In This Issue Wheels Turning, Gears Grinding Marin Warshay 9
Party and I'll Cry if I Want To
Danielle emerson 8
Changing the Seasons
Ellyse Givens 6
Joseph suddleson 10
The Art of the Farewell Kyoko leaman 11
Everything but Country elliana reynolds 12
Brown: The (Forcibly) New Era
postCover by Sarah Woo
SEPT 24
VOL 28 —
ISSUE 1
FEATURE
Changing My Seasons a reflection on cyclical self-sabotage By Ellyse Givens Illustrated by Lucid Clairvoyant ig: clairvoy.art
content warning: self-harm and eating disorders
We were out of band-aids. Shit. The carpet. Blood. I need hydrogen peroxide. Where did I put it? I’m vertical now, hobbling across the hallway, on the ball of my left foot and the heel of my right. The carpet’s going to be stained. One spot, two, three, four, I count. Where’s the hydrogen peroxide? A flash through the window of fall—not real fall, but San Diego fall. Muted olive leaves. Paper pumpkins pasted on front doors. My skin feels cold. I fold a length of toilet paper, twisting it until it’s taut like a rope in my fingertips. I perch my foot on the edge of my bathroom counter, a surgical table now, a sterile field, the rope wrapped around my big toe, tied tight. Now I can walk faster. Hydrogen peroxide. Laundry room. I enlist my tiptoes to reach it, my rope turning from white to red. I look down. Red enlarged. Rope weakened. Hydrogen peroxide. Collateral damage always comes first.
*** I never intended for it to happen, it just always seemed to. I don’t remember looking away from the smudged autumn skies and digging my fingers into the cuticles of my toes, peeling the corner of my toenail down further and further until I saw blood, foraging the terrain of my feet in search of unfastened skin, nail, scab, anything to amputate, to peel. All I remember is the awakening, the way pain pulled me from the chasm every time. The way it made me feel alive. My therapist once referred to my skin picking as a “powerful expression,” and I like that, because it’s true. Inflicting pain upon myself, I do feel powerful. I have control over an entire narrative, a beginning and ending, an epic story of achievement. In the cafeteria of my high school freshman year, I couldn’t control the cold shoulders of 15-year-old girls, the ones that formed tight circles, closed me out, caused me pain. Fingers piercing my cuticles, I controlled the pain I felt. I’ve come to understand my behavior as seasons. The fall—the urge to shed, to transform—comes
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Sure is nice to be back, huh? That is, “nice” in the neo-Euclidean sense of the diphtheric integer, I mean, if you really examine what poly bisphenol A is trying to do here — oh, this isn’t my Canvas discussion post? In that case, nice as in oowee is that a headrush of nostalgia when I walk into the Ratty at noon, or do I just fear the throngs of eyeballs wearing backpacks? (Uhh.) Nice as in staring at your professor actually occupying “space” in the same “room” and realizing you need to stop meditating about the third dimension and take a couple notes for the first time in years. The nice of being able to strike up basic conversation with someone after class…and fleeing to your room at the first sign of an awkward lull. In true post- fashion, our writers in the first issue of the semester startle and joke their way into discussing the weirdness and the tensions of life. In Feature, the writer bares their experiences throughout seasons of self-sabotage and the new phase of starting at Brown. The writers in Narrative are also thinking about seasons in life. One reflects on the discomfort
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and joy of birthday parties, while the other recounts their process of re-learning to ride a bike at age 20. The Arts & Culture section is tackling equally behemoth topics: unabashed appreciation for country music and understanding the writer’s own OCD through the music of Gustav Mahler. And in Lifestyle, you can find the hopeful and the cynical about our strange return to this in-person semester that we have been name-dropping for the past year and a half. Look, it may not be the stuff of dreams, but we do have each other. Whether we pretend not to see each other while searching for a study spot on the Main Green is another question. Just know that you, by pure dint of your interest in this magazine (or forced reading due to acquaintance with one of its contributors) means that you do have a place to hang out, in the odd and oddly comforting walls of post-. Welcome back.
Sprinting to my 9am never felt so good,
Olivia Howe
Editor-in-Chief
multiple times a year for me. San Diego was never one for metamorphosis, clinging to its summertime intensities even upon October’s arrival. Some leaves fell, but nothing changed. I didn’t understand that. When fall falls upon me, I want nothing more than to pluck the leaves off the tree branches of myself—scrape away an aged exterior in search of a cooler, more extroverted, more confident, more beautiful version of me. I can never get the words out, that I want pieces of myself to fall down like leaves. So I spend my fall seasons hoarding gauze in my desk drawer in preparation for the inevitable—the forceful arrival of self-hatred, or insecurity, one that seems too enormous and heavy to translate into words—so skin picking becomes my expression. The aftermath is likewise a routine—cleaning the carpet stains with hydrogen peroxide, then sanitizing my cuticles before applying Neosporin, next stretching waterproof bandages around my nail-less pinky toes, and lastly sliding my feet into fuzzy socks. Done. How peculiar it is to be both an abuser and a caretaker of a body.
Best Parts of Being In Person Again 1. Learning how tall people are irl 2. No Zoom-induced eye strain 3. Leaving your room more than like once a day 4. Seeing hot people on your way to class 5. Falling asleep at the library instead of your bed 6. No lag during conversations 7. Putting on ur little outfits and taking ur little walks to class <3 8. Breakout rooms no longer exist 9. Bumping into your professor at Mister Sister 10. Social gatherings of only five people or less ;(
FEATURE *** My winters come suddenly. Without warning, I find myself in these distinctive seasons of mourning, triggered not by a specific loss, but rather by the realization of all that I have lost. In winter, I again see myself in the trees, now with leaves fully fallen and left to stand naked in front of the suburban homes, grieving the colors they once bore—that disappeared without a goodbye. It is during my winters that anxiety screeches to a halt. I’m no longer worrying about my appearance, others’ opinions, others’ words; rather, I mourn the time wasted ruminating over such superficialities. I find myself bowing down to the terror of time, realizing how much I have wasted the fruits it has provided me—the opportunities to cherish my family, my youth, my agency, my abilities, to see and do and think and say. The trees once wore so many leaves; I once held so many beautiful hours. We took our abundances for granted. Once again, I find myself harboring emotions that feel too enormous for my body. My grasp craves every hour; I want to control every second, but I can’t. All I want is the ability to manipulate, to in some way control the ruthlessness of time. Those nights, when all I want is to seize the clock’s hands, I seize the thing that I can: food. I never remember the decision to venture into the dark kitchen. I never remember my hands blindly foraging through cabinets for something, anything,
everything. I never remember the taste or the texture, only the magnitude, the challenge to consume more, and more, and more. Life is so fragile—it may be my last chance. What I do remember are the journeys back to my bedroom, wiping chocolate from my lips, stomach turned to rock, tears streaming down my oily cheeks. I told my therapist I wasn’t picking my feet as frequently—but, you see, self-sabotage never truly leaves you. It just changes form. *** Spring offers her hand and I take it gratefully, allowing her to pull me from my seat in the darkness. During my springs, I am finally able to see. The naked trees outside my window begin growing tiny burgundy leaves and cherry blossoms—my favorite of their accessories. The sun slowly garners its past spirit, and I do too. We think of spring as beautiful, watching the earth as it slowly reawakens from its hibernation and retains its summertime vibrancy. We don’t consider how painful this transition could be; we expect beauty to simply bloom at the snap of a finger.
I think others perceive my springs as painless, too, because they only see the exterior. The season,
for me, is characterized by a desire to adorn myself with new accessories like the trees do—a flatter stomach, stronger legs, smoother skin, painted nails, “natural” blonde highlights. In anticipation of summer, trees are expected to become beautiful during their springs, and I set out to do the same during mine. Now is when I will actually do it. Women’s Health endorses intermittent fasting, Eight hours of eating, sixteen of fasting; I am a woman of health, aren’t I? I am now. I am today. I had dinner last night at 6:30 p.m., so I can start my lunch during the last 10 minutes of APUSH. Done.“Running every day promotes muscle toning and strengthening!” Noted. “Fruit is obviously good.” “Fruit is entirely sugar.” Obviously. “Eat mainly protein.” “But eat only vegetables.” Done. My June comes, and I do bear some cherry blossoms—I exercise daily, measure my portion sizes, finally inching closer to what I perceive to be beauty. That is what people see, the exterior; they don’t see the days of labor, the newfound addiction to calories, macronutrients, and green vegetables, or the swelling detachment from my family, my friends, and myself. Nobody considers how difficult it is for a tree to prepare for summer—our transitions are never as seamless as you perceive them to be. *** My summers enter nonchalantly, and everything seems too slow. This season is a cruel respite, one that is needed but horrifying, one during which I have a moment to realize what a skeleton I am— scarred feet, a short-tempered digestive system, a brain encrypted with proper serving sizes. There is no part of myself left to sabotage. It’s the heat of my summers that shines a light on my own selfcruelty. I was and am a ruthless associate of my own destruction. And why? It’s estimated that 17 percent of adolescents worldwide engage in some form of nonsuicidal self-injury. 7.8 percent are diagnosed with eating disorders. In 2016, it was found that 0.2-12.3 percent of youth internationally meet the criteria for problem gambling. 90 percent of adolescent alcohol consumption is in the form of binge drinking. Evolutionarily, it’s perplexing why a human being, inherently compelled to survive, would engage in behavior that could jeopardize their own wellbeing. But we do. I do. For me, the skin picking, the binge eating, the restrictive eating, complemented with some occasional hair pulling and nail biting—it is all the same, the same urge to self-sabotage that just changes in color, form, and intensity alongside the seasons. Under everything lies a discomfort with
my identity, a belief that I am broken, a fear of others’ alienation, and an uneasiness with growing up. Over the course of the past year, my family, my best friend, and my therapist have held my hands as I stumbled across these uncomfortable cobblestones for the first time, finally confronting what was harbored within me for so long. I still work every day to recognize my worth, to see myself as whole, as not just a shadow in others’ lives but a strong and steadfast daughter, sister, and friend. And I have improved. Greatly. But even as I come to better understand the origins of my behaviors, they don’t stop. That’s what is so deadly about self-sabotage. Even when one’s brain has reckoned with the emotional trauma at the root of a behavior, the physical body is still addicted to the act itself—and will continually call on it in times of distress. Upon injury, the body immediately releases endorphins to act as natural painkillers. Research has proven that those who engage in non-suicidal self-injury have naturally lower levels of endogenous opioids (endorphins), and will thus continue reverting back to the habit to compensate. The same goes for other forms of self-sabotage. Binge eating, gambling, and alcohol consumption are all associated with the release of dopamine in the brain. Thus, my addiction hasn’t left me. But it is the conscious ways in which I choose to reckon and interact with these instincts that have helped me find freedom from them. Chewing gum, cognitive behavioral therapy exercises, yoga, putty, velcro, fidget cubes, and paper clips are now listed in a note in my phone as intervention techniques, and I am proud to say these have helped me resist engaging in self-sabotaging behavior many times. My therapist is always proud. And yet, it is still fascinating to me how strongly my brain and body yearn to pick my skin, binge eat, or restrict. The temptation may always be a presence in my life, and I have to accept that. Coming to Brown as a first-year, I wanted to be perfect. I still do. But after nearly three weeks here, of speaking with people, hearing their stories, and watching them unapologetically express raw, authentic emotions, I feel a little bit less afraid. I am feeling that maybe I don’t have to be perfect, that maybe everyone carries something like I do—that maybe just manifests, falls away, and reawakens in different hues than mine. *** My mom asked how my feet were over FaceTime the other day. I lifted all ten toenails to the computer screen, still painted a light orange for the fall.
“I could go up after class to the professor and go full bestie. Like ‘Hey girl, what are you doing after this?’”
“One ears, two ears, three ears. What about no ears? Can we consider the phantom ear phenomenon?” — The Listener “Gonna wanna throw ass like a shot put.”
September 24, 2021 7
NARRATIVE
It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To breaking down the birthday-intimacy-complex by Danielle Emerson Illustrated by elliana Reynolds How’s it going w/ the cake? In da room that is ‘mine’ I could pick it up and take it to our place if theyre not there, just so it’s still a surprise loll ya or nay? they’re here unless you wanna do the sneaks? sir yes My parents were super excited to plan my first birthday party—at least that’s what I got from looking at old photos. They went out of their way to buy and decorate a cake; the pastel pink and white icing in the pictures caught my attention. They prepared enough food for a potluck: in the corner of one photo, my aunt’s paper plate was piled high with grilled hot dogs, pasta salad, potato chips, and pieces of frybread. My mom crafted little princess invitations, threading dollar store ribbon through hole-punched construction paper, one of which I found while looking through my mom’s old keepsake boxes last fall. I never asked my mom why my first birthday party was so elaborate. I also never asked why we stopped. When my brother was born, he had a similar first birthday. And just as quickly, the festivities were cut short. I honestly don’t remember much from back then: Most of what took place before my sophomore year of high school, including elementary and middle school, have been blacked out with markers. I just know things were hard and that that first birthday was a convenient distraction. Alcoholism, addiction, domestic abuse,
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financial strain. These things aren’t anything new to me. For as long as I can remember, my parents have been fighting their own battles. But as I paged through old party photos, my tired gaze met crinkled eyes guiding the ends of a wide smile across my father’s red cheeks. I saw pink party decorations and cute frills lining my baby princess dress that matched the swirls of cake icing. Everyone seemed happy at that first birthday party. And it looked nice. I just wish I remembered it. Should we make lowkey party decorations? Ooh we can try!! A friend of mine has the same birthday as my younger sister—September 14. My friend turned 22 while my sister turned 16. My sister couldn’t believe she was already, in her words, “so old.” Over Facetime, I rolled my eyes and laughed. Her little eyebrows furrowed and I could hear my mom snickering in the background. My sister doesn’t like being laughed at, so I tried (halfheartedly) to cheer her up. “Dude, I’m gonna be 22 this month.” We’re both September children. I rolled over in bed onto my back. “We’re both just getting old.” She thought about it for a second, then shrugged her newly perfected ‘I’m-16-now-so-forgive-me-if-I-don’t-care,’ shrug. “I guess.” This is her go-to response. Honestly, I can’t fault her for it because I still fall back on it in conversation too. “You’re getting old. But you’re not that old yet.” She perked up. My mom just hummed from the driver’s seat; they were going grocery shopping. After a couple more minutes of light sibling teasing, my sister seemed less distressed about turning 16. Especially after remembering that yes, she was old, but at least she wasn’t that old (that being 22 and a college senior. Our Facetime call dwindled to an end with the usual “when are you coming home,” “call us again tomorrow night,” and “let me say goodbye to Nicole!” (Nicole being my cat). My sister’s experience with birthdays has also changed, especially since she moved in with our mom. Growing up in a rough situation without birthday intimacy or adults who allowed emotional vulnerability made having a genuine birthday thrown for you feel against the law. Like I’m somehow not allowed to celebrate my
birth and everything that came after. My sister said she’s uncomfortable with the thought of growing old, and perhaps she is—just like we all are—but I also think she’s uncomfortable with being reminded that she’s deserving of love and honest celebration of her existence. Do you have class today? I had to order a cake from a different place and pick up is at 3. I could go before my class if you can’t go at that time Hi hi, I have a meeting at 1pm and class from 4-6pm, I might be able to go but I’d be cutting it close tbh I took photos at my friend's birthday party. It was just me and four other friends, gathered round a fancy store-bought cake, shrouded in flickering candle light. The photos were blurry and dark and caught the most ridiculous facial expressions. After nearly blinding a friend with the camera flash, I managed to capture various moments throughout the night: the makeshift Bert and Ernie party decorations, hung with tan and blue masking tape above our kitchen table; the birthday child and their cake, with chocolate chip slices and a curly frosting font; our bowls and cups scattered across the living room coffee table after eating homemade roast and vegetables; and awkward yet lovable photos of friends eating cake, some caught in the middle of chewing and others frozen between bites. As my own birthday creeps forward, I’m forced to acknowledge my birthday-intimacy-complex (an unofficial term I just coined) and embrace an old discomfort I’ve grown too accustomed to avoiding. Helping plan and host my friend’s birthday party felt empowering, in an odd, caretaking way. It reminded me of being back home and caring for my younger siblings: preparing meals, cleaning our space, and just doing things because I want to make a person feel special. The more I reflect on that day, the more I’m convinced birthdays can become good memories. As I look over my friend’s birthday photos, I’m glad I can remember it. And as my own birthday nears, I look forward to the warm memories I’ll make with current friends and family, because I shouldn't feel uncomfortable accepting love.
NARRATIVE
Wheels Turning, Gears Grinding taking life by the handlebars by Marin Warshay Illustrated by Emilia Mann In the past two years, various breakthroughs around the world have pushed the limits of scientific discovery. An mRNA vaccine was FDA-approved for the first time. Worldwide quarantines have made philanthropists out of bored remote workers. Public health officials, healthcare workers, and first responders have been excruciatingly overworked, showing what it means to be a true humanitarian hero. Dr. Albert Bourla, a Greek-American Jew born to two Holocaust survivors, is the CEO of the most significant biopharmaceutical company of the 21st century. But most significantly of all, I, Marin Warshay, proved that it is indeed possible to forget how to ride a bike. Now, you may be wondering how a layman like me is changing science, but it’s true. Surprised? Me too. It wasn’t easy—let me walk you through how I got here. This past summer was a season of growth for me. The warm months always seem to bloom with more than just flowers, and I had started to feel like another of the sun’s creations. The signs of change were budding in June—hard to notice; or easy to ignore. Only now, as the cool fall breeze is approaching, am I realizing the fruits this summer has borne. This summer I loved in ways I had never before. Newfound love for my friends, for myself, and, for a fleeting moment, of normal life. But among these loves, there was one that felt different. It was intense, exhilarating, and cruel, all at the same time. It was the first thing I had been able to call mine in a while. I felt like I was carrying a secret—I knew it was special and felt no desire to explain it to anyone else. It’s hard to say why I wanted that. But when something becomes part of your identity like this love did for me, it doesn’t need a reason to stick around—it just does.
This time it didn’t last forever. The grief process was long: It takes effort to rid yourself of that piece of
who you are. I found myself lost, lacking a substantial identity, wanting something more permanent. *** For a while, I not only identified as “the girl who doesn’t know how to ride a bike,” but the girl who forgot. I learned as a kid and then I suddenly wasn’t able to ride anymore. It was a conversation starter, a fun fact, a quirky tidbit. I enjoyed that; I always enjoyed getting a laugh out of people. A validation confirmed by others’ joyful reaction. I didn’t want to let go of the external validations—
the laughs about my biking abilities and beyond—but one day my friends dragged me to the Hope High School track and I had no choice. Bright blue skies, clouds in my stomach. Sweat beaded on my palms and my temples. My reluctance was splashed across the rubbery rust-colored oval of the track like a ring of fire. I could smell the heat radiating off the synthetic tires as I wiggled them with my grip on the sweaty handlebars. My friends were talking, but I couldn’t hear them. The wind was tapping on my ear drums—or maybe I was just hearing the drumbeat of my heart. My friends were there to help me ride, but only I could embrace going this distance. Only I could decide to round the bend of the summer with a new attitude. This obstacle I had to face alone. Another secret. But the moment that my feet started to pedal, it would be told, and it would no longer just be mine. I was scared. I told my friends that, hoping they would say we didn’t have to do it, and I could just walk the bike home. But they didn’t, and next thing I knew, the bike was beneath me and the pedals were in position. Despite my internal storm, I remember how wonderfully supportive my friends were. Somehow, they knew exactly what I needed to hear, because it was only a matter of minutes before the wheels were spinning, and my friends looked smaller in the distance. I was pedaling! My legs bent and straightened in rhythm for a few solid minutes. My stomach skies cleared and I let out a little giggle. As my gaze pivoted to look at my friends, I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding. My inner dialogue was no longer screaming at me. My friends welcomed me back from my lap as
the same person I was when I departed, just with a new way to get from place to place. The sight of my friends’ faces made me realize that secrets are pointless. They only create gaps between myself and the people I love the most. Upon crossing the finish line on that memorable track, I realized I would never have been able to do it alone. Regardless, I would never have wanted to. And that is the notion I will hold onto for all the impending tracks of life—sharing is deep, it’s certainly not shameful, and why wouldn’t you want to invite others to ride alongside you? My heart was warm and my adrenaline was pumping. I walked my bike home in the end, smiling, so that I could leisurely revel in this moment of joy. But the summer wasn’t over. I had to confront my other secrets, and my heart was full of them. I didn’t have a dramatic epiphany or a spiritual awakening of any kind. I could just feel it—the moments when the clouds arrived in my stomach, and when they finally disappeared—right in the pit of my stomach. It’s crazy how easy it is to lie to yourself. Especially when you want to trick yourself into being happy. So I made a decision: to choose the loves that I knew would stick around. The ones who were clapping for me when I veered the corner on my borrowed bicycle. The ones that taught me to ride so we could enjoy biking together, not because they thought it was weird that I couldn’t. The ones who knew me all along, whether I felt like I was hiding or not. It was one of those decisions that made me realize my own strength. As if my mind decided for my heart, and my heart thanked it later. *** The heart is a confusing thing: there aren’t words to explain how it feels when yours is broken. But when it is, you’ll know. And I do, because I’m still figuring out how to put my own back together: all summer long, someone pulled on my heartstrings like they were elastic bands. They snapped back like a slingshot, piercing through my chest on their way back in. And sometimes I still think that it would be easier to hide my secrets inside. But I chose vulnerability, and I choose it every day. I might have to shift into a higher gear here and there, but my pedals are always moving.
September 24, 2021 9
ARTS & CULTURE
The Art of the Farewell
on Moby-Dick, Gustav Mahler, and OCD by Joseph Suddleson Illustrated by Anna Semizhonova ig: wormwood.tales The great American novel, the ultimate titan of the Western symphonic tradition, and a chronic mental illness—bear with me. As my summer vacation was coming to an end, I finally motivated myself to finish reading Moby-Dick. I had set out to read the goliath of a novel a couple of years prior, but I put the book down with less than 50 pages left for reasons I can’t even begin to remember. Now with both the time and the energy to return to it, I finally read for myself how Ahab, the monomaniacal captain of the whaling ship Pequod, sailed to confront the white whale. Ahab is obsessed with finding and killing Moby-Dick. And despite the knowledge that pursuing Moby-Dick will likely be a mortal mistake, Ahab does it anyway only to find that, in the end, death and destruction await as promised. To most, Ahab epitomizes insanity; to me, Ahab makes perfect sense. I have obsessive compulsive disorder. I was surprise-diagnosed with OCD right before the pandemic began in my sophomore spring. I say it was a surprise because I went to Health Services for persistent stomach problems and I left with an OCD diagnosis. Maybe I should’ve known when the doctor abruptly shifted from talking about my stomach to asking questions like “Do you find yourself completing certain rituals in order to get rid of a negative thought or prevent some disaster from occurring?” I was hoping to find definitive answers to my questions and I walked out with what appeared to me as an ambiguously treatable mental illness. Without wading too deeply into the particulars, it is important to know that OCD is composed of two main components: obsessions and compulsions. Obsessions are persistent negative thoughts that produce lasting feelings of fear, anxiety, and shame, whereas compulsions are the repetitive actions or rituals that one completes in order to assuage these emotions. My most debilitating obsession revolves around my inordinate fear of “contamination” from things like dirt, germs, excrement and the corresponding compulsion to wash my hands. At the time of my diagnosis, I would wash my hands vigorously for 2-3 minutes under burning hot water, dry them, immediately repeat that process, leave the sink or bathroom, walk back to my room, and then immediately return to repeat the hand washing procedure at least two more times before feeling like my hands were clean. An integral part of the life of an obsessive-compulsive is knowing that engaging in these compulsive behaviors makes no logical sense. And yet we continue to give in to the anxiety; we continue to feed the beast. In doing so, we fall further and further from the path of a normal, healthy life as our days become saturated with exhausting, mindless rituals. It was in the period after my OCD diagnosis, when I first began to consciously overcome my obsessions and compulsions, that I discovered the music of Gustav Mahler. 10 post–
Now, I’m not a musician, nor do I have much of an aptitude for music theory. Though I cannot and will not satisfy the seasoned musicologist, my understanding of Gustav Mahler’s music might resonate with those for whom music holds the key to another dimension of feeling; those who love music because of its mysteries, not in spite of them. Mahler’s most famous piece of music is his Adagietto. A lyrical interlude scored for strings and harp within an otherwise intense symphony, the Adagietto is a wordless expression of Mahler’s undying love to his eventual wife, Alma. In Mahler’s Adagietto I hear a sonic reflection of my obsessive-compulsive mind. Just as performing my ritualistic compulsions only prolongs and deepens my anxiety, this symphonic movement feigns resolution only to return and repeat the same melody over and over. Listening to the Adagietto is like feeling your lover’s chest rise and fall with the rhythms of their breath; it’s a drug. It is impossible to say if Mahler had OCD, but it is evident from the historical record that he possessed an obsessive personality. As an opera conductor across Europe, Mahler was known for his domineering style of leadership; he demanded absolute perfection. Mahler’s perfectionism ran so deep that as the director of the Vienna Court Opera, he made efforts to dictate the hygienic standards of the ushers. But the concept at the forefront of Mahler’s mind was death. Not exclusively death as the somber and terrifying end we all must face, but death as a transition from this living reality to some higher existence, a noble farewell to the material world, a transcendence. Mahler’s final compositions embody this obsession. The last song in his symphonic song-cycle titled Das Lied Von Der Erde, (The Song of the Earth), is called “Der Abschied” or literally “The Farewell.” Mahler inscribed the manuscript for his Symphony no. 9, the final symphony he completed before his death, with cries of “Leb’ wohl! –“farewell!” Life and love are inseparable from departure. It is not that Mahler had some subconscious death wish, but rather that the finality, universality, and mystery of death offered Mahler a creative promise, a way beyond the suffering of the earth. Coming to grips with the end, with the need to let go, is all that there is; for even if we choose to deny the various ends that lie waiting for us all, like Ahab, they will consume us all the same. Someone close to me once said that “you know that you love someone if you’d grieve their loss.” Love of life and of other people manifests in the volatile space where our hope of eternity and our
understanding of mortality rub shoulders. We believe in love’s power to extend beyond ourselves and our momentary station on this earth but we love all the more because we know that we must one day lose everything. The music of Gustav Mahler documents his weltschmerz (world pain), that heaviness felt by those for whom life is an obsessive search for truth. Holding tight, then letting go—obsession, then farewell. The awareness of loss, the continuous struggle to stave it off, is not the antithesis of love but its necessary counterpart. Mahler helped me understand that it’s okay to obsess—OCD is a part of who I am and how I take in the world. But it need not be all of me. It is also okay to acknowledge aspects of life as they end and fade away without shame and without judgment. Each of us holds this capacity to say farewell and live better for it. Herman Melville constructed Moby-Dick out of 135 chapters; only the last three short chapters concern the confrontation between Ahab and the whale. That’s less than 30 pages out of more than 500. Just before his clash with the hated whale, Ahab’s resolve to see his mission to the end momentarily wanes as he remembers the life he left on Nantucket. But resigning himself to fate, Ahab presses on. The name of this chapter before the final three-part chase: “The Symphony.” Once more we return to Mahler’s Adagietto. Any conductor organizing a performance of a piece holds a certain degree of interpretive freedom, especially in regard to the tempi. Depending on the speed at which a conductor takes a movement, the same music can produce different emotional responses. The slower tempi of Leonard Bernstein’s recording of Mahler’s Symphony no. 5 with the Vienna Philharmonic turns a wordless love song into a funeral elegy– Bernstein famously conducted the Adagietto at Robert F. Kennedy’s Funeral Mass. Much ink has been spilled debating the merits of this or that approach to the movement; should it be a light and breezy ode to unabashed, obsessive love, or should it be a slow ode to sorrow, a paean to death? I believe it can, and should, be both: obsession and farewell in tandem.
ARTS & CULTURE
Everything but Country abandoning the pursuit of “cool” by Kyoko Leaman Illustrated by Meera Singh ig: meeracle_art I grew up believing in the kind of love they sing about in old country ballads. The pop music that blared from passing car windows and other kids’ iPhones seemed plastic and false, laden with metaphors I didn’t understand. The country music that lived in my dad’s garage felt true, genuine. I couldn’t imagine hitting the city with Kesha and her friends, but I already dreamed of a love that was “deeper than the holler, stronger than the river, higher than the pine trees growing tall upon the hill”. Maybe it was because I really was a country girl: the mile-long driveway, the stretching view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, roosters calling in the morning. Imagery of bright lights and sleepless cities didn’t look anything like the world around me, but a dirt road was synonymous with home—the long trek we took in the snow when the driveway was all ice, those early-July strolls down the mountain to pick raspberries. Country artists like George Strait and Jo Dee Messina sang about love and heartbreak, just like any pop musician, but they did so in a language I was primed to understand. There’s also the possibility that country music was just familiar to me. It played in my house and in our car, to and from school, filling up empty spaces and comfortable silences. A music taste passed down smoothly from father to daughter, just like the auburn hair and seasonal allergies. Whatever the reason, I was hooked. I went to concerts in a too-big cowboy hat, all of nine years old, every word memorized. I added 94.9 Star Country as a pre-set station on our car radio, and before long I could identify most of the songs that got radio play within the first couple notes. I was an aficionado. This, of course, was long before I conceptualized “coolness.” I felt expansive and unselfconscious love as a child, for Nancy Drew and Hannah Montana and nearly every country song I heard. There was no sense of “cool” or “uncool”, no impetus for shame. Just a blissful dream of enjoyment without fear of judgment. Middle school taught me what embarrassment felt like. How loud the beating of a heart under scrutiny, how sharp the choked feeling of restrained tears. “Coolness” not only gained definition but became a parameter against which every interest had to be measured. When asked what kind of music they listened to, the kids in my class replied, “Oh, everything but country.” Their voices carried an airy certainty that this was the right answer, possibly the only answer. Again, that newly familiar pinking of my cheeks, the rush of blood in my ears. When asked the same question, I kept my mouth shut. I was a fast learner, though. “Everything but country” became a phrase I traded like loose change. Soon, it wasn’t even a lie. Multiple generations of iPods bursting with pedal steel and cowboy metaphors went by the wayside, replaced by a sleek Spotify library boasting new, far “cooler” playlists rife with alt rock, indie folk, and bubblegum pop. Everything but country. In many ways, the expansion of my musical diet was a net positive. There were brand new artists, new sounds, new types of lyricism that better captured the tumultuous frenzy of becoming a teen. Country had captured my young imagination, telling stories of enduring loves and endless sorrows, like
fairytales in which tractors replaced horse-drawn carriages. But I’d grown past fairytales, finding my hormones far better reflected by angry Midwestern boys singing of “surfed out brain waves” and “the murder machine”. I found music that I loved, and still love, because I set aside my singular focus on country. But social pressures didn’t allow me to simply let go of my first great musical love. I had to revile it, to endure the whiplash of moving from a wholehearted fan to an outspoken hater near-instantaneously. I was loudly anti-country, citing the explanations that people always trot out when asked to explain their distaste: every country song is about a beer-drinking, pickupdriving man whose primary focus is objectifying women. How could anyone stand the repetition, much less the misogyny? This was a stance I took for years, conveniently forgetting every country ballad that had held me in its twang-y arms as a child. I knew that it was wrong to treat any genre as a monolith—a principle that led me to listen widely—but country persisted as the exception. Examples of bad country songs that followed the oft-critiqued template were easy to find, while examples of good ones stayed locked in my distant memory. My return to my country music roots was not sudden. There was no jolt of realization that shook my dislike for the genre loose, no immediate catalyst that changed everything in a moment. No, there was just Darius Rucker’s cover of “Wagon Wheel” that I added to a road trip playlist on a whim. The perfect song for driving, and the only song I know of that namedrops my hometown. A few Dolly Parton songs thrown into the rotation, just because they’re classics. Then “Take Me Home, Country Roads”, which made me viciously homesick during my first semester of college. I listened to it while I flew home for that first winter break. When John Denver crooned “Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River,” I began to cry. The gradual seep of old country classics into my Spotify library became, with time, a steady leak. Soon I was listening to George Strait’s full discogra-
phy while making the 45-minute trip from Roanoke to Floyd, feeling for all the world like the same little girl in a cowboy hat that covered my eyes. I rediscovered the fairytale lyricism of Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” and the promise of independence in The Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces.” All of this culminated in January of this year with the creation of a playlist entitled “country music redemption arc.” I chose a subset of the best country songs—whether that meant the most emotive, or lyrically complex, or just the funniest—as a snapshot of the best parts of the genre. It is meant to be a primer for any listener still unconvinced that country songs exist beyond the stereotypical tale of the pickup-driving misogynist. Songs about back roads and moving away from home and measuring your love against the trees or the oceans. While the playlist is intended in part to “redeem” the genre for country-averse listeners, the only real redemption arc is my own. I abandoned an entire vast, complicated, personally significant genre of music in the pursuit of the elusive idea of “cool,” unable to believe that my interests were worthwhile when they weren’t met with the approval of others. Even once I’d escaped from the middle school fishbowl, I failed to understand that I could welcome brand new sounds without recoiling from the old ones. I came back for country music, though. I abandoned the pursuit of coolness, turned around, and found it again—waiting right where I’d left it, in the space between bright imagination and comforting familiarity. Now, my Spotify statistics show that I listen to 55 different genres, and only three of those include some form of country. I’m not the devotee that I was in elementary school, and I doubt I ever will be again. There is a wide, wondrous sea of music to listen to, with more being released every day, and I want to hear so very much of it. But among it all, there’s this: the soundtrack to a buttery yellow Appalachian spring morning, a love song about back roads and cornfields, a tribute to twang. When asked what kind of music I listen to, I can finally give the true answer: “Everything.”
September 24, 2021 11
LIFESTYLE
Brown: The (Forcibly) New Era by Elliana Reynolds Illustrated by Joanne Han On March 15, Brown students woke up to an eviction notice. Since our maskless days prior to March 2020, campus changes at Brown have brought novel attitudes in the student body and dynamically altered university culture and atmosphere as a whole. Gone are the days of Blueno and using Flex Points in the Blue Room, but is it all goodbyes? Let’s take a closer look at all the notable differences we’ve spotted around Brown, and hopefully find we have much to welcome. Statues Although a statue may seem like an unimportant aspect of campus to glean information from, they reveal the cultural and political viewpoints of students. Last fall, two statues, Marcus Aurelius and Caesar Augustus, were scrutinized for having ties to white supremacy and the student group Decolonization at Brown proposed removing them and replacing them with art by local Black and Indigenous artists. Calling out the statues signified a growing awareness of latent representations of racism and the acknowledgment of these problematic symbols by the administration provided hope to many. The removal of Blueno (unrelated to student criticism) sparked uproar in the Brown community. Blueno’s departure was followed by the arrival of “Poono” (the new statue in front of Friedman Hall on the Main Green), leaving many students questioning Brown’s aesthetic eye. Personally, I wonder, how can an abstract statue (which both resembles poop
and an ant wearing Balenciaga shoes, but supposedly is meant to be a commentary on feminism, the male gaze, etc.) replace Brown’s most beloved Blueno (an electric blue teddy-bear-like statue)? To most Brunonians, it simply cannot. The beloved bear statue became an integral part of the campus culture and even though it was removed, Blueno remains an icon of Brown. Attending Classes The transition from online classes to inperson lectures was abrupt. Some students became accustomed to online classes. After all, they do have their comforts; sometimes one prefers waking up late and staying in pajamas. Even if they weren’t the best for staying engaged, online classes meant you could sit in bed and stink a little bit without anyone caring. Most students, however, are eager to go to an in-person class or club meeting. After over a year of being forced to Zoom from the bedroom, the ability to cram into an overpacked lecture hall where you have no choice but to sit on the ground is AWESOME. The removal and reintroduction of the traditional academic setting have given many undergraduates a newfound appreciation for learning and discussion. Even in an increasingly computerized world, there really is no replacement for being physically present with others. Socialization Socialization has forever changed. Habits and personal preferences on sharing space, food, and public facilities have been influenced by the particularities and restrictions of COVID-19. Social distancing closed off many people from social situations and groups, inducing introversion and a hesitancy to try new social experiences. Online meetings and outside gatherings became the new standard, and these ingrained tendencies are hard
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe
“I do suppose there is a fine line between awe and fear, passion and production. At what point does magic become monstrous?” —Kaitlan Bui, “Poetry is Everything I Don’t Understand,” 9.18.20
“Imagination, especially when it comes to storytelling, is a daring practice, drawing on creativity and courage, calling us to look at the world with eyes wide open.” —Naomi Kim, “Witch’s Brew,” 9.13.19
FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Andrew Lu Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Emma Schneider Section Editors Kyoko Leaman Joe Maffa
to leave for some. However, the limiting nature of socialization in the pandemic has created an itch to meet new people. With the recently relaxed COVID-19 policies, students on campus are abs-olutely fiending to make new friends, go to new places, and make themselves known. Dining To put it bluntly, the dining hall food sucks now. Like, even more than before. The Blue Room no longer accepts points or meal credits, the naanwich is gone, the famous weekend breakfast burritos at Andrews are prepackaged, and the dining halls have been replaced by white tents with hardly enough chairs—especially not for the 12 p.m. lunch rushes in between classes. Previous seniors had thought that Jo’s spring 2020 changes were awful (no chopped salads? I mean, come on!), but wow, they escaped the worst of the dining alterations. The decreased options at dining halls have, in particular, negatively impacted vegan and vegetarian students, drawing attention to how these changes unevenly impact the student body and increasing scrutiny on the administration. Meal plan prices increased, food quality decreased, and yet Brown still continues to require first-years and sophomores to be on the meal plan because of “food insecurity” (even as they simultaneously perpetuate it). Despite the apparent drawbacks surrounding campus dining, you still see friends sharing meals and laughing throughout campus, highlighting that the dining experience still functions to bring people together. After all, bond-ing over a mutual dislike of dining hall food can create the strongest of friendships. Administration Most non-white, non-wealthy students already had a distaste for administration (and how can you not when they ignore many of your basic needs and tell you to have “resilience in the face of adversity?”). But now, it appears that the number of students disagreeing with the administration’s decisions has climbed significantly. To gain an understanding of the motive, take a quick glance at the Instagram account @brownumemes and count the numerous posts that call out the administration’s hypocrisy. For exa-mple, students cannot socialize with other students in large groups, but university-sponsored events hosting hundreds of unmasked guests can continue. The pandemic and its fluctuating regulations have provided an opportunity for students to witness the administration at work and to call attention to questionable actions. The regulations surrounding COVID-19 affect most of the student body, which draws out a larger and often more public reaction, and thus is a golden opportunity to instigate change in the administrative policies. Most of us are returning to a different Brown, and as we adapt to the many changes, we rediscover old remnants of our culture and uncover new traditions.
NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editor Danielle Emerson Leyton Ho
Copy Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Samuel Nevins Eleanor Peters
LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney
SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe
Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang
Editors Kelsey Cooper Julia Gubner Kyra Haddad Jolie Rolnick Chloe Zhao
HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Joanne Han
Want to be involved? Email: olivia_howe@brown.edu!
12 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 Ellie Jurmann Nicole Kim Liza Kolbasov Elliana Reynolds Adi Thatai Victoria Yin