post- 11/12/2021

In This Issue

isante Flores-Demarchi 2

De-Shapirofication

Sticking Around Danielle Emerson 4

Written in the Stars

Mack Ford 3 Madaline Canfield

Notes on Wes Anderson 5

megan slusarewicz 6

Birthday Karaoke Alexandra herera 8

Winter Wardrobe

postCover by Songah Lee

NOV 12

VOL 28

— ISSUE 8

FEATURE

De-Shapirofication politicization and polarization on and off campus

By Dante Flores-Demarchi Illustrated by josh gendron Losing Myself Before Brown, my only sense of community was

to navigate the politically and intellectually layered

that many around me were just as confused as I was. Rather

conversations that happen here.

than owning their misunderstandings, they would shallowly

the political vacuum that is the Rio Grande Valley

An emblematic example of this happened during the

cloak their ignorance in liberal “woke” culture. Isolated, I

(RGV). With 94% of students being of Hispanic descent/

first couple weeks of classes my freshman year. A group of

started to identify with counter-cultural views that toxically

predominantly children of immigrants, schools having

fellow freshmen that I had met during orientation gathered

reinforced my ego and began my formal introduction to

some of the worst history curricula in the country, and

to get to know each other over some 6 o’clock Jo’s. The topic

right wing views.

existing in one of the most corrupt regions within the

of the 2016 election eventually came up, and I mentioned

It was official. I was undergoing Shapirofication. It’s

United States, the RGV operates as a sort of political

how I was entirely out of the loop on substantial political

embarrassing, really, but the truth was I did not have tools

island. The discourse on American politics is like a

news before coming to Brown. I was candid enough to

to navigate an environment that, in my view, constantly

foreigner’s punchline on the US’s latest blunder, such as

mention that, had I been 18 at the time, I don’t think I

shamed me for my well-meaning curiosity. It fueled my

how ridiculous Trump's wall is, despite how it’s something

would've voted at all. People rolled their eyes, saying that it

reactive nod-alongs to those claiming diversity of thought

literally happening in RGV residents’ backyards. Not

was clear what kind of person Trump was. I retorted that I

was in jeopardy in American universities, and soon the post-

only that, but my former school district, Sharyland ISD,

had heard a lot of terrible things about Hillary Clinton too,

2016 algorithms had me in their grips. I was stuck—trying

just so happens to be a previously white-only school.

and it quickly got awkward. The others exchanged wide-

to orient myself in this unfamiliar environment based on

Although the district now reflects the rest of the RGV in

eyed looks. Had I said something wrong by being honest?

opinions from “thinkers” online who were only interested in

ethnic makeup, the oppressive, xenophobic, and white

I felt my attempts to be vulnerable when trying to make

validating my ego for clicks. Although the “Jordan Peterson

supremacist structures in our education still linger—

friends and form genuine connections were demonized.

DESTROYS college virtue-signaling liberal” videos did help

particularly when it comes to conversations about race

Small instances like these made me feel looked down on for

my bruised ego at the time, it subconsciously chafed with

and, most notably, sexual assaults.

questioning what were intuitive social no-no’s to everyone

my values of humility and compassion. I would lock my

In short, conversations at home are nothing like

else. I felt pressured to bow my head and accept that the

phone and close my eyes, still very distressed and even more

those at Brown. The start of my undergraduate education

gaps in my logic were either my fault or just annoyingly

culturally isolated. It was the lowest level of “logic.”

was a rude awakening. I felt like I was cast into an alien

hair-splitting, “problematic” takes. I became socially

It was not until sophomore fall, when a friend from

environment, and I quickly discovered I was struggling

anxious, depressed, and extremely bitter; I struggled to

back home put together an intro to philosophy playlist on

to engage with others. I lacked the cultural capital needed

make sense of things. Slowly, however, I began to notice

YouTube, that I felt like I had the groundwork to begin

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Chaos comes in many shades at Brown University, it turns out. There’s “taking the most bizarre photos” chaos, “smoking cigarettes, especially if you’re an underclassperson” and taking a picture while doing so, “hooking up with a RISD guy and getting ghosted,” and, well, those self-contradicting sweeties who could be referred to as “granola consultants” or BOC = BCC, because, you know, we love climbing on Sunday and recruiting for McKinsey on Monday, as Ariana said… but don’t take it from me. Literally, this is just the knowledge that passively radiates through us Brunos like solar energy through a nanotechnological, carbon fiber “smart” house you built at the architecture startup your dad’s college roommate started. Okay, touché. Some of us have to be financially despairing yet ardent followers of the Humanities (unless those are a myth;

how can you have more than one humanity? Sounds like the definition of chaos if you ask me).

Our writers this week are embracing or managing their own chaos. Feature explores the writer’s journeys with conservative and leftist politics in their home community and at Brown. Arts & Culture deals with the haphazardness of Wes Anderson’s newest film, The French Dispatch, and the other with the colorful memories of childhood birthday party karaoke. Meanwhile, Narrative leads us into the tangled strands of astrology in one piece, while the other grounds us in the importance of being guided and mentored. And Lifestyle also gives us some stability amidst the whirlwind in the form of advice on styling winter outfits to keep warm and chic.

May those whirling winds take you where they will in this issue, readers. If you tumble like a jagged, scarlet leaf in the air, I hope you land on a soft patch of grass.

Gustingly,

Olivia Howe

Editor-in-Chief

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Cold Bitch Trying to Warm Up Behaviors 1. “Hey wanna study together” ;) 2. Peppermint schnapps hot chocolate 3. Friends-but-are-we-friends hangouts warmed by vodka 4. Buying a Comfy—to wear with nothing else 5. Backhanded compliment, but more complimentary than backhanded 6. Saying “dichotomy” or “pushing back on that” in seminar to feel the burn of shame 7. Speed walking!

8. Rubbing 9. Sharing a bed (trope) 10. Opening yourself up to others and allowing yourself to experience love and support

FEATURE assessing issues and critically engage for myself. My

The march was a success, with many speakers sharing

lawsuit, but the judge failed to deliver a decision within the

newfound lens shifted to actual politicians when I was

gut-wrenching testimonies. Media packed the local park’s

proper time frame and now my lawsuit stands in the 13th

alone in my sophomore summer dormitory, sitting crossed

pavilion, cameras fanned and pointed to the podium in the

court of appeals in Texas.

legged on my mattress, eating a pain au chocolat in front

center. Around 80 community members attended, including

All this has led me to take yet another medical leave

of my obtusely opened laptop. I was, for the first time ever,

complete strangers from up to six hours away. It was such a

this semester. In my spare time, I have been diligently

watching a presidential debate. I heard Bernie Sanders

powerful moment of solidarity with community pride and

(and consensually) compiling and reposting already public

champion complete student debt relief and many other

a shared sense of struggle towards a common goal at the

testimonies: The Instagram @rgvtestimonies organizes

candidates followed suit. I looked up from my recently

center. This was engaging in politics in a way that mattered

just a fraction of stories of sexual assault and harassment

split croissant, one frayed piece of bread pinched in each

to me. Helping my community and seeing their gratitude

or neglect coming out of my school district. I am also still

claw, and my spirit lifted. A clench I didn’t even know I was

towards my compassion reminded me of who I was—

foregoing my education in order to deal with this lawsuit.

carrying in my chest relaxed. It was truly like I injected life

someone I had lost sight of while isolated with my phone

I made this decision because to me, the ultimate purpose

straight into my veins.

and too much weed at Brown. This newfound community

of my Brown education is to be able to give back to the

solidarity grounded me.

community I came from, no matter its difficult problems.

The relief I felt was so real, but it quickly decayed to guilt. I felt borderline disgusted to feel so revived by a policy proposal

However, the school district stonewalled us. They

Since finding a community and discovering value in

that would ultimately compound my Ivy League privilege. I

said absolutely nothing in response. I began to understand

communal struggle, I’ve been increasingly motivated to

began to revisit old conversations in which I slammed down

how callous this culture at home forced me to be. With

understand local, national, and global politics, with an

an idea that potentially meant a lot to so many.

immigrant parents and a high school environment that

emphasis on social psychology. It is enlightening to be able

I eventually was able to identify the emotion I

normalized heinous behavior, how could I blame myself

to understand nuances within ignorance and potentially

experienced when I heard Bernie Sanders’s recognition of

for my political ignorance? I realized that it was a privilege

see a Trump supporter for what they are—a fellow working

my pain, an emotion which in itself is a privilege: I felt hope.

that my Brown education forced me into uncomfortable

person lacking the cultural capital needed to navigate a

learning

culturally foreign liberal media—rather than an enemy.

Finding Community

environments

and

conversations,

not

brainwashing like I’d once thought it was.

It is ultimately because of my difficult time at Brown

After that summer, I decided to take a year off for

Through my advocacy, I was able to revisit and

and the rediscovery of myself by my community at home

medical leave—partly because I felt like my college

process so much of my highly controlled education and

that I truly understand the road I was heading down—a

experience was slipping away from me, partly because

time within Sharyland ISD. I felt less dysphoria, and with

completely different road that I am currently on. Moreover, I

my anxious avoidant and depressed self didn't submit my

student debt still peering over my shoulder, I felt it was

believe my growth away from my short-lived Shapirofication

FAFSA, and partly because my brain was not about to go

time to continue my education. I went back to Brown with

era equipped me with the nuanced understanding of the real

back to Brown after having the worst semester of my life.

a reassured sense of self.

life danger that bias and partisanship can usher—a skill I can

My first semester back home blurred into 2020.

In January, a “scandal” embroiled my former school

be proud of and use for good.

Continuing the fight for my community

district. Allegations on Twitter about the principal’s son’s

During my return, an anonymous Facebook profile

involvement in a “hazing incident gone too far” and a

started to post about “Sharyland ISD happenings,”

nepotistic cover-up festered until it exploded. Outcries

essentially airing the school district’s dirty laundry. It was

from former students and parents flooded social media;

at the height of the spring semester with my academics,

everyone was disgusted enough by the story to be shocked

social life, and mental health collapsing in on itself that I

out of their silence.

learned of a cease and desist addressed to me at my home

I attended the board meeting that followed. The

address via a Whatsapp message from my father. In it, two

auditorium was filled to the brim—a strong contrast from

Sharyland board members accused me of running this

the usually sparsely seated monthly board meeting. It just so

Facebook page and to cease and desist from defaming their

happened that I sat behind a girl around my age who had her

character through it.

own personal motivations for attending. She said she was

At this point, going back home was necessary if I wanted

going to plan a march to raise awareness for the systemic

to salvage any sense of my future and mental well-being. I

silencing of sexual assault victims at Sharyland, and when

was served with the lawsuit and managed to find a lawyer. I

she asked for my help, I couldn’t say no.

issued my motion to dismiss based on the hollowness of the

“I wish I could reproduce asexually.”

“The Yale man… is very into beating you in chess.”

Written in the Stars

a skeptic's guide to astrology

by Mack Ford Illustrated by Lucia Tian “Cancer!” My sister shrieked, distraught as she barreled into my room at seven in the morning. “Of course he’s a cancer!”

I blinked awake, slowly and painfully trying to wrap my head around what I was hearing. It took me

In high school, I was in a state where I didn’t know what I wanted to do in the future, and drawing was convenient and therapeutic. Over time, drawing became a method of escapism for me, because I never really felt “passion” for other subjects. By the end of high school, I think my interest in drawing expanded to art as a whole. Additionally, I think I owe a lot to art teachers I learned from while I was attending a private art school; they introduced me to various artists and artworks and broadened my vision for a possible career in the arts. At home, my parents have been supportive and encouraging throughout my pursuit of the arts. That’s not to say they didn’t have their fair share of criticisms and worries. I had to make significant compromises to convince my parents that I actually wasn’t getting a degree in poverty. Most notably, my parents didn’t want me to go to any school that didn’t have a well-established liberal arts program, inevitably ruling out a lot of arts-focused schools. Initially, I thought these terms would limit my artistic progress in various ways and got pretty frustrated, but, gradually, I realized that I am the only person responsible for my own artistic growth.

—Tristan 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.

November 12, 2021 3

NARRATIVE a second to realize that she wasn’t, in fact, screaming about a deadly, tumorous disease, but about something almost as tragic in her seventh grade mind: her boyfriend’s horoscope. I—a rather cynical person myself—have always laughed at astrology and those who take it seriously. But over the past few years, the stigma of following your horoscope seems to have dissipated, leaving me gaping at the sparkling pink horoscope app in my sister’s hand and wondering, why?

Astrology is a so-called “scientific field,” claiming that the alignment of the planets at the time of your birth has some sort of influence on your life.

According to my astrological chart, my Capricorn sun explains my tendency towards “pragmatism” and “logic,” while my Leo rising is to blame for my overly “bubbly first impressions.” My Aquarius moon, meanwhile, means I will be forever subjected to a life of “detached relationships,” wherein I “struggle to express my feelings.” At least, that is, according to my Snapchat Astrological Profile.

In a figure that seems astronomical—pun intended—the American Federation of Astrologers puts the number of regular astrology readers at a whopping 70 million. And you’d expect these avid astrologers to get their daily horoscope from magazines like Cosmopolitan or Teen Vogue, but horoscopes are hiding in pretty much every news outlet. If you scroll to the left of “White House proposes $1.8 trillion package to boost safety net” on the Washington Post website, you’ll find a glaring— and equally relevant—headline that reads: “What's in the stars today? Libra moons beware!”

It’s easy to dismiss astrology as a practice commercialized for self-absorbed Gen Z-ers, hormone-crazed teens who have to know if their crush’s sign is compatible with a Gemini rising.

But this $2.2 billion industry must be rooted in some truth, right?

To some extent, of course, our reverence for astrology is caused by a human desire to selfobsess. Chani Nicholas is an astrologer with a bestselling book, a Netflix deal, and a new app named after her. She explained the absolutely startling, truly revolutionary idea that “people are deeply interested in themselves.” Astrology forces readers into a constant stream of everything-analysis, from your love life to advice on whether you should ask for that promotion. Nicholas asserts that astrology can “...feed self-knowledge.” I’d call it self-infatuation.

However, in some cases, astrology can be a helpful, or even therapeutic, practice. It allows us to

4 post–

connect with the stars that dictate everything from tides to seasons—and apparently, also dictate that I should wear the color red this month in order to “manifest my own success.” In all seriousness, though, many astrologers believe that we have a responsibility to look to the sky in order to find our destiny.

But, whether you use astrology for true selfimprovement or as just another way to boost your own self-importance, we have to acknowledge the extent to which astrology has been commercialized.

In a three-week-long experiment, I subscribed to every astrology site recommended by my friends. I followed seven of TikTok’s most famous astrologers, entered my birth date and time on Snapchat, and downloaded four of the highest-rated horoscope apps. Within days, I was bombarded with emails, texts, and notifications. All day, every day, I would read: “Today is the day for Capricorns to find power in thinking and creativity,” and then “A Venus in Aquarius might feel pressure with routine and self this week,” and finally that, “Your Jupiter in Leo will be responsible for a compromising situation.” That is, if you ask Teen Vogue, The Boston Globe, and The LA Times. From ridiculous to uncannily accurate, these messages inundated me with overtly vague predictions designed to apply to any of the 650 million Capricorns on the planet.

Chani Nicholas explains this phenomenon simply: “Capitalism commodifies whatever it can.”

Ironically, Nicholas’s personal app continuously pings me even as I write this essay, asking whether I want to pay for premium horoscopes that will provide a “more detailed exploration of my unique birth chart” and a “lunar journal” to help me “reflect and manifest with every New Moon or Full Moon.” The Astrology Zone (A/Z) app sends me a notification informing me that in three days, Mercury enters Aries, at which point the GeminiPisces compatibility will jump to 22%. But if I want to know what this means for my Neptune in Aquarius, I should probably “purchase an Advanced Plus reading of my chart!” If that wasn’t enough, CoStar, the highest-rated astrology app, encourages me to “Try SuperAstrology for two weeks, free!” if I want to understand what they meant by the recommendation of Capricorn “DO’s”: “heavy lifting, pillow fights, sweaty palms,” and DON'Ts: “soup, missed opportunities, legwarmers.”

Oh well. There goes my plans to eat soup in legwarmers.

Seemingly random facts like these—well, and the “Mercury is in Retrograde” memes sprawled

across most Gen Z social media feeds—contribute to the stigma around astrology. They add to the image that astrology is simply a reason for entitled teenage girls to check their app to see if there’s “a new romance blossoming,” and then panic-scroll through Snapchat to see which of their boyfriends is a Sagittarius.

Astrology is often nothing more than the butt of a joke. It is dismissed by many as a ludicrous excuse for social media gurus to make money off their selfcentered followers. But this stigma has receded in recent years as more and more people find comfort in the zodiac. Because, at its core, astrology is just another belief system—almost like a religion.

Sometimes, I wish the sarcastic, cynical voice in my head would shut up for a second, so I could use a system like astrology to make sense of a life that is often confusing and seemingly random. I’m jealous of the true astrological devotees for whom astrology, like most organized religions, can provide a way to categorize all of life’s fast-paced ups and downs.

It can help us come to terms with events we can’t control, especially in the wake of so much turmoil and uncertainty in the modern day. True, I can’t say whether or not your boyfriend was predestined to cheat because he’s a Taurus, or whether the pandemic was fated to bring us so much grief because it's the Age of Aquarius. But I can say with absolute certainty that, if believing in this system helps you handle it all, perhaps it was written in the stars.

Sticking Around on choosing and being chosen

by Danielle Emerson Illustrated by Elliana Reynolds “Hi Danielle, I wanted to let you know that I will not be leaving Brown. I am going to stay around until you graduate!

See you next week, and hopefully in person.”

I felt like crying. I felt a little knot that sits like a plump peach in the center of my chest, the growing heat beneath my eyes. My eyesight went blurry for a second, and I knew tears were going to start falling. But I couldn’t cry there. One of my roommates was in the room, and as much as I trusted her, I always feel like crying makes people uncomfortable. So, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, doing my best to smooth out the knot, guiding it with gentle hands back down to my stomach. With my eyes shut, I tried to focus on the comforting sounds around me—Nicole (my beloved cat) purring on the best couch in the apartment, claiming it all to herself; soft music trickling from my other roommate’s bedroom, like wisps of smoke curling faintly around my ears; and the sound of my other roommate sipping the hot milk tea I made for her earlier, claiming, “It’s too hot,”and maybe it was, but I always thought that tea or other hot drinks were better scalding, forcing you to savor in tiny sips. I tried to focus on the comforting smells—hot chocolate in my cup, sauteed mushrooms and onions from the night’s dinner, the small group of candles on our coffee table, the ones I thought smelled too much like a perfumefogged department store, but eventually grew on me with time. And all the emotions that felt too big to handle suddenly felt a little, just a little bit, smaller.

Handsized, with mini pieces I could pick apart and look over, rolling and molding the feelings in my palms.

Here’s what I realized: All those big, scary, and sad emotions––when broken down and moved into the light—came down to that I’m not used to being chosen.

NARRATIVE

Like most personal issues that develop into debilitating mental health conditions, this goes all the way back to my parents. My mother loved us. I won’t say that she didn’t. But despite loving us, I felt like my mother never chose us. She focused more on getting herself out of our father’s house, and I don’t blame her.

I did the same thing by choosing to come to Brown (a good 2000 plus miles from home). But as a sevenyear-old, a thirteen-year-old, a sixteen-year-old, an eighteen-year-old child, I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt. My father made the same decision, time and time again, to choose alcohol. Even when he said he’d quit, he’d always go back. Unlike my mom’s decisions, his decisions stopped hurting me in high school. Because I knew he wouldn’t change. There’s a quote I found online somewhere; it said, “Forgiving an alcoholic means no longer expecting a different outcome,” or something like that. Without realizing it, I guess I chose to forgive my father years ago.

What happened at home: the emotions, the learned coping mechanisms, and everything just as complicated in-between, followed me into school. I wasn’t the most open person. I’m painfully introverted—painful because I simultaneously am terrified of forming genuine connections and crave genuine connections.

It’s a circle of contradicting anxieties and emotions.

Growing up, all of my favorite teachers left. At Kirtland Central, some unspoken rule dictates that if you’re an influential teacher, you’re only allowed to stay two years at the maximum. After that, you’re required to leave. That’s just how it is back home. Teachers and guidance counselors come onto the rez—usually from the East Coast, NY, MA, CT, just to name a few from my time. They touch kids’ hearts and change lives, only to leave within a moment’s notice. Never to be heard from again—Mr. Termini. Mr. Limpar. Ms. Walker. Or they’re snatched up by schools with better resources.

And while I can’t fault them for choosing greater opportunities, with greater pay and greater benefits and greater whatever-else-adults-need, it made us students feel unwanted.

Every now and then, I remember a moment with Mr. Limpar. Picture a Danielle in her sophomore year of high school: She is dressed in baggy clothes, sweatpants tucked into large winter boots, a tan coat frequently described as “grandma-like,” and a teal knitted scarf, made as a gift by her actual grandma. We already know my home life wasn’t the best, but on this particular day especially, I wasn’t feeling good. So when I walked into Mr. Limpar’s chemistry class, I was not prepared for the weekly test on atoms-protons-neutrons-or-some-shit.

For the entire class, I did my best to write down what I knew, but there was a chart I couldn’t fill in. So, tired and a little frustrated, I wrote a note in the top corner: “I don’t remember. I know I’m an idiot.” And then I turned the test in. The next day, Mr. Limpar handed out our graded papers. When I got mine, I saw that he wrote me back. In slanted purple script, he said, “Being an idiot has nothing to do with your ability to fill in this table. There is only room to improve. Don’t ever call yourself an idiot. There’s only knowledge you have and don’t have yet.” It’s been nearly seven years, and I still think about this moment. Maybe it’s selfish of me to say, but I wish he and others like him made the choice to stay.

I know I can’t control people. I can’t make them do the things I want them to. Nor should I change who I am in order to get them to stay. All of my past mentors and favorite professors have also left Brown. And of course, I admire their ability to make tough decisions, especially if it helps better their emotional, mental, or physical wellbeing. But I won’t say it isn’t rough on me—on everyone who struggles to make connections.

The entire experience, when it happens again and again, just seems to accumulate into a big ball of “I’m not worth anyone’s time,” “why should I expect them to stay,” and “when will I get to be the ‘better’ choice?”

All of these thoughts, despite me knowing they’re irrational and self-centered and untrue, ricochet like frenzied fruit flies in my head. And like actual fruit flies, they never really go away. They hide in cupboards, underneath trash bags, between window sills, and on the ceiling, just barely out of sight. They’re drawn to sad thoughts, to angry thoughts, to jealous and confused thoughts. They love to linger. But I’ve learned that by focusing on the small choices I make everyday, focusing on the small choices my roommates and friends make everyday, I’m able to look past the choices that weren’t made. The reality is, I’m making choices daily. So much of my childhood was spent waiting on others to make a choice, spent on waiting to be chosen. But I’m always making a conscious decision to “be,” whether that’s with others (watching Christmas romcoms, wrapped in blankets) or on my own (doodling in a fancy notebook I found in the trash over the summer).

It felt good when my CAPS therapist chose to stay for me. And I’m allowed to feel good about those small wins. But I’ve learned that true reassurance comes not from waiting to be chosen, but from the autonomy of choosing yourself. People I care about might not stick around. And who am I to get in their way? They’re making their choices and I’ll be making mine.

Notes on Wes Anderson

and on watching at the Avon, because I can do that again

by Madaline Canfield Illustrated by Emma T Capps In homage to the vignette-laden construction of a film I do not feel particularly inspired to pay homage to, what follows is a hodgepodge collection of reflections on watching Wes Anderson’s mass market art house movies, and why his latest stands unfortunately apart from the rest. *** I was away, here in Providence, when I heard that the beloved independent movie theater in my hometown was in jeopardy of closing. Given that this was a theater of such local renown it had earned its own Wikipedia page, the closing was not a simple matter. There were articles written in the local paper and events designed to revive ticket sales. There were petitions for the city council to designate the theater as a historical site, thus sparing the imminent destruction of its velvet chairs and popcorn machines. There were even two protests organized on the sidewalk outside the theater. But none of it worked. Drained of an income during the COVID consumer slump, the theater closed quietly in March, and I have yet to return to observe the sorry state of its dismantling.

I never saw a Wes Anderson film in that theater, but sinking into those plush seats I developed a love for (or at least a general appreciation of ) many of the actors enshrined within Anderson’s exclusive cadre of castmates. For my sixteenth birthday, a few friends took me to see Lady Bird, which—in addition to introducing me to the cultural phenomena of Saoirse Ronan and Timothée Chalamet—allowed us to revel in the artistic vindication of our youthful angst. With my brothers, I became acquainted with Frances McDormand as she delivered repeated tirades against the police in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. And next to my grandmother who swears she has seen every movie ever made, I’ve watched Tilda Swinton traipse across that curtain-framed screen more times than I can count.

Each time, I saw these films with other people: November 12, 2021 5

ARTS & CULTURE

family, closest friends, classmates I had struck up random conversations with and decided to get to know better. And each time, the movies left an indelible impression on us, captivated as we were by the searing social commentaries, the beautiful scenes articulating poignant tales of trying to live, somewhere, somehow, in our fraught and ridiculous world. *** To teach us how to write about stories, he chose a movie.

My ninth grade English teacher projected the opening sequence of Rushmore to explain to his group of artistically illiterate students how to write literary analysis. In lieu of diction and punctuation, we had the odd shots, the sweeping scene transitions, the frolicking classical music, and, of course, the close ups on characters and static fixations on scenery which render the whole image a misplaced painting.

The exaggerated nature of all things Wes Anderson exemplified the evocative presence of style in literature, the power of literary devices which, even if we failed to fully understand their purpose, we could tell were obviously doing something. *** As someone who loves to make sentences twist along to trace the marks of my own brain, I appreciate the amiable quirk of the camera that lights up the scene and directs the plot of every Anderson concoction.

His movies, with their endlessly eccentric structure, consistently cultivate an inimitable directorial voice.

His quaint touch brands the scenes: kids perched cross legged atop a four-inch wide pole vaulted into the sky; camera shots that stare backwards into binoculars to look at the eyes of their owner; people marching over the flat profile of a mountain while still wearing their work uniforms; random sketches and cartoonized images and tableau shots scattered about without warning or explanation; Owen Wilson delivering exposition, while sitting on an stationary bike, while holding onto a moving bus tugging him through the streets, before inexplicably falling into a manhole. Each oddity adamantly endorses a surreal whimsy that defies logic, physics, or genre. Amid the violence and depression and morbidity that Anderson depicts with blasé flair, there is something vivacious and fun about the absurdity of a sad world where people are committed to strange jobs in strange places with strange people. The world is actually very weird, 6 post–

and burrowed within the shrouds of nonsense that is everyday life, there is just that—life, pulsing along to the beat of the story. That part is critical. In all the other movies of his I’ve seen before his newest, the absurdity tells a story. *** Anderson’s most recent film, The French Dispatch, employs an abnormal film structure which, even as I acknowledge the fun of it, presents not so much an actual story as it does a creative class project with little potential for application in the real world. The movie celebrates the final issue of an eponymous literary magazine (a parody of The New Yorker) written by American expats covering the twentieth century social and political affairs of the fictional French city Ennuisur-Blasé (Anderson imparting his ironic touch on a city of craziness). But rather than choosing a plot line to illustrate this, the film devotes its energy to acting out three of the articles included in the magazine.

The frame narrative—the writers putting together the magazine—receives barely enough screen time to ground the movie on some cohesive plane, let alone to emotionally and convincingly reflect on the value of their journalistic project.

The French Dispatch relies on its mock literary article vignettes to impart a message, or rather an ode, to the craft it mimics: the immersive art of modern journalism. Journalism, the cast insists, is a process brimming with life, earning its idealized integrity by diving headfirst into the frenetic mess made by the societies that surround us. This may sound beautiful, and yes, provide enjoyable entertainment.

But it’s merely a thesis justifying an industry. It is an essay, grasping at an earnestness conventionally communicated through fiction. It is an idea, segregated from some incontrovertibly compelling narrative woven into the scenery and the costumes and the dialogue that Anderson cherishes, the literary devices of the big screen left to stand alone with no story to depict, only an argument to articulate.

Which might be fine (sometimes people try to make apolitical art), if The French Dispatch weren’t so high profile. To consume the intellectual space and generate the artistic capital that it does, Anderson’s newest work, unfortunately like his past productions, chooses not to dedicate nearly as much intentionality towards resonating with the times as it devotes towards basking in the surreal wit of its own aesthetic.

Some viewers may appreciate the opportunity to simply forget the present, but I have never been attracted to art distracted from its own context. The social issues the movie mildly references are lost in the frenzy of running around in Ennui. This may be Anderson’s most diverse film to date, and yet one of my earliest reactions while watching was disappointment in how white it still presented, how fixated on the male sexualization of otherwise unknowable women.

Tethered to the project of venerating journalism, these “diverse” writers and artists receive a few pieces of dialogue to justify their general role in the scene, but they exist deprived of the complete story that compels them in their work.

Recalling the power of the other stories acted out by Anderson’s illustrious actors’ circle, including his own previous films, the message asserted by The French Dispatch is lackluster. And for a movie directed by a man in love with all things visually energetic and abnormal, lackluster is the one thing that is actually weird. *** Unlike with Anderson’s other films, unlike any other movie I can remember having seen in an independent theater, I ventured to the Avon and watched this one alone. The conditions reiterate the reality of the film. This was not a movie I would turn to when looking to forge a new friendship or to strengthen an old one. I might suggest it as some droll entertainment for a casual evening on the couch (or someone’s dorm bed), especially if in the company of fellow aficionados of this country’s most untouchable literary magazine. But its inability to show me my world leaves me without an artistic medium through which I can develop an abiding connection with someone else.

The French Dispatch is nothing more than successfully interesting. And interesting alone is not enough to orient two friends towards a shared understanding of ourselves. *** My RPLs recently sent out an email inviting our dorm to go see a free movie together at the Avon next week. They told us that we will likely be viewing The French Dispatch, though it’s possible that the theater will have transitioned to screening a different movie by then. As much as I would find a second viewing enjoyable, I hope it’s something else. That way, maybe I will be able to get to know my neighbors better.

Birthday Karaoke

singing at another person's sleepover by megan slusarewicz Illustrated by Joanne Han Lexington, Kentucky, circa 2012, circa 8:00 p.m., circa two hours before bedtime, circa bedtime is for cowards. This is the first birthday party I’ve been invited to since moving here from Texas, and I’m eager to make a good impression so that more invitations come my way.

Unfortunately, I’m scrawny and can never seem to get myself to stop saying weird stuff. People don’t tend to like me much at first.

Emma and I met on the first day of school when I sat next to her on the schoolbus and started talking. She didn’t say much in reply, so I took out my MP3 player and asked if she wanted to share. She did. Now we listen to music together every day in our designated bus seat.

So really, it was the music that made us bond and not what I said or what she didn’t say. Words may be hard

ARTS & CULTURE for me, but lyrics don’t really feel like words, and tunes… tunes say things that words never could. I know this because in Disney Princess movies, when the princess sings, that’s when we really know she’s a beautiful person, inside and out.

My eyes scan the beaming faces of eight of Emma’s choir friends, the only other guests, waiting for someone to do something.

“Why don’t we do karaoke?” Sophie pipes up. I like Sophie. She’s energetic and a natural leader. Also, she’s very nice to me, even though most people think I’m kind of mean. But I also don’t trust her because she’s very nice to me and also has long blonde hair.

This is suspicious.

The choir girls who I barely recognize from math class nod vigorously. My heart gasps with a feeling somewhere between dread and anticipation.

In preschool, I used to sing from the top of the playground watchtower because I knew everyone would be bewitched by it, and I sing in the bath all the time. So, I’m pretty sure I’m good at singing, but these girls are in choir: They practice; they know things. But who am I kidding? I’m really good at singing.

Sophie grins. “Who wants to go first?” Not even a second passes before she volunteers herself.

“Okay, I’ll go.”

Beside her, Emma faintly says, “Cool,” her hands clasped together in her lap.

“Can we put the song on the TV?” one of the other girls asks. I don’t remember her. Stirred, Emma shakes her head to zone back in. “Yeah, definitely.” She grabs a remote from the arm of the neglected couch and opens YouTube on the TV. I didn’t know you could do that.

Sophie sings something from the Disney channel.

I don’t know what. Probably from Hannah Montana.

I’m not allowed to watch Disney Channel because my parents think it’s mind-numbing. Anyway, Sophie is singing and she is really good even though sometimes her pitch wobbles and she runs out of breath. She’s really really good. This is going to be more competitive than I had thought. The choir girls smirk amongst themselves knowingly, as if they expected this, which I suppose they did.

We clap.

“Who wants to go next?” Someone asks. Someone goes next. It’s all very predictable.

In the end, it’s down to Emma and me.

“Megan, do you wanna go?”

“Yeah, I’ll go.” My hands and feet buzz like bubbles in a jacuzzi, intense and then fading out. Socks and gloves woven into translucence near the ends. Dainty socks and gloves. Opera gloves. And opera socks. This the moment everyone will understand what a beautiful and enigmatic person I am. My stomach turns. I pretend this is a good feeling.

Emma taps my shoulder and asks which song she needs to pull up. “‘Vincent’ by Don McLean.”

No one has heard of the song before. I’m used to it, but am still a bit disappointed. My parents are huge music buffs and over the course of my childhood I memorized hundreds of classic songs from their youth. I finally started using Grooveshark in seventh grade, only to learn my taste had been corrupted and I could never fully embrace pop music. Yes, this makes me obnoxious.

Sometimes I wonder if people don’t like my music because they don’t like me.

“You don’t know ‘Vincent’?” I gasp. “It was a huge hit in England when it came out.” My Dad had told me this on a road trip to the San Antonio Riverwalk once. I didn’t really know what it meant, but it sounded important.

The girls look at me with irritation that they think they’re concealing. Emma looks the same as she always does. She already knows my tendencies

and understands my intentions aren’t malicious.

Just very misguided.

I sing okay and they clap. This is satisfactory.

Maybe a little disappointing. Singing amazing would’ve been ideal, but I’m not in choir. Plus, they seem slightly unsettled by the lyrics. They’re not as sophisticated as me; that’s not my fault.

Honestly, maybe singing isn’t that big a deal after all. Anyone can learn how to sing. I’m still beautiful and enigmatic. I’m just so enigmatic that they don’t even understand how beautiful my singing voice is. Yeah, actually, I am good at singing. I’m just a tortured artist, doomed to be misunderstood. I can work with that.

I turn to Emma. “Okay, now your turn.”

Emma stares at the floor. “I don’t know…”

Nobody looks surprised except me. “What do you mean you ‘don’t know?’ You’re in choir! You sing every day!”

“It’s not the same, though.” Emma sits up.

“What do you mean ‘it’s not the same?’”

“I mean that it’s not the same!” Emma snaps, and everyone jumps. We’ve never seen Emma yell before.

Sophie gently offers an explanation. “Singing in a group is a lot less scary than singing a solo.”

“And you sing differently!” Emma continues, “Sophie has a solo voice. I don’t have a solo voice.”

Sophie looks embarrassed, “That’s not true…”

Emma doesn’t reply, which means it’s my turn to step in.

“I want to hear what your voice sounds like. I haven’t gotten to hear you like everyone else has.” I hastily add: “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Emma groans, “It’s not that I don’t want to, I just…”

“So you want to?” I offer.

“Yeah, but...” she sighs heavily. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Sophie brightens. “Great! What song do you want to do?” “‘Fireflies’ by Owl City.”

My fingers fumble against the TV remote. Every time the cursor hovers over the letter I need, it slithers right past, like trying to catch a cockroach with a glass.

Eventually, Sophie confiscates the machine and types the song herself. I only feel a bit humiliated by how little time it takes her.

Emma’s voice emerges so quietly I almost don’t notice it. Once audible, her melody quakes like leaky faucet droplets plopping into water. She’s off-key and it takes all my self-control not to cringe, and right as

I think I can’t take it any more, something changes.

Her voice stabilizes.

She was right—they do sing differently. Sophie’s voice fills the room like a bell, but Emma’s settles onto us, prickles at our skin, and melts. Both are worthy soloists. Water drips from the ceiling and immediately freezes, leaving behind icicles which shine blue. The room darkens around us and Emma glows, a jellyfish in the ocean, voice of shimmering ice. I don’t conceal my awe.

Then it dawns on me.

Quiet Emma, shy Emma… Words don’t like to help me much. They get tangled up with each other and don’t hold the shape I want them to. But, as stoic as Emma seems, words are hard for her, too. She has things to say but doesn’t say them. She doesn’t think we’d like her words.

I wonder what else I haven’t noticed. I wonder whether I’ve listened at all.

The song ends with a torrent of apologies. “I’m sorry, that was so bad. God, I couldn’t stop my voice shaking, see I told you…”

For one moment my inner dialogue pauses. I use everything I have to prove her wrong.

“What are you talking about? You were amazing!”

Everyone’s yelling over each other, expressing the same sentiment.

“No I wasn’t…”

“You’ve got to be,” I pause, unsure of whether to say the word. “Fricking kidding me!”

You could hear a pin drop. If someone says the word “fricking” in fifth grade, they must be very serious about what they’re saying. That or they’re a delinquent, but everyone knows I enjoy Percy Jackson just a little too much to be a delinquent.

“She’s right, you know,” Sophie says. “You’re really good.”

“Really?” Emma’s voice sounds faintly hopeful.

“Yes.” Emma looks at her hands, clasped once again.

“Okay.”

She’s the same old Emma, curled into herself, but she’s changed slightly. Her shoulders look a little looser. Her hands ease their grip. No one speaks for a while. No one needs to. We hold this moment here. I glance at Emma. Just like that first day, when I pulled out my MP3 player and we listened to my music together. Her song didn’t tell me anything about her, but it gave me somewhere to start.

November 12, 2021 7

LIFESTYLE

Winter Wardrobe a clothing guide for the cold

by Alexandra Herrera Illustrated by Lena He IG: @liquidbutterflies white sneakers. Most of the items are ubiquitous and indistinguishable, but the vivacious red wide-leg jeans add the right amount of contrast to elevate the outfit.

Knitted Sweaters Again, another staple in many Brown student closets. However, there’s quite a variety in types of knitted sweaters to consider. To keep warm and also as a statement piece if you don’t want to put on a coat, wear an oversized chunky sweater in a bright color.

I applaud anyone who possesses the talent to knit a sweater themselves! Also, consider a button-down knit sweater. They may be fitted as a standalone piece or oversized and layered over another thinner top. Pair your knitted top with corduroy pants, jeans, layered over a maxi satin slip, or any other combo you desire!

There comes a time each fall semester when you stroll among the fallen leaves and the bitter wind of Providence numbs your fingertips to a shade of red that Rudolph would envy. To put up our best defense against another winter on the hill, it’s time to bust out the winter clothes! You may not know where to begin with putting together a presentable, yet homeostasis-approved look. If so, here are some outfit ideas so you don’t get stuck in a vicious cycle of sweatpants and a hoodie!

Statement Pants Need to keep your legs warm, but tired of wearing the same black leggings or basic blue jeans? Now is the perfect season to invest in a bold pair of pants to spruce up your wardrobe! Or take a pair of old jeans and DIY them with paint or sewing with yarn!

I recommend a pair of straight or wide-leg pants that are either boldly colored or printed. Initially,

these may seem frivolous, but pair them with a plain black or white top depending on the color scheme and these pants will become a regular staple in your wardrobe. Everyone needs a little color to pull them out of the dreariness of Providence weather. Go big or go home, am I right?

Puffer Coats These are pretty much a staple in every Brown student’s wardrobe for the coldest of temperatures.

Since you most likely have one of these in your closet, I’d like to give you some ideas for rotating outfits using the same coat. If your coat is a solid, neutral color, then consider using bolder colors or patterns for your other clothing. This could take the form of the statement pants I mentioned earlier, a midi skirt, or a graphic t-shirt. For example, I would pair a plain black puffer with a white high neck halter top, bold red wide-leg jeans, and a pair of classic

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe

“On those days of streaming sunlight, the romping sparrows weren’t afraid of the hawks and even the cowardly cardinals would criss-cross through the trees, blood-red spots flitting against the sky for what could be no reason but fun.”

—Adi Thatai, “Birdkeeper” 11.13.2020

“Brown is a good place to be, and it’s kind of cool, but in a way, it is objectively very uncool.”

—Alisa Caira, “Mosh Pit of Love” 11.15.2019

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

Sparkles It’s the beginning of the holiday season, so how could I not mention sparkles? These may take several forms, from glitter to rhinestones. Any article of clothing or accessory––a necklace for example–– will add that final holiday cheer touch! Even some facial glitter would add pop to a simple black dress!

Personally, I have an eye out for a black sequin mini skirt for New Year’s. While most of these items won’t keep you warm, unless you find a sweater or pants, they are on theme for the holiday party you dragged yourself out of bed to attend.

Balancing looking put together with dressing like you just rolled out of bed during the winter in Providence is certainly a struggle. However, I believe that dressing around a certain article of clothing, such as a puffer coat, is a good tool for putting together an outfit, as well as using basics in conjunction with a statement article of clothing. Hopefully, assembling an absolutely hot lewk will provide you with the confidence boost necessary to end this semester on a high note!

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editors Danielle Emerson Leyton Ho

Copy Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Samuel Nevins Eleanor Peters

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITOR Tessa Devoe

Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

Editors Angela Chen Kelsey Cooper Julia Gubner Kyra Haddad Chloe Zhao

HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Joanne Han

Want to be involved?

Email: olivia_howe@brown.edu!

8 post–

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 Alexandra Herrera Ellie Jurmann Nicole Kim Liza Kolbasov Elliana Reynolds Adi Thatai Victoria Yin