post- 11/19/2021

In This Issue

I Love You (Verb)

lisa kolbasov 4

Facing Death

Zoe Creane 2 ellie jurmann 5

Drinking Buddies

Press Start to Play Ethan Pan 7

Art Deco-rum Olivia Cohen 6 Olivia Cohen 8

Best to Worst

postCover by John Gendron

NOV 19

VOL 28 —

ISSUE 9

FEATURE

Facing Death taking purpose from loss

By Zoe Creane Illustrated by Elliana Reynolds content warning: death In biology, everything happens for a reason. Our

complexity of our world, we write the happenings of our

and exuberant person. Our high school had thousands of

existence off to fate, claiming that “everything happens for

students, but Noam stood out. The flashing memories I

a reason.”

have of him are all tinged with sunlight; it felt that he had

bodies rely on complex systems of call-and-response, on

The reality of life—as distressing and unsettling as it

the beautiful and articulate signaling pathways that enable

may be—is that very little happens for a reason. There is no

life as we know it. Each action in our circulatory, nervous,

irrepressible plan or automatic response, as we observe in

One of the first times I saw Noam was from the stands,

digestive, and immune systems can be traced back to a

biological processes. There are often events for which we can

watching a school soccer game. A player flitted across

stimulus, an underlying cause.

find no justification, no sanity or sense. Bad things happen to

the field, deftly dribbling the ball through the pack of

good people and good things happen to bad people.

defenders. “Who is that?” I asked my friend, mesmerized

It’s easy to extend this biological fact to our human

harnessed the bright energy of the sun and was channeling it into his world.

lives. Our brains are systematic processing centers, and

This truth is something I’ve recently had to face with

by the player’s tangible confidence. “It’s Noam, Caleb’s

we’re naturally inclined to sort our lives into orderly

intensity. Several months ago, the brother of a friend of

older brother,” she replied. “He’s ridiculously talented.”

arrangements. Unable to embrace the overwhelming

mine drowned in a river. Noam was 20 years old, a joyous

Noam and our school’s team won the North Coast Section

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Here we are! Sprinting towards Thanksgiving, moments away from a well-deserved break, but not out of Brown’s eternal midterm season quite yet.

For me, it’s the time of year when I get overwhelmed and then take a spontaneous 4 mile walk through downtown Providence. Just to get off this hill, to be somewhere else, to feel simultaneously more and less like a person. In an effort to chase this same feeling, I drove my roommates to Seekonk to Target this week hoping to buy seasonal bird decor. We arrived to find the aisle empty, devoid of cute birds in winter outfits. No burst of serotonin for me, I suppose, but still worthwhile to go somewhere, for once.

Our writers this week are on their own odd journeys. Feature navigates the search for meaning after experiencing tragedy and loss. In Arts & Culture, one writer reconsiders the best way to appreciate art

museums while the other ruminates on 80’s influences in Mitski’s discography. One of our Narrative writers assigns beverages that best fit people’s personalities while the other writes a handbook on how to love. Apropos of the season, one writer in Lifestyle ranks the best Thanksgiving foods. Also in Lifestyle, members of the Genealogy Club contribute stories about their experiences researching family history.

Intrepid travelers, all of us. Bravely pushing through the sludge of days that Daylight Savings Time sucked all the light out of, trying our best to reach a break filled with family or friends or, at the very least, good food. Whatever odyssey you’re in the midst of, I hope that post- can be your steadfast traveling companion.

Bon voyage,

Kyoko Leaman A&C Section Editor

2 post–

FEATURE Championship that year, and Noam continued on to play

It has been a devastating year; Noam’s death followed

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “Noam did not die for a reason.”

the loss of several other teens in our community, one of

I sat with this understanding, and it hurt. Noam didn’t

The qualities that made Noam a captivating soccer

whom had been a close friend of Noam’s. True to the twisting

die for a reason. It felt terrible, that there could be such loss

player were also what made him a captivating person.

nature of life, Noam grieved with us before becoming the one

without purpose. And then, in an instant, understanding

His friends spoke of his empathy, his ability to listen and

we grieved. Not just that—Noam taught us how to grieve.

flashed through me: not everything happens for a reason,

Division I soccer in college.

respond in a way that made the outside world fall away.

After his passing, a mentor of his shared a piece of

but I can find reason within everything that happens. I

They spoke of his wit and charisma, how he could make

wisdom that came directly from Noam. While mourning

can take purpose from every moment, difficult or joyous.

anyone laugh in that full-bellied way. Noam was a camp

that loss of one of his best friends, Noam had set aside a

Finding purpose in the most dreadful of times allows us to

counselor—a fantastic one—and his campers spoke of both

little time every day to grieve, and a lot of time every day

find purpose in our existence, to find comfort and joy.

his goofiness and his reliability, of the wonderful world he

to lean into joy. Whether that was through adventuring

In 2005, David Kessler co-authored a book that laid

created for them.

with his friends, entertaining his campers, playing soccer,

out the five stages of grief, a system now widely used for

or something else, the last few months of Noam’s life were

those experiencing loss. The five stages were: denial and

spent leaning into joy.

isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

This summer, I was working on a tiny farm hundreds of miles from home. One of my good friends was working at Noam’s summer camp as a receptionist, taking calls in

Although we didn’t know it at the time, Noam was

Fourteen years later, Kessler published Finding Meaning:

the office. One Thursday afternoon, I walked into my room

teaching us how to endure his own passing and move

The Sixth Stage of Grief. In it, he shares the realization

after washing the dirt off and found she had texted me.

onwards. I think of him every day, and I allow myself to

he came to when facing the death of his 21-year-old son:

Let me know when you can talk, I have some heartbreaking

feel his absence in the world. I let grief sweep over my

finding purpose and meaning within a loss is necessary to

news to share. I love you. I dialed her immediately, heart

body for a moment, and then I release it. I allow the tears

transform grief into peace.

pounding against my rib cage. When she picked up the

to build up behind my eyes, the breath to freeze in my

Kessler writes, “Your loss is not a test, a lesson,

phone, her breath was ragged, her voice trembling. My

chest, the adrenaline to course through my veins. For a

something to handle, a gift, or a blessing. Loss is simply

friend had received a call earlier that day from an EMT who

moment, I feel my heart break for Noam, this terrible

what happens to you in life. Meaning is what you make

had responded to an emergency call at a nearby swimming

chasm fracturing my body into pieces. And then, I take a

happen.” Kessler suggests different ways to find meaning,

hole. “Noam has drowned,” she told me.

breath. I bring the pieces back together, let the pain roll

from rituals of commemoration to deepening connections

When I heard of his passing, it felt as though the world

over me and out of me. The rest of my day, I lean into joy. In

with those around you to finding ways to honor those who

had split in two. On one side sat all reason and logic—on the

the weeks following his passing, this could take intentional

pass. However, at the end of the day, meaning is subjective.

other sat this terrible death and its profound heartbreak.

effort. Long bike rides along the water, hikes in the woods,

We are responsible for finding our purpose within a loss.

It felt as though the universe had betrayed us, that it had

swimming in the ocean; I found my joy in nature, so I spent

Kessler writes, “Death ends a life, but not our relationship,

ignored all rational thinking and the very fabric of life.

as much time as possible outdoors.

our love, or our hope.”

Noam was too full of life, too intrinsic to our community,

Some friends found their joy in community, in sitting

From Noam, I learned the importance of leaning

together. Others found it in art, cooking, or animals. I

into joy, while not ignoring our grief. From Noam’s death,

I cried with my friend on the phone, sobs tearing

cannot imagine the grief that swept through Noam’s family

I learned the importance of life. I am young, with a huge

through my chest. The next time I saw my sister, I held

and friends, but I know that despite this incomprehensible

adventure ahead of me—but so was Noam. There is great

her so tight that we couldn’t breathe, pressing her body

pain, they still chose to invest a tremendous effort in his

uncertainty in our paths, events we cannot predict and

into mine. With each friend, each family member,

wish that they lean into joy.

shouldn’t attempt to. With death made so tangible, I imbue

too young to die.

each person I interacted with, there was a new sense of

There is no justification or reason for Noam’s passing.

my life with energy in ways I didn’t before. I spend more

urgency. I held their hands, I said “I love you” with wild

It is heartbreaking, a cataclysmic tear of the web of the

time outside, less time on my phone; I work past fears that

ease, I spent time simply feeling the presence of those

universe. In the weeks after Noam’s death, an adult in my

have inhibited me in the past; I pursue random interests,

around me. Age and vivacity were no longer indisputable

life mentioned that “everything happens for a reason.”

new connections, and indulgences. Life is ephemeral, but

determinants in our livelihoods; my world sparkled with a

Bullshit, I thought. I’ve mourned the death of grandparents,

that shouldn’t be a source of fear. Rather, its impermanence

transient glimmer, a sense that nothing was as permanent

of older family friends; never have I mourned the death

should push us towards purpose. I found my purpose

as I’d once imagined.

of a 20-year-old until this summer. I hadn’t so intimately

within Noam’s passing: to appreciate life, to love each day

In the weeks following his passing, our community

faced the desperate injustice that death can create, the

and each person. I channel the sunlight he carried within

united. The countless lives Noam had touched drew

wild frustration and uncertainty. We lost someone with so

him into my own life. As Rose Kennedy said, “Birds sing

together, a massive network of people with an invisible

much left to give, with so much left to do. I have so much

after a storm. Why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight

thread of connection.

left to give, so much left to do!

in whatever sunlight remains to them?”

Simple Machines 1. Inclined plane 2. Florence + the 3. Screw ;) 4. Pull the lever, Kronk

“It’s cause I shaved my head this morning, so I’m essentially velcro.”

“I never tried to be butch. I’m just femme and dirty.”

5. My brain 6. Rage against the 7. Wheel and axle 8. Gun Kelly 9. Time 10. Pulley

November 19, 2021 3

NARRATIVE

I Love You (Verb) an attempt at (re)definition by liza kolbasov Illustrated by Anica Aguilar ig: @anlouira (1) the act of blurring what is not yours and what is (ex. black sesame milk tea; tonkotsu ramen; cafeteria

If I go out to eat with friends, I always suggest sharing meals. It’s practical, sure—why would you

chicken noodle soup) Lately, I’ve found myself missing my high school cafeteria. Not that the food served was any good—in fact, it was decidedly subpar, bland, dry, and almost inedible. Rather, I missed something about the experience of consuming it. Rushing to the lunch line after class to beat the crowd, debating whether it’s worth it to wait longer for the daily special— ravioli with an unidentifiable cream sauce—and then deciding to go for the express line. Splitting a soup and salad with a friend, each paying for one and eating half the other’s meal. Bringing the food back to an empty classroom, sitting on top of a table, and passing the steaming cardboard bowl of soup and the plastic salad container back and forth, sharing one spoon and one fork because, in our rush to get out of the lunch line, we forgot to grab two.

But of course it’s not about the cafeteria at all.

I just miss people, and I miss moments where I didn’t have to tell them that. I miss being able to reach over and steal a spoonful of mediocre soup that tastes mostly like salt and laugh at a joke that isn’t really funny to anyone but a group of sleepdeprived high schoolers.

This overwhelming sense of closeness lives in other places, too; in the order something different so we can try each other’s, and the related here, have a sip. The way everything just tastes better when it’s someone else’s, and the next time I order the same drink alone I think of the person who introduced me to it.

limit yourself to making one choice?—but it’s more than that. It’s what makes eating out worth it. The intimacy of sitting close, passing a spoon back and forth. Even if it’s just one bite or one sip—we’re here, together, it says.

4 post–

(2) enthusiastically swallowing spoonfuls of words (e.g. rocket motors; Nietzche) I don’t have a lot of STEM friends—generally, we tend to move in different circles. But one of my high school friends is the exception. I generally care very little about engineering or physics (the one physics class I took in high school was, by a long shot, my least favorite class I’ve ever taken, save only for PE), but I can listen to him talk about rocketry or robotics, the classes he’s taking or the projects he’s working on, for hours. His passion is contagious. He’s always willing to explain concepts and make them approachable.

But really, it’s not the way he explains technical terms, it’s him. I may not care about the intricacies of calculus, but he does, and so of course I will too.

He’s one of my few friends interested in STEM, but he’s one of many friends with incredible, contagious passion. I’ll be the first to admit that I know very little about most things in the world.

But I’m always grateful to be allowed to lurk in the background of conversations, to be a listener, to be talked to. I love sitting in on 4 a.m. conversations, half-empty mugs of tea left to grow cold on the table, forgotten amid philosophy and history debates. It’s a contagious sort of care.

(3) caring enough to ask (e.g. what hides out in the night) Text me when you get home and let me walk you—little signs of caring, of wanting to protect someone in an uncertain world. Perhaps it is wrong to appreciate signs of love grown out of the dangers of the world, I don’t know. But I value it anyway, the friends who wait an extra moment to make sure I get home okay, who go out of their way to walk with me at night. Who stay an extra two hours in the library, or leave early with me when the AC is exacerbating my perpetual coldness, so I don’t have to make the ten-minute midnight trek home alone. Who stay on the phone with me while I walk through the night, making jokes so I forget my fear.

(4) the act of blurring what is not yours and what is, part II (e.g. Betty Boop sweatshirt; ankle-length skirt) The day before a friend left for college, we met one last time to get coffee and say goodbye for the next four months. Sitting at an outdoor table sipping our drinks, they told me to close my eyes—they had a surprise for me. I obliged, and they passed me a green leather skirt they’d thrifted earlier in the summer.

It’ll suit you, they said.

A month later, I put the skirt on for the first time. Feeling the soft leather brush against my shins reminded me of them. I paired it with a black mesh shirt with roses on it, stolen from another friend when she decided she didn’t want it anymore.

Wearing someone else’s clothing always makes me think of them, even if it’s just a coat I borrowed

NARRATIVE because I didn’t have one to match my outfit. It feels like I’m carrying a piece of them with me.

(5) the act of blurring the lines between what is not you and what is (e.g. words; notes; the underlines in your copy of Perks of Being a Wallflower) I don’t have favorite genres—I will read or watch or listen to anything if it’s recommended to me. I love the insight I get from reading something someone else loves. My favorite genre, then, is the art that people I care about love—whether that’s medieval poetry or a brain candy TV show.

There is tenderness, too, in recommending media to someone else—in saying, hey, I read this (or watched it, or heard it) and thought about you.

A certain way of seeing someone, their reflection in words or worlds. I lend books often and perhaps too insistently—telling people to read them rather than asking if they want to.

This is the way I read Perks of Being a Wallflower for the first time, how I ended up sobbing over Station Eleven—a post-apocalyptic novel about a theater troupe after a pandemic obliterates humanity— during the second month of COVID isolation. The way I first listened to Bruno Major, who swiftly became one of my favorite artists. The reason I give a friend every single book I enjoy. You should read this.

Code for this feels like you.

(6) saying yes to the blurring, an acknowledgement, a reciprocal performance (e.g. mugs full of tea; slightlyburnt toast; talk to me, please, if you need) I often offer people things—cups of tea, a mealswipe lunch, editing an essay. Seeing someone stressed out, I don’t always know what to say, but I want to try, if I can, to do something small to make their lives easier. I’d do anything for you, I want to say, just tell me what you need. I want to be helpful, even though I know I can’t always be.

There is kindness, then, in saying yes—in the people who take the cups of tea, even though they don’t really want them. I joke, sometimes, that my friends are manufacturing conditions for me to feel useful, but I think it’s often true. It may make my offers slightly pointless, but in some ways, it’s the symbolism of the exchange that matters—the offer a gesture of care, the acceptance an acknowledgement of that care. The recognition: maybe there’s nothing I can do or say, but I’m here. I’ll be here.

(7) the act of crossing space, with intention; really just another border blurred; where is it again that we stop and others begin (e.g. just let me know you’re there; it means a lot that you’re there; I’m here, just so you know) Presence means a lot to me, in whatever way it’s shown. I tend to be uncomfortable with physical touch from strangers, but I become very cuddly around people I care about. Someone leaning against me, or holding my hand, or giving me a hug, feels endlessly reassuring. I still remember the last time I hugged my friends before COVID sent us home— the last time I hugged anyone for over a year. It’s one thing I’ve never taken for granted, having people who are willing to be physically present. Reaching for people I care about almost reflexively, wanting to shrink the distance between us.

(8) everything else (e.g. everything else) Handwritten notes scribbled on post-its; remembering your favorite dessert; a good luck text before a test; a photo of a sunset; this made me think of you; cooking for you, even just ramen; eating ramen in your kitchen at 4 a.m.; the sound of your laughter; mentioning a new friend’s name; how can you not see it; it’s everywhere, everywhere.

Drinking Buddies if people were pop

by ellie jurmann Illustrated by Joanne Han

Watermelon flavored Hint water (the sparkling version, of course). If Elton John were a beverage, that’s the one he’d be. We can all agree on that, right? Or that Barack Obama would be blueberry soda in a glass bottle? You understand that, too, don’t you? At the very least, please tell me you can see how Pete Davidson would be a cup of skim milk. There’s no way you can refute that one. Maybe this sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to you, but to me this is Common Sense

by Ellie’s brain. Every person I know, and every celebrity too, is analogous to a beverage in my mind. Think synesthesia, but exclusively with beverages. One may wonder why exactly this happens, and I wish I had a clue. What I can tell you, though, is that there is little I can do to stop it from happening.

In all honesty, I don’t think there is a good explanation for why one of my friends reminds me exactly of the “Yumberry Pomegranate” flavor of Sobe Lifewater, a product I have not had in over a decade. I put a great deal of thought into finding the drink that best captures her essence, as I do for all of my friends, but here I mean the word “thought” very loosely. My thought process in deciding the beverage that embodies my friend most perfectly is one based solely on vibes, which is generally antithetical to my nature.

As an overthinker who never takes anything at face value, the idea of having my rationale for something be that it “felt right” seems so wrong and out of character. Still, it is nice to be okay with the sensical nonsense conceived by my brain.

Whenever I describe my thoughts to other people, I describe them as a forest with a narrow path running through it. As I navigate through life, conversations, and ideas both big and small, I walk along the narrow path, trying to maintain sight of my destination, whether that be a goal I am trying to reach or a point I am trying to make. I try to keep my thoughts from wandering too far off the path, since this leads me to fall down rabbit holes of thoughts (one of those being the whole peopleas-beverages ordeal). But when I do choose to

entertain these thoughts, and let my brain be uninhibited in silly ruminations that are far from relevant to anything that actually matters, I end up constructing worlds of my own, swinging from the trees in my forest of thoughts, pulling together the most seemingly unrelated ideas.

On my phone, I have lists upon lists of people as beverages, people as dog breeds, people as colors, and so on. I cannot do something as simple as take a sip of water without thinking about the people who matter to me whose personas make me feel the same way as I do during my waterdrinking experience. And while calling Pete Davidson skim milk may seem like an insult, that is not my intention. The King of Staten Island himself is quite the icon, and skim milk is just who he is. It is possible that my comparison arises subconsciously from his translucent and milky complexion, but that logic does not apply to most other beverages I associate with people.

Plus, it is more fun to believe that there is a random absurdity about it all—an absurdity that somehow just makes sense.

I am not being all that serious, but I do believe that my endless thinking leads to bizarre and outlandish comparisons. Ultimately, however, they are indicative of the qualities associated with a particular person or thing. For example, my friend is similar to Sobe Lifewater in that she reminds me of a childhood friend I used to have, back when I used to enjoy the beverage. Like I said before, it’s not that this will ever make total sense to a person who isn’t me. Still, I have a good time thinking about such trivial yet all-encompassing ideas.

If it were not for my overly analytical nature and chronically understimulated brain, I am not sure what my thoughts would look like. They certainly would not be comprised of debates regarding whether Rihanna is more of a birch beer or Vanilla Coke. And while I am sure that most of the outlandish conceptions of my brain are not going to change the world, a little brain wandering is not such a bad thing.

November 19, 2021 5

ARTS & CULTURE

Art Deco-rum rules of the museum

by Olivia Cohen Illustrated by Maddy Cherr IG: @ maschenn There are certain rules that you have to follow when you walk through an art museum.

Rule number one: you mustn't make any noise.

In order to prove your reverence for the art, and so as not to disrupt others' contemplation, silence is a must. It is perfectly acceptable—expected, even— to throw a nasty side-eye at anybody who happens to have a particularly echo-y cough or unusually squeaky shoes. If looks could kill, then any poor soul who forgot to turn their phone on silent would be carried out of the Met on a stretcher.

Rule number two: distractions are strictly prohibited. No, you may not bring your American Girl doll. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire has to stay in the car, and so do your Hot Wheels. No, you may not play Brick Breaker on your dad's Blackberry.

Rule number three: if you stop to look at a piece of art, you must look at it for at least 30 seconds.

Any less and you start to seem downright arrogant— what, so you were able to soak up everything you needed from Van Gogh's tortured self portraits in all of a glance? Did you even attempt to tackle the color theory behind Jackson Pollock's "Male and Female?"

If you struggle with this one, you can always have a staring contest with an old portrait. The painting will always win, and if your eyes water, at least you'll look like you've been profoundly moved.

These, of course, are rules invented by a little girl who always despised looking at the art in museums, for whom the propriety of an art exhibit made no sense, and therefore had to be committed to memory rather than learned intuitively.

I thought there must be something wrong with me. At age 10, I remember taking a day trip downtown to see an exhibit of Monet’s paintings.

I wore my favorite Abercrombie zip-up and my beat-up Converse and stood fidgeting, ripping a Dum-Dum wrapper into tiny pieces in my pocket.

I understood the technical beauty of the art: thousands of tiny strokes swirled together to form light-dappled clouds and vibrant flower beds. But the stir of emotion that I was supposed to feel looking at them—the innate fascination—was absent. Was I jaded? Ungrateful? My parents spent hours perusing every wall, reading every description. I could never understand how they moved so slowly. I tried desperately to copy their pace by counting: once you

6 post–

get to 20 Mississippi, you can move on to the next one.

When this strategy became too tedious, I pretended to read the descriptions next to each painting, first in English, then in Spanish. My glazed eyes would move back and forth but not take in a single word. I committed to memory the color of each wall in every room I passed through. Black, gray, gray, green, gray, gray, green, blue, gray, gray.

I’d do anything to avoid the fact that I don't like to look at paintings. That truth would suggest some sort of emotional deficit in me, a lack of appreciation for beautiful things, and I wasn't willing to accept that reality.

One afternoon in late February, during my junior year of high school, I went on a school field trip with my French class to the Denver Modern Art Museum. There were thirty of us, all bundled up in parkas and beanies, hands in our pockets and shoulders huddled against the wind. We made our way out of the yellow school buses toward the museum, a hideous metal behemoth shaped like a little kid's attempt at a battleship.

Although my juvenile, stubborn dislike for art museums had calmed to a simmer, I still felt like an imposter. I was an actor among my earnestly enthusiastic peers, who chattered and laughed as we all trundled into the lobby. I settled into the back of the pack between two boys furtively passing a Juul back and forth and a quiet girl, Genevieve, whom I didn't know very well. She struck me as a fervently obedient museum-goer, with thick-rimmed glasses and a notebook clutched to her chest. I practiced repeating the rules in my head: be quiet. No distractions. Move slowly.

Our class was assigned a tour guide, dressed in a jewel-toned turtleneck and a long beaded necklace.

She was soft-spoken enough that, in the back of the group, it was difficult to catch more than a few of her words at a time. I didn't mind. I had already resigned myself to an hour or two of quiet, absent-minded wandering anyway.

The first room we walked through was a long, wide, white-painted hallway lined with stone busts and fullbody statues. The statues were meant to model human bodies, but with strange proportions: one had a head the size of a fist and a large, smooth torso; another was a triangular face with a long neck and spindly arms.

We stopped by one statue that resembled a woman, with an impossibly thin waist and a massive bottom half that spread around her like a bag of sand. As I marvelled at the strange sight in front of me, I heard a quiet voice, barely audible over the sound of the other students whispering and shuffling their feet: "can't say she ain't slim-thick, though."

I turned around and, to my surprise, found that the comment had come from Genevieve, the quiet, studious girl who was walking behind me. She was still the same—wearing a checkered cardigan, backpack straps tight, but now she had a small, wry smile. I couldn't believe it: The textbook representation of art museum propriety had broken rule #1, the Rule of Reverent Silence, within the first five minutes of our visit. I ultimately walked with Genevieve for the entire rest of the exhibit. We playfully critiqued the art and made each other laugh until even our seemingly unflappable tour guide told us to quiet down.

This moment may seem inconsequential, even mundane: what's more adolescent than a shallow joke in a museum on a high school field trip? But my experience visiting museums up until that point had been so rigid, so tight-laced, that I remember even now the profound effect that this visit had on me. I realized that perhaps the rules of museum etiquette that I'd committed so firmly to memory weren't helping me appreciate museums after all; they were making my visits less enjoyable. There is no reason why the rules that parents tell their small children to keep them well-behaved should remain the norm when they grow up.

In general, the idea that museums are some sort of untouchable place with high barriers to entry, defeats the purpose. A museum is a way to remove the pretension from art, to take beautiful paintings and sculptures out of people's private homes and into the public eye. The excessive decorum reverses this effect: it transforms a would-be welcoming entryway into the artistic community and turns it into a rigid and stuffy environment.

So I say bring your book, listen to music as you walk through, make a joke to your friend about a sculpture you don't like. If art has one rule, then that rule is there are no rules, and there's no reason museums themselves should be any different.

ARTS & CULTURE

Press Start to Play

the relationship game in mitski’s music

by Ethan Pan Illustrated by Lucid Clairvoyant IG: @clairvoy.art In one of Pitchfork’s Best New Track reviews, contributor Sue Park renders fittingly lyrical prose to describe Mitski’s newest single and music video, “The Only Heartbreaker”: “Ever the harbinger of love’s decay, Mitski chokes through a self-created inferno.”

Park, along with many listeners, is quick to notice the 80s influence that permeates the track from its first measure. Bright technicolor synths, punchy drums with gated reverb, an insistent beat ripped straight from a-ha’s “Take on Me” and Pat Benatar’s aptly named “Heartbreaker”—it all harkens back to the days of VHS as Mitski sings from the perspective of the “Bad Guy” in a relationship. While bleak lyrics are typical for the artist who has earned a Spotify playlist with 70,000+ likes ranking her songs in order of sadness, Mitski dabbles much less frequently in instrumentation that reads as danceable or poppy.

The interplay of those two features, however, creates a double-pull as the instant catchiness of the tune strikes a hypnotic dissonance with its underlying message. It’s what made “Nobody” Mitski’s bestperforming single from her last album Be the Cowboy, now an almost certain fate for “The Only Heartbreaker” among the tracklist of new record Laurel Hell. Park got it right. Best New Track, for sure.

Danceability, however, is not the most exciting through-line that can be drawn between “The Only Heartbreaker” and Mitski’s previous work. In fact, the reason why Park’s review caught my attention was because it mentioned a facet of Mitski’s discography that previously I thought only I had noticed: the sound of video games. Once again referencing the fiery imagery of the single’s music video, Park writes, “She rises from the ash only to succumb to a dense array of video game–like instrumentals.”

These instrumentals come through most obviously in the bridge, where a high-pitched mechanical chirp—reminiscent of the sound effects in Super Mario Bros.—sets off an epic riff that could easily fit into the chiptune boss battle music of the Castlevania titles or Undertale. As the electric guitar climbs higher and higher, the sense of struggle and peril heightens. In the music video, she flails among the burning trees—trees that are on fire because she set them ablaze in the first place. As the bridge cools off into the final chorus, Mitski faintly sings, “I apologize / You forgive me.” The message is clear: Destruction begets self-destruction.

Mitski is an artist who always takes stock of her entire body of work. She repeats sonic motifs like danceability to emphasize similarities between her songs, while combining them in different ways for novel meanings. It’s no coincidence that the first song of hers that I identified as video game-like also wrestles with the oscillation between destruction and dependency, the self and the other. “Why Didn’t You Stop Me?”, the second track from Be the Cowboy, poses questions that are simultaneously simple and paradoxical: “I know that I ended it, but / Why won't you chase after me?... Why didn't you stop me / And paint it over?” Once again, like in “The Only Heartbreaker,” Mitski depicts a character who pushes a relationship back and must ask her partner to make the move forward.

There are musical similarities, too. An eerie synth chirps after each chorus, its melody so out

of left field that it almost sounds off key. This leads into a bridge with the same “boss battle” energy as “The Only Heartbreaker,” complete with driving drums and a soaring lead guitar. For years, this guitar part left me confused; I knew that it sounded like some video game I had played in my early childhood, but the memory was so deeply buried that I couldn’t figure out what the actual video game was. Turns out, it reminded me of the theme music for ClueFinders—a series of elementary-level educational video games published by the Learning Company—in a launch screen among other Learning Company favorites like Reader Rabbit and The Oregon Trail 5th Edition. The open harmonies on the guitar carry an air of grandness, as if I am standing on top of a hill, staring into the landscape ahead.

For a moment, I’m reminded of simpler days, when my greatest adventures happened on the computer screen and one click could save the world. Then, I’m reminded of the real world, where relationships are not so easy to save.

Mitski’s use of video game sounds also hints at the theme of treating relationships as games.

Indeed, “Why Didn’t You Stop Me?” subtly tells the tale of playing too hard to get, and “The Only Heartbreaker” starts its second verse with, “So I'll be the loser in this game.” While the relationships are emotionally serious, the speakers in these songs cannot act seriously enough to do the right thing for them. Thus, they play out like a losing battle—a back-and-forth volley until, at some point, the partner won’t pick the ball up again. In announcing Laurel Hell, the musician said, “I needed songs that could help me forgive both others and myself. I make mistakes all the time.” In this way, Mitski’s continued contemplation of precipitating romantic downfall can be seen as a process of acceptance. Speaking to Rolling Stone, she qualifies the blame on the bad guy: “Maybe the reason you’re always the one making mistakes is because you’re the only one trying.” It is up to the listener to take the song as an invitation to also forgive—either the self or the other.

While Mitski mines these video game references for meaning, they also connect in a broader sense to Mitski’s Japanese-American identity. Her racial

and ethnic experience appears at various points throughout her music. In earlier songs like “Liquid Smooth” and “First Love/Late Spring,” some of her lines are in Japanese. Her 2016 record Puberty 2 explicitly examines the fraught romance between a white man and an Asian woman in at least two songs (“Happy” and “Your Best American Girl”). Most recently, in explaining the meaning behind Be the Cowboy’s title on the Daily Show with Trevor Noah, she said, “There’s such an arrogance and a freedom to [the cowboy] that is so appealing to me, especially because I’m an Asian woman. I walk into a room and feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Japan’s role in video game history is well known, with its industry emerging as the international leader, coincidentally, during the 1980s. Chiptune, the music genre that encapsulates much of the “video game sound,” also developed in Japan in the 80s. Thus, incorporating video game–like elements into her musical repertoire alludes to this slice of her heritage, regardless of whether it is a conscious choice. In fact, Mitski is just one member of a coterie of English-speaking female artists of Japanese descent that reference video game music, along with the likes of Rina Sawayama and Kero Kero Bonito.

Among them, Mitski’s usage of that sound may be the hardest to identify, hidden behind the noise of indie rock or, for “The Only Heartbreaker,” synth-pop.

Really, it’s the case for much of the nuance and intention in Mitski’s songwriting to go unnoticed.

In the same interview with Trevor Noah, she said, “I don't think I would get as many critiques where people say my music is confessional or raw if I wasn't who I am… For some reason, people really need to imagine me as some sort of vessel for emotion or vehicle for music instead of the creator.” Just as Mitski cannot be reduced to a single genre or sound, she cannot be reduced to a single moniker—not “the 21st century's poet laureate of young adulthood,” not “queen of the sad gays,” not even “mom.” She’ll never leave her past work behind, but she is always moving forward. So give “The Only Heartbreaker” a listen (if only because it’s second to last in that playlist’s sadness ranking). I’ll say it again. Best New Track, for sure.

November 19, 2021 7

LIFESTYLE

Best to Worst: a definitive and 100% factual ranking of thanksgiving foods

by Olivia Cohen Illustrated by jeffrey tao

the cook. If your mom has learned her craft from a tried-and-true family recipe, then this can easily be the best Thanksgiving side dish. Alternatively, if cooked too long, then your stuffing can easily take on the consistency of a kitchen sponge (the one with the pan-scrubber on one side). And, in general, if your mom tends to miss the beep of the oven timer, make sure to throw in a special prayer for the turkey when you say Grace.

6. Cranberry sauce Much like your eccentric unmarried aunt, cranberry sauce is a risky inclusion in your Thanksgiving dinner. If it is gelatinous enough that it jiggles in the bowl as you pass it around the table, then it is better left in the can it came from. But, on the other hand, if it is so liquidy that it stains the bottom of your mashed potatoes pink, then it can ruin the whole meal—kind of like when your cousin, who you haven't seen in years, treats the occasion as an opportunity to sell you Tummy Tea as part of an "entrepreneurship project" that's definitely just a pyramid scheme.

1. Pie The undisputed winner. I won't try to pit pumpkin and pecan pie against each other here. They are both stunning reconfigurations of foods that are woefully underwhelming when out of pie form, but they clean up nicely for the holidays. Pie signals the beginning of the end of Thanksgiving dinner, a sweet release from questions like "what are you going to do with a Literary Arts major?" and "why didn't you bring your boyfriend?" Even if pie weren't the besttasting food at Thanksgiving dinner, it would be infinitely valuable for those few blissful seconds of silence you get when everybody starts digging in.

2. Sweet potato casserole The word "casserole" is your aunt's euphemism for a medley of deep-dish, kitchen-sink, rebaked leftovers. At the risk of offending any Midwestern mothers who might be reading this, it is possibly the worst possible contribution to any potluck-style gathering. (Ok, egg salad is also pretty criminal.)

However, none of these negative stereotypes apply to sweet potato casserole. It is baby food for adults.

Plus, adding mini marshmallows on top is the perfect way to further Americanize your Thanksgiving. (Fun fact: Writing recipes that add them to sweet potato casserole was a corporate scheme in the early 20th century to sell more marshmallows! So American!)

3. Mashed potatoes and gravy The duo that needs no explanation. Nothing lubricates a dehydrated piece of turkey breast like mashed potatoes and gravy. Although this combination does fall in the same elevated-baby-food category as the famed sweet potato casserole, it lags behind its rival only because the process of making gravy is, objectively, pretty nauseating. "Beef powder" is the stuff of food-coma-induced nightmares.

4. Brussels sprouts Bell-bottom jeans. Fanny packs. Bike shorts.

Everything that goes out of fashion eventually comes back, and the brussels sprout is no exception. Once the most universally-despised vegetable, it is now the star of many a fancy restaurant menu and many a Thanksgiving dinner. This renaissance may have something to do with the fact that people figured out how to pan-fry them and add bacon bits, which is an infallible cooking method that improves every single vegetable. Challenge me, I dare you.

5. Stuffing This might be a controversial ranking, but what is controversial if not stuffing dead poultry with stale bread and then eating it? However, you should take this with a grain of salt (or a tablespoon): the true ranking of this side strongly depends on the skill of

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe

“I feel like I should know myself, but the reality is that I don’t. And that’s where the shame, different from the shame of achievement-related insecurity, comes in.”

—Kaitlan Bui, “I Am (Not) a Fake” 11.8.19

“Pen pals become your historians, and you become theirs, safekeeping each other’s past selves in the drawers of your desk or in boxes in the attic.”

—Siena Capone, “Wish You Were Here” 11.13.20

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

7. Salad The day may come when you look down at your overwhelmingly brown-and-orange plate and become slightly concerned at the lack of color variation. This will mark the moment of your passage to adulthood, and it can be a beautiful transformation. But if, on Thanksgiving day, you find yourself mixing together any salad that includes either (1) iceberg lettuce or (2) ranch dressing—or, God forbid, both—then you have emerged from your chrysalis as a moth rather than a butterfly; you have awoken in the 21st century, but have trapped yourself in the culinary world of the 1950s.

8. Turkey Do you like listening to your local jazz radio station? Do you like responding to "what's up" texts with "not much, wbu"? Then you probably love turkey, because boy is it DRY. All of the other Thanksgiving side dishes are too polite to admit that they're only there to prepare your throat so that the turkey can make it down without getting stuck.

This bland bird might be the "classic" Thanksgiving protein, but just like the 8 a.m. Turkey Trot your mom signed you up for, it is a part of Thanksgiving day more for the sake of tradition than because anyone particularly enjoys it.

9. Wendy's 4 for $4 You can come home now! The fire department is gone, and Uncle Scott stopped talking about the keto diet!

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!

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