafter (i.e., the pandemic), and the concert went on to be repeatedly rescheduled for the next two years. Rina finally played in Boston this past spring—the one time I had covid, forcing me to give up my tickets. And as if this were not enough, I later purchased tickets to tomorrow’s Rina concert, which has just been rescheduled for December.

I can only hope it actually happens this time! So much time has passed and I still have yet to see her slay on stage… a true crime.

Our Feature writer this week is also thinking about the passage of time, although in a far more reflective manner than my futile complaints. In Narrative, one

2

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writer connects with Sikh philosophy through music, while the other discusses the realization that her parents had their own lives and anxieties before her. One of our A&C writers reviews the Entanglement exhibit at List and the other dreams of dance. Lastly, our Lifestyle writer offers some suggestions for bringing more kindness into the world.

I will digress from my whining. When I eventually do make it to a Rina Sawayama concert, I will simply be overjoyed to be in the room. And after waiting two calendar years, what’s another month? That does not change the fact that I feel cursed, but hey, that can’t be all bad. Isn’t being cursed a little sexy? Maybe that’s just something I’m saying to make myself feel better, but maybe it’s true.

Looking for ways to break a curse,

Kyoko Leaman Editor in Chief

Nouns to Name a Pet 1. Peanut 2. Cardboard 3. Potato 4. Fume hood 5. Mic 6. Asbestos 7. Socks 8. Shoes 9. Goose 10. Toast

FEATURE two different universities, we should enjoy our 19-year-

noted that the Bible is full of “one-time events that do

teens. Meeting key milestones is central to typical

old freedoms. The timing was not right. If we had met

not recur.” This concept of linear time is communicated

adolescent development, which means that not keeping

in high school, or after college, or in another life, it

primarily by the word chronos, a time that is measured

up has been associated with serious ramifications—

would have been different. We said “I love you” as we

by successive objects, events, or moments.

individuals who missed adolescent milestones have

established our permanent goodbye.

The belief in linear time informed the formulation

lowered educational, social, and behavioral health

“Having a boyfriend” was always a chair that I

of our now mechanized conceptualizations of time. The

functioning in adulthood. They missed their chairs,

thought I had missed. I waddled too slowly in my skis

mechanical clock originated in Christian monasteries

and now suffer the consequences.

to grasp on to its departure. Because of this, I had

in the Middle Ages, where “monks attempted to create

But what if we reconsidered the pressure to adhere

always felt stunted in my growth, until this summer,

an environment of regularity” by employing the ringing

to this linear timeline? What if “milestones” were

when I finally caught my chair. I had achieved this

of a bell 7 times a day to call monks to prayer. This desire

fluid—to be achieved whenever a human is ready? What

milestone, this experience that had seemed so easy for

for predictability “led to the invention of mechanical

if life was not moment after moment and achievement

others to obtain for themselves—which made ending

clocks in the 13th century, with a dial and a hand that

after achievement, but circuitous and divergent?

our relationship one of the most terrifying things. I

translated the movement of time into a movement

In fact, within Hinduism, time is not linear. It

finally had what I'd always dreamed of, so why would

through space.” Therein lies that chairlift feeling—

is seen as having both linear and cyclical elements.

I let it go? Some of my friends have found their forever

the feeling that time is limited, that time will not wait

By watching the cycles of the seasons, agriculture,

partners. What if he was mine? What if this was my

for you. The clock’s hands never stops. Moments and

planets, and stars, Hindus came to two conclusions:

only chance to experience love—the only chair that

milestones shall occur one after the other. One must

that everything that is born dies, and that everything

would come around for me?

keep up with others’ trajectories.

that dies is recreated in another form. There are

***

An assumption of linearity recurs in other

cycles of creation that are usually thought of in terms

According to Dan Green, a real estate industry

scientific models as well. Erik Erikson introduced his

of a plant-seed metaphor, with each cycle of creation

expert, buying a house in your early 20s is a “smart

“Stages of Psychosocial Development” in the 1950s,

beginning “from a seed which sprouts, grows, flowers,

move.” Others who are equally qualified in their

plotting out clear, progressive steps with distinct

withers, and dies, but leaves behind a seed from which

respective fields state that the best time to get pregnant

goals as people age. Young adulthood is stage six of

the next cycle of creation will arise.” Ultimately, time

is between your late 20s and early 30s, that the ideal

the eight-step model, a time when love is a human’s

is a cultural construction; it does not have to take on

age at which to get married is 28 to 32 years old, and

primary

is

a specific shape. It does not have to be limited. Maybe,

that beginning to save money in your 20s will put you

characterized by “form[ing] close friendships or long-

our lives don’t need to be defined by turning clock

on track to retire by age 65.

term partnerships.” By stage seven, an individual has

hands and flipping calendar pages. Maybe, this life isn’t necessarily our only one.

virtue

and

successful

development

I’ve long felt the pressure to adhere to this generic

reached full adulthood, a time where humans “engage

chronology I’ve been socialized to see as fact—each

with the next generation through parenting, coaching,

milestone a dot on a timeline upon which I must

or teaching.” In stage eight, humans come to embody

Somehow, though, a life without a significant other

promptly land. Time moves forward. If you miss the

either wisdom or disdain as they consider their past

still seems like an aimless one to me. I feel as if I now

chair—if you don’t get pregnant, buy the house, meet

accomplishments—or a lack thereof.

move backward. What if this was my only chance? I find

***

your forever partner at the right time—you have missed

Each stage is a chair I must catch, an achievement

myself wanting to propel my life “forward” in other

an opportunity you will not get back. You have missed

I must realize before I begin working toward the next.

ways, ensuring I am obtaining the internships, depth of

your chance.

We schedule our milestones like dinner reservations,

friendships, and class grades that I “should” be at this

I see these strict sequentialities within my

situating them ahead of time in our Google Calendars

stage of my life. The chairlift just keeps moving. I have

conversations with others as well, formulating the

in exactly the right place. But what if I fail to achieve

to keep up.

framework within which we think about our futures.

what I’m supposed to during a life stage before it’s time

But what if I didn’t adhere to its relentless

I will finish medical school at 26 years old. I will get

to move on to the next? The fear of falling behind, of

trajectory? While constantly looking forward, I’d

married at 28. I will have my own private practice by

not progressing properly, haunts the decisions I make.

forgotten about my other favorite snow-time memories,

35. We take this linearity for granted. It is our reality.

After all, my 20s should supposedly be “the best

the ones within which I wear off-brand Ugg boots

Consequently, a life characterized by curvature and

time of [my] life.” According to a 2017 study, Americans

instead of skis—and have all the time in the world. My

delay is inherently “messy.” I admit to people that I

consider the most important milestones within this

dad stops the car on the side of the road to show us fresh

“have no plan.” I can’t help but see their body language

period to be graduating from college (or a postsecondary

snow for the first time. My golden retriever dives head

change slightly, their lips curving into an uneasy smile.

program) and achieving financial stability. Yet it’s

first into the mound that, to me, looks like a glittery

Their “oh, that’s great!” is just a little too high-pitched.

growing increasingly difficult to keep up to pace and

cotton ball. I climb out of the car and wander freely,

***

accomplish these feats. During the pandemic, for

sleety hunks of snow spilling into my socks. I zigzag in stark protest of chairlift-like linearity.

This linear chronology to which we adhere is

example, young people have been unemployed at more

deeply influenced by Christian theology. In fact,

than double the national average. Most cannot achieve

Maybe this year, when it snows, I will be reminded

theologist Peter Manchester states that Christianity

these seemingly integral “milestones.” By the long held

of this magic, rather than the deep anxiety of the

is a “religion about time.” In the book of Ecclesiastes,

standards of progress and progression that we’ve set,

missed chairlift. Maybe I will choose to meander

God is a God of timing: “there is an appointed time

people are falling behind.

frivolously instead of just straight forward, allowing

for everything.” Within Christian thought, time has a

Likewise, the COVID-19 pandemic made missing

beginning, is finite, quantifiable, and measurable, and

milestones

almost

customary

for

adolescents,

will “cease when its purpose is completed.” Augustine

something that can cause anxiety and depression for

myself an infinite amount of second chances to find my way through the icy sea. Maybe one day, time will be my own.

“I have some vegan tendencies but I also have some Catholic ones.”

“Does anyone know about any good salads?”

November 4, 2022

3

NARRATIVE

Woven into the Seams

scars are worth a thousand words, too

by Marin warshay Illustrated by connie liu

Obviously if he was born on my birthday, it must

never coexist?

The way my parents recount my birth is wildly detached from my sense of self. I imagine it feels a

have been my birthday, so where did he acquire all of his years?

bit separate from the way they see me now. But how

My grandpa Marvin was one of the most humorous,

much did my birth affect the way they treated me? The

loving, curious, family-oriented people I knew. I

feeling of dread and unadulterated fear stored in their

remember him best through his stories. Whether he

bodies, puppeteering their perception of the kid they

was talking about our family, his career, or winning

almost lost. Their wound, for which I got the stitches.

a pickle-eating contest, his character traits shone

My parents lived a lot of life before they had kids.

through. I’m lucky to have been in his life for 16 years,

I’d like to say that their experiences shape the way I

but I always yearn to hear more—more stories from his

see the world, but I am only affected by the way they

repertoire of tales. I now settle for living vicariously

choose to relay those moments. Adults should be

through my dad’s words. I know I get my love of fruit

An old scar is suddenly itchy, forcing me to

the all-knowing, omnipotent wizards. But we are all

from my grandpa because I’ve heard the story of him

remember a time of which I have no recollection. It’s a

living life for the first time. To think about them going

eating an entire bowl of clementines in one sitting

penny-sized crater, puckered on my right side, kissing

through my birth as young parents, as parents at all, is

countless times; I can paint a picture of my dad sitting

my rib cage. My body’s permanent dimple. I mindlessly

heartbreaking—a feeling that is more poignant than

on my grandpa’s shoulders as a kid, eating a peach, the

sweep my fingertips over its edges, wondering if it’ll

a memory.

juice dripping onto my grandpa’s head, welcomed by

hurt. It never has. If it ever did, I have no idea. They

We all know what it’s like to hear our inner

say “every scar has a story,” no matter how big or small.

dialogue—you are your main character, whether or

This forgettable divot is my scar, but it wasn’t my story.

not you conform to the trope of embodying the lead

People are puzzles in motion, never complete. It’s

About two months before my mom’s due date, it

role. And that doesn’t exclude my parents, or any

impossible for me to fully understand who my grandpa

was clear I wouldn’t make it to term if she didn’t have a

family for that matter. I have my narratives and they

was because I lack some context for his life. But that

C-section—and soon. On January 11, 2001, my mom got

have theirs. My first dog was my mom’s third; my visits

doesn’t change how much love I have for him. My

a call that her procedure was scheduled for the next day.

to Cleveland throughout the years were my dad’s

reality of him is unique. It’s mine.

With little time to process, my parents prematurely

trips home; I’m temporally part of their lives while

had a third kid. Their hopes of me being a spring baby

they are the entirety of mine. Even for the times that

The same goes for my own story. I’ve inherited

were gone, and I wasn’t in the clear yet.

our stories intersect, our memories and perceptions

my parents’ version of my tale to be my own. I feel

remain utterly different.

empowered by carrying their knowledge with me,

I had a rare condition called chylothorax—lymph fluids had accumulated in my chest cavity, making it

+

a joyous laugh. Those stories never go away and will always be a part of how I see my grandpa.

+

validating their experiences. I choose to connect to

hard to breathe and creating the potential for lung

The silver lining to being born two months early

a story that is permanently woven into my body’s

damage. After being in an incubator, undergoing

was having the same birthday as my grandpa. When I

quilting, manifesting in the divot just below my ribs—

major surgeries and being hooked up to tubes for ten

was little and he would visit on January 12th, he would

for that, I am grateful.

weeks, the condition healed on its own and I was able

ask me:

Sometimes my mom will ask me if the obvious

to go home with grateful parents, and a new imprint

“Marin, whose birthday is it today?”

puncture in my body’s envelope bothers me, and I

on my body.

“MINE!”

always reply with “no, I frickin’ love it.” Everytime a

“Yes! Anyone else’s?”

shirt pinches the dent in a new way, or a low-hanging

sheer lack of space it takes up at the forefront of my

Calling this my “background” feels fitting for the

“NO.”

arm hole welcomes a breeze over the spot, or someone

mind. I can recall the way my life began only through

Sorry, Grandpa. I’ve learned to share by now.

asks “WOAH! Did you know you have a hole there?!” I

stories I’ve been told. I have the facts, but have to

Once I caught onto the fact that it was someone

smile. I will always welcome a story about my past. And

infer the emotions. Where does a story reside when its

else’s birthday on the same day as mine, I became

for my first tale, I have a souvenir that retells it to me

physical proof and its memory are separated and can

confused about why he was so much older than me.

every day.

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ARTS & CULTURE

A Body in Flight, But Not in Motion reflection on entanglement by dawson phillips by jacob gelman Illustrated by Connie Liu Stepping into a wide square room, I am immediately struck by the monochrome adorning the walls. The room is white, and the air conditioning blasts from the ceiling, sending a preliminary chill down my spine. Then a second, and third, on and on, cascading—reverberating—through my body.

Around the room, each wall is decorated with a myriad of prints, each one displaying a different representation of geese.

A knot forms in my throat as I sympathize with the geese, their necks contorted and knotted into seemingly senseless, nonsensical loops. I wonder if they’re in pain.

I approach one of the images, captivated by the repetitive composition; with each print wired together to make one large canvas, their pain multiplies—as does my discomfort, so too my captivation. The geese stare at me, their eyes looking into my enthralled ones. I draw my hand to the piece, reaching as if to unwind their entangled necks, and then caress their beak with a gentle You’ll be okay, but actually stopping just before I make contact. The pain continues.

The description informs me that such a complex body of work was created by a sophomore—one of my peers. My feet pass slowly around the room as I stare into each piece, each goose image leaving me more stunned than the last. I imagine them leaving their canvases, each one walking around the vicinity of the room, their necks each tied around themselves, squawking in discomfort. Me too.

How could drawings of geese leave me so dumbfounded?

What is this?

Dawson Phillips' recent exhibition entitled Entanglement in the List Art Building utilized printwork and drawing in order to create a truly inspirational body of work concerning a single topic: geese. Phillips’ work transforms a simple bird into a complex body of work that asks us to rethink our relationship to gender norms and sexuality.

The geese are drawn as an abstracted and fluid body

in black and white; Phillips warps the neck into an intricate cacophony of shapes and swirls.There are some works showing a single goose, some showing multiple, and some showing just two. The poster for the exhibition displays one after another wrapped around themselves—–wrapped around each other—–necks interwoven and interlocked, taking up the whole paper in a cacophony of television static shaking and blurring into readable shapes.

Another work shows a goose sitting in peace, but its neck cranes into a maze in which I lose myself, and the goose loses its way. There is a work that shows the geese abstracted by geometric shapes, as Philips uses negative and positive space to warp when the geese come into view. Another shows a human hand wrapping around a goose neck—bent by the venous hand, or caressed by the softly opened fingers; liquid drips from its mouth.

According to Phillips, the geese serve “as phallic symbols, personifying the shortcomings of western constructions of masculinity and male sexuality.” Through his work, he examines the “nebulous, contradictory, and ever-changing nature of normative masculinity while offering a concrete representation of its limitations.” As representations of the male penis, this imagery is thoughtfully jarring, confronting the consumers directly with ideas so frequently cast aside. The constricting nature of the geese serve to remind us of the way in which our current norms of masculinity, gender, and sexuality in western culture bind us, strangling us in a way similar to the entanglements of the geese.

For Phillips, each piece in the exhibition highlighted a different facet of masculinity, asking how it influences our relationship with ourselves and the world around us. Beginning with the constricting and contradictory nature of gendered expectations, he says the scope of his exhibition broadened with the addition of each new piece.

Indeed, the work seems to transform as each new piece comes into view. We are, in the beginning, greeted by the imagery of these entangled geese, constricted and unfree. Slowly, however, the geese seem to unwrap themselves. By the end, we are greeted with the image of two free geese flying—– one right side up and the other upside down. Phillips gives us hope, telling us that these constricting norms need not be the way they are today; he allows us to imagine new worlds where we are free to fly.

When asked about the inspiration behind the work, Phillips answered that he was influenced by birds and the natural world. This past summer, he interned at Flatbed Press in Austin, Texas, where he

learned from printmakers and other artists in the studio. Experimenting with techniques of intaglio and linocuts in addition to his Micron pen drawings, his oeuvre began to take shape. Regarding the theme of his work, Phillips took a lot of inspiration from his introductory gender and sexuality studies course at Brown. He explained that the readings and assignments gave him a vocabulary to explain his frustrations with normative gender expectations.

Other than being a representation of the phallic, Philips explained that he utilized geese since he has a passion for birding and can find inspiration in each bird he sees. He says he has always enjoyed incorporating birds into his artwork, and he finds that birds can serve as a powerful symbol for many different ideas. In this series, Phillips specifically chose the Canada goose.

Philips utilized the Canada goose since they are fairly ubiquitous, which can make them relatable to the viewer. In addition, Phillips finds that geese are versatile in the message they can communicate to the viewer. Canada geese are full of contradictions.

They appear graceful and approachable, but can be protective and aggressive. This is represented in his work as a smooth, beautiful bird is warped into a position that makes me wince. Phillips hoped to take advantage of this range by incorporating it into a meaningful body of work.

The work took Phillips eight arduous, but enlightening months in total. He had come up with the concept this past February, creating the first piece in a flurry of inspiration.. He worked on the series over the summer, and finished his final three pieces in the month leading to his exhibition.

Some of the artists that inspired him included Adrian Armstrong, Carlos Barberena, Doron Langberg, and Katarina Riesing. Each artist works in a different medium—painting, sculpture, print— yet all confront the viewers with stark images of gender, political stigmatization, and sexuality in order to warp the way we see the world and ask us to reevaluate our normative conditions.

For the time being, Phillips says he is finished with goose-related work. According to him, the exhibition gave him a lot of new ideas on how to continue pushing himself to express similarly challenging ideas with his art. This semester he is taking an introductory painting class, which he finds challenging but rewarding, but that’s what keeps him going. He doesn’t know what the future holds, but you can keep up with his work on Instagram @dawson__art.

I, for one, know that I will be flying to see whatever he releases next.

November 4, 2022

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ARTS & CULTURE

A Dream of Dance: Finding Comfort in Discomfort

a body in motion and in emotion

by Alaire Kanes Illustrated by lena he IG: @liquidbutterflies I dream of dance. Behind my closed lids, loose limbs and flashes of color swirl into a black vortex.

I imagine explosions of color and glitter and bodies being torn apart and sewn back together again. I move through space and time, worlds shifting and energy moving.

When I see people dance, I want to weep. I want to flail my extremities and then sob.

I crave dance. I shut my eyes and I see my body leaping, shaking, bounding, feeling. A body in motion and in emotion.

Waking up means my movement halts and my unbounded emotions freeze. I become clumsy, stagnant, rigid; it’s a pattern that repeats before and after my respite of slumber. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable, giggling in the hopes it distracts from my furious blush and sweaty upper lip— giggling because I’d rather exude exaggerated joy than cry (how morose!). Messy despair can be ugly.

— I’ve never been a do-er, but I’ve always wanted to be. To be that idealized version of myself, who jumps at every opportunity, rises to every occasion, and creates. Vibrant acrylic paintings, best friends with the stranger in line at the Ratty, whole new futures through storytelling. But maybe, I’m just an appreciator. Maybe I’m just someone who watches from the sidelines.

I came to terms—or believed I had—with this thought last August. After many failed attempts at songwriting, poetry, ceramics, guitar, ballet, crafts, and a whole host of other creative pursuits, I accepted that perhaps my destiny was one of a reluctant critic. Though my body and soul were longing to create something, the defeated perfectionist of my mind refused to try again.

To dance, specifically to dance well, never seemed attainable. I always felt awkward in my body, uncomfortable, inconvenient. My hands are scraggly and disjointed. My back is bent with scoliosis, one shoulder taller than the other. My hamstrings are unbelievably tight, as a ballet barre instructor once gleefully relayed: “You are the least flexible client I’ve ever worked with!”

My relationship with my body growing up was colored by a hegemonic, exercise-obsessed suburb. My small act of resistance against this athletic regime was to freeze, rejecting all physical forms of expression; I decided to bury my nose in books, instead. I stifled my dreams of dance—if I couldn’t be a perfect dancer, I wouldn’t try at all.

— On the first day of classes this year, a friend of mine agreed to shop Beginner Modern Dance with me, both of us severely underestimating the probability that TAPS 0310 would become part of our registered courses for the semester. She mentioned how she wanted to learn to perform the perfection of ballet; the pointed toes, the graceful hands. I agreed with her bashfully, though inside, my thoughts differed. What I really wanted was 6

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freedom—freedom from the rigidity of ballet, and freedom from the weight of my own judgment.

The room was chattering nervously as we entered. I lost my balance as I took off my favorite loafers, self-loathing coloring my cheeks pink.

Shit. Maybe I really do need to learn how to dance…

I can barely stand up straight.

As I took a seat, I commiserated with the classmate sitting next to me: Am I wearing the right clothes? The right socks?

I can’t touch my toes! I can barely even touch my knees! Am I going to be able to do this? Should I be here? I wondered out loud.

Am I in the right body? Am I… right? Why do I always feel so wrong? I shoved deep, deep down.

We all giggled in camaraderie as our professor told us to approach the open floor, the uncharted terrain of the daunting empty studio in front of us. She gave us our first direction: Shake your bodies with as much conviction and force as you can.

At first, I laughed with discomfort, tentatively tossing the tension out of my bones. I caught the eye of other classmates, arching a brow and giving a shy smile. What was this professor doing? There was no way we would actually take this class… right?

As we shook and shook and shook, my body ejected perfection, shaking off normative (see: white, heteropatriarchal) conceptions of what my body should be able to do. With each shake of my legs, I began to forget the shoulds, woulds, and coulds that often cross my mind. By the end of the class, I was shaking with embodied joy. I knew then that dance would be my savior this semester.

I have always felt a keen sense of absence when I think of my body and of myself—I can only see what I’m missing. TAPS 0310 has reminded me of my body’s capacity for movement, my able-bodied privilege, my fullness. Instead of emphasizing our bodies’ limitations, our professor emphasizes our bodies’ natural inclinations. Instead of forcing my hamstrings to stretch to the point of pain, my professor has slowly taught me to reach with curiosity and patience, to move in a way that feels good, that feels like me. Instead of reminding the class of all the ways we are not enough, our professor has shown us endless possibilities— she has shown me versions of myself I’ve yet to

discover, the value of the person I already am.

(You are enough! she exclaimed one day, like she could sense I needed to hear the affirmation. I almost cried with relief.)

That first week of class, my professor showed me how to be comfortable with discomfort.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday each presented a different emotional and physical challenge. As our professor dared us to dance fueled by the energy between ourselves and a partner, the fear of intimacy, of vulnerability, began to shrink. The cautious looks I shared with classmates the first day became warm glances, the nervous laughter—though still nervous—became buoyant, too, and full of anticipatory excitement.

But as I left Ashamu Studio at the end of the first week, the adrenaline of thrilling discomfort slowly fading, the rose-colored lenses beginning to slip off, the spell breaking, the curtain closing, I wondered: What if I try my hardest here, and I still fail?

What if I fail at my dream of dance?

Will I become a failure?

Am I a failure?

Am I fundamentally fucked up am I worth anything at all am I worthless why do I hate myself so much?

Those thoughts, ones I normally let slip out with a self-deprecating laugh, make me tremble.

See, they’re not really about dance at all. Hating myself has lost its conviction and fun. I’m just a kid! my heart screams. I’m so tired, my body aches. The shadowy claws of a depressive episode sink into my spine, stroking my hair tenderly, whispering in my ear.

Even now, I have these same thoughts. But they come as a faint murmur, a murmur I’ve learned to embrace and let heal with a ferocious kindness. Letting myself exist as I am—in motion and in emotion—has paved the way for this transformation. Dancing feels like boldly caressing the body I’ve been afraid to see or touch too closely, like soothing my feverish brain with a cool cloth, like shattering the protective shell I unknowingly built around my insecurities.

I still have doubts, about myself, about my body. But now, when I feel myself drowning, I remember: I can dance.

I’d no longer rather be asleep or crying or

LIFESTYLE drowning in the cloak of my self-despair. I’d rather be dancing.

— Upon reflection, the stifling of my artist's dreams had been slowly crushing my spirit.

August Alaire never would have guessed that by October, she would be dancing not without the absence of fear or insecurity or discomfort–but with the addition of joy, sweetness, vulnerability, care, and whimsy. Heck, August Alaire never even guessed that she’d be dancing at all!

Now, when I wake up from my dreams, they actualize: I get to dance almost every day of the week.

I still lose my balance every once and a while, like this morning while crunching leaves under my favorite loafers on the way to class. I still blush when I mess up or when I can’t touch my toes when we stretch, but now, I grin in earnest, too. I twirl around while brushing my teeth. I skip along the Main Green.

Hating myself has always felt okay. My body has always felt wrong; in this class, it is nothing if not always right. Scratch that. There is no right.

There is only you, and me, and us, dancing and dreaming together.

Spreading Kindness on Campus easiest ways to brighten someone's day by sarah frank Illustrated by lulu cavicchi A little kindness can go a long way: A compliment here, a favor there, and you brighten someone’s day. Kindness is easy, and below, you’ll find some simple ways to spread it here at Brown.

1. Compliment strangers If you’ve ever had anyone tell you your sweater is cute or your hair looks good, you know the uplifting effect a compliment can have. Try to pay three compliments a day and you’ll notice it makes you feel just as good as if you were receiving them.

The other day, I told a girl on the Quiet Green that her Halloween costume was adorable and she

looked so happy. It took me only a few seconds to give her an additional boost of confidence.

2. Offer to take people’s pictures Families are always visiting Brown and taking pictures because, well, it’s Brown. There’s usually one family member delegated to taking the photo rather than being in it.

A couple times a week, I go up to people on the Main Green and ask if they’d like me to take a picture of them all together. Everyone is happy, especially the photographer, and you get to be responsible for that family's lasting memory.

3. Get to know the campus staffers The dining hall, mailroom, and the janitorial staff are all people that every Brown student interacts with but may never take the time to know.

Take it from me: I learned the name of every V-Dub worker last year and coming to eat was always like coming home. Jean and Jo always wave hi from behind the taco station; Mo and Alan wave from the grill. Frieda gives me a hug and chats with me about classes. Octavia and Amanda always greet me with a smile and Maria always makes sure I have the food I want.

4. Send spontaneous texts EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kyoko Leaman

“The loon’s warbling tune will continue to reverberate in my heart forever, a reminder that I should keep fighting, that a wilderness that’s a little dirtied, or a little different from my perfect memory of it, is still one that will always be worth fighting for.”

—Isaac Eng, “On Loon Time” 11.05.2021

“Since I traveled alone on most of these trips, I hatched my thoughts while sitting at boarding gates, my little free time combining with an underlying sense of loneliness.”

— Holly Zheng, “Thoughts in the Clouds” 11.02.2018

FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Addie Marin Ananya Mukerji ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa Section Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Rachel Metzger

Every day, I choose one friend to check in on. I’ll send a text like “how are you today?” or “how was your weekend?” Not only does it help me maintain friendships, but it also makes the recipient feel loved and cared for.

A week or so ago, I texted a friend I hadn’t spoken to in a year to wish her a happy birthday.

The last text we’d exchanged was her wishing me happy birthday: a little bit ironic, I know. But from there, we struck up a conversation about our college experiences and how our lives have changed and everything in between. A simple “Happy Birthday” rekindled a friendship.

5.. Social media responses Commenting on an Instagram post or a TikTok video is an easy, almost-effortless way to bring a little kindness to a space that can be so consistently negative. The internet is full of trolls that tear people down. Counteract the negativity with a compliment or supportive comment. It’ll go a long way.

As someone active on social media (and a little embarrassed to admit that), when I see a compliment in my comments, I focus on that. The mean comments about my appearance, my voice, my thoughts—those all fade away. I remember the goodness in the world instead, and isn’t that one of the best feelings?

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editors Danielle Emerson Sam Nevins LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Kimberly Liu Section Editors Tabitha Lynn Kate Cobey HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Connie Liu COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan

Copy Editors Eleanor Peters Klara Davidson-Schmich Indigo Mudhbary SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Chloe Zhao Tabitha Grandolfo Natalie Chang LAYOUT CHIEF Alice Min Layout Designers Alice Min Caroline Zhang Gray Martens Jiahua Chen

STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Olivia Cohen Danielle Emerson Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Meher Sandhu Ellie Jurmann Andy Luo Sean Toomey Marlena Brown Ariela Rosenzweig Nadia Heller Sarah Frank

Want to be involved?

Email: kyoko_leaman@brown.edu!

November 4, 2022

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