The road between Western and non-Western culture diverges at several points. Most notably, it splits at the core values of individualism and collectivism. Placing priority on the well-being of oneself as opposed to the well-being of a family or community shapes fundamental societal structures and traditions. As a result, the Western versus non-Western approach to significant decisions such as marriage, education, and financial choices are often completely antithetical.
This core difference in values offers a lens for understanding a controversial practice—arranged marriage. Arranged marriage is a tradition in many non-Western cultures in which the partners are chosen by others. This process is often governed by the parents of the spouses, but it can also be done by a professional matchmaker or a respected member of the community.
Western culture has perpetuated a skeptical
Letter from the Editor
I recently started writing poetry again. If you’re an avid post- reader, you may have read one of my pieces last year. However, after being interrogated by my Pre-College residents this summer about the poem, I decided to clean up my digital footprint and republish it under a pseudonym. This got me thinking about what it means to invent and reinvent a persona. I think about the molts of personality I’ve shedded following large transitions in life. A more subdued version of me decomposes in Northwest Indiana, and I ponder what layer I’ll leave behind in Providence. Considering I also registered for the MCAT this weekend, I don’t think this poem was the only thing fueling this introspection.
view regarding arranged marriages due to a gap in understanding. This mistrust in arranged marriage largely rises from a simple difference in definition. Marriage in the West is viewed as the union of two individuals, while many non-Western cultures define marriage as the union between two families. Thus, it is seen as the duty of family members to ensure compatibility between the spouses. This is rooted in another major facet of many nonWestern cultures—a profound trust in elders. Life experience is synonymous with wisdom, and subsequently, young people on the whole are comfortable ceding some authority to family members for this life-changing decision.
~ ~ ~ Indian arranged marriages are quite structured. Typically, an initial meeting involves the woman’s family, including parents, siblings, grandparents, and oftentimes aunts and uncles, hosting the man’s family at their home for a cup of tea. The house will look immaculate—not a pillow out of place, not a speck of dust on the floor. Every item of clothing neatly pressed, every teacup on the table gleaming. The guests arriving could be future family members. All the nits have been picked— first impressions are everything.
Our writers this week have also been pondering portrayal. In Feature, Samira discusses the tensions between Western and non-Western perspectives on arranged marriages. On the Narrative side, Sarah talks about collecting postcards and speculating about the lives of those sending and receiving them, and the managing editors venture slightly into my territory of A&C to write about our experiences watching films. In A&C proper , Ann talks about her joy and anger in playing the Roblox game Dress to Impress , while Ozzy recounts a notable Rock and Roll Hall of Fame performance. In Lifestyle, Michelle reflects on the progression of her New Year's resolutions, Reina talks about Providence winters through the perspective of someone from the west coast, and AJ created an Oscar-themed crossword. In
The families will likely exchange niceties about the weather and non-controversial current events for a short time while sipping hot chai. After about twenty or so minutes, the potential bride and groom will either go off on their own to a restaurant or outing or to another room to get to know each other. They can do this for as little as a few minutes or as long as a few hours. This is the part that is misconstrued. After the non-couple spends some time together, they each have a choice in whether to pursue the relationship. Generally, families are very accepting of either person declining to move forward. The autonomy is different than in a Western marriage, but it exists.
~ ~ ~
At a dinner with friends and parents, a mom at the table, Paula, expressed sincere confusion when the topic of arranged marriage arbitrarily came up in conversation. Her upbringing in a small, ultra-agrarian English village lent itself to practically no exposure to arranged marriages. As we were discussing it, she associated the practice with the word forced, through no fault of her own. I explained the inaccuracy of this description. Both the men and women involved inform their families of preferences they have in a partner, and they
post-pourri, Tarini shares a love letter to her fairy lights that keep falling down, no matter how they’re secured.
As I combed through the recently posted courses on CAB, I was hit with the realization this will be my last time procrastinating work by contemplating courses more than six months away. I can only hope to earn a spot in Advanced Poetry. Unfortunately, I do not think I will include my aforementioned post- poem in my sample submission. Instead, I will use my MCAT-fueled identity crisis to peel back layers with greater efficiency than one of those chemical foot peels.
Peeling away,
Elijah Puente A&C Managing Editor
can always say no to anyone who is “presented” to them. There is no abdication of voice, of choice. To Paula’s surprise, I clarified that guided is a far more appropriate label.
This is not to say that this process isn’t flawed. It is inherently heteronormative, and it can be colorist, caste-sensitive, and patriarchal (although far less so nowadays). But, the core issue here lies in the misrepresentation of arranged marriage in Western society.
Popular media has shed light on arranged marriage with a handful of TV shows, movies, magazine articles, the works. Indian Matchmaking was a buzzworthy pandemic watch that debuted its first of three seasons on Netflix in 2020. It follows Sima Taparia, known as Sima Aunty, a real, professional matchmaker who travels the world setting up men and women with their potential life partners and their families.
The intention of creating a reality show for people who were unfamiliar with the tradition, people like Paula, seemed noble. Yet, the execution was nothing short of disappointing. I was thrilled about the potential squashing of harmful ideas and assumptions. And while the show squashes some stereotypes, it reinforces others. I applaud its stress on the individual liberty of each person. Many of the individuals rejected people they were arranged with by the matchmaker. The influence, but lack of coercion, from family members is depicted well.
That being said, there is an absurd emphasis on astrological compatibility and the face-reader who could determine the couple’s success or downfall just by looking at pictures of their faces. I could feel myself shrinking into the couch as I watched Sima one-by-one present photos of the prospective couples to the face reader on the TV. Why does there exist a need to make things seem more “exotic” when describing something nonWestern? Why is this ooh-la-la factor necessary when catering to a Western audience?
While it is true that some Hindus are staunch believers in astrology and star alignment between two people, the show spotlights it as if it was the utmost priority for everyone—to the point where it’s hard to watch at times. When watching the show with others, I felt the need to pause and explain, “This part is so accurate,” or “This part is such a dramatization.” Why make a show about Indian culture for Americans if it still needs a translator? Do the forms of entertainment that try to offer a cultural lens have a responsibility to be accurate? Misrepresentation in the media has dangerous downstream effects. It presents a fat roadblock in front of empathy and cultural appreciation. This
show was an opportunity to begin construction on this bridge of understanding between Western and non-Western cultures. Instead, it widened the gap further. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“It bothered me so much…when Sima tried to get her into astrology to see how the stars could determine her better matches since she otherwise seemed to believe Aparna to be hopeless” — Nitish Pawha, Slate
“The Indian here in ‘Indian Matchmaking’ is merely a stand-in for outrageously wealthy, landed upper-caste Hindus.” — Iva Dixit, The New York Times
“Viewers shouldn’t watch Indian Matchmaking for a profound depiction of Indian culture.” — Anna Purna Kambhampaty, TIME
“When will South Asian people get reality TV that doesn't depict our culture as being a drag?” — Scaachi Koul, Buzzfeed
I asked my parents what this process was like for them. Mom had just two items on her checklist for her life partner:
Non-smoker (she’s asthmatic)
Career-driven (she’s a workaholic)
That was it.
Dad practiced what he preached as a physician ( ) and he was practically married to his job. Nice.
Dad’s list was brief as well: good-natured, dependable, could cook. He was and still is a kitchen hazard; fortunately, Mom is a culinary mastermind. Their connection at the start was not necessarily romantic but oh-so-compatible. They chatted for maybe twenty minutes and were married ten days later before an audience of six hundred. They celebrated twenty-eight years of marriage (and meeting each other) just three months ago. And I don’t think they’d have it any other way. Their love isn’t less or more than that of an autonomous, heswept-me-off-my-feet marriage. Equal in value, just different in nature. ~ ~ ~
My perspective on arranged marriage is one of understanding, but it wasn’t always this way. For a long time, I approached decisions with a more individualistic mindset, keeping my autonomy and self-interest at the forefront. The deeprooted family first mentality felt foreign, even as I was surrounded by it. Over time, however, I found myself blending these seemingly opposing perspectives—balancing the freedom to choose my own path with an appreciation for the wisdom and guidance of the people I care about most.
Completely both, completely neither.
in the glow of the screen on films and the art of watching
by Managing Eds Illustrated by Yoonseo Lee
let’s go to the movies
By Jessica Lee
If you asked a younger version of myself to describe my perfect day, it would probably include a trip to the movies with my uncle. Every time I visited my uncle’s house, we made sure to go see a movie. Regardless of what was playing, we always had the best time escaping to another world for a few hours.
I had my movie theater set-up down to a science: popcorn, Dibs, and a soda (most likely a Dr. Pepper or root beer) for the perfect sweet and salty combo, and three seats in the very back row—one for my uncle, one for me, and, if the theater was empty enough, one for the American Girl doll accompanying me on the excursion (either Jess or Mia, based on who I preferred at the time).
Over the years, visits to my uncle’s house became less frequent and our movie theater trips were few and far between. However, when I was home for Thanksgiving last year, we made it a point to go see Wicked—partly to satisfy my inner theater kid, but mostly to take advantage of the rare occasion of my being back home. While my American Girl dolls are now packed away somewhere and no longer occupy the seat beside me, I can assure you that the trusty food and drink combo has withstood the test of time. Each carefully crafted bite of Dib and popcorn filled me with a sweet and salty balance of joy and nostalgia, and made me realize that even now, this still might be my idea of a perfect day.
behind the scenes by Katheryne Gonzalez
One of my favorite long-standing movie rituals comes after the credits roll. Once the conflicts are resolved, the plot holes are patched, and the happily-ever-afters ensue, I scour the internet for behind-the-scenes gems. Which Easter eggs did I miss? How did the actors prepare for their roles? How much was CGI vs. practical effects? This self-prescribed research is
“Not one cavity ever—I’m a dental darling.”
“I defeated hunger. Not world hunger— my own.”
just as integral to my movie-watching experience as sitting in the theater itself. As someone who’s never desired to act on the silver screen, this practice comes from a place of curiosity—an appreciation of the massive, typically unseen, efforts that go into bringing stories to life.
I vividly remember using my family computer—the one in the spare bedroom that we all took turns using because it was 2011 and none of us had laptops—to look up behind-the-scenes footage of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2. After so many weekends spent on the couch watching all eight movies courtesy of ABC Family, I was still not ready to let go of that world. I held onto every tidbit of information I could find: how the set design team constructed the Chamber of Secrets, how the last scene they filmed was of the trio escaping the Ministry of Magic, how Emma Watson and Rupert Grint could not stomach having to kiss each other. It’s as if being privy to these details meant I was part of the crew myself.
It’s been well over a decade since that movie came out and yet, not much has changed for me. My YouTube recommendations consistently include different Actors on Actors pairings, press junket Q&As, and directors’ insights into how scenes are shot, among other film-related content. I’m sure that becoming invested in the process has influenced my perception of the final product; there have definitely been films where the final edit does not do justice to the work done behind the scenes, but I try not to let that discourage me from falling down these rabbit holes. In a world where there’s more media than one can consume in a lifetime, where we passively observe to fill the silence or kill time, there’s something so special about actively engaging with the stories we are told.
family-sized by
Emilie Guan
In my room that is now my brother’s room, there are two translucent green storage boxes. Inside each are probably around 20 DVD cases, some of which will have around 10 discs in them. When we were both in elementary school, this was how we used to watch all our movies and TV shows: taking up one bunk each, facing the
small TV screen above the dresser, neon-orange Dorito dust coating our fingers. My dad taught us to slot the DVD into the player, to put them back into their protective sleeves and avoid scratches. And so we had a whole little movie theater for ourselves, where we could watch maybe eight seasons worth of SpongeBob SquarePants and the entirety of Jessie under the covers of linen and childhood. In hindsight, it makes sense for kids’ movies to be centered around family, yet when I think about the movies and shows we watched, it becomes inescapable. The Croods? Grug and his prehistoric family. Wizards of Waverly Place? Alex Russo and her magical family. The Incredibles? Bob Parr and his superhero family. Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses? I mean, in this one she literally has 11 sisters. Sometimes my brother and I would squabble over which show or movie to watch that day. I remember winning most of the time. But I hope he thinks back on our bunk-bed-junk-food-DVD days with the same fondness as I do—to see all the families scream and laugh and cry and stretch and repair together on the screen, and feel a little closer as siblings ourselves.
salt and ice challenge by Elijah
Puente
The first time I watched Saltburn, I was sandwiched between two of my closest friends in a crowded Providence Place theatre. We had narrowed our movie choices down to this or Wonka, but I insisted on Saltburn because I vaguely remembered hearing it included something gay. What I imagined was something like Young Royals or Heartstopper. No. This movie puts the erotic in homoerotic. Like the salt and ice challenge, the feeling is not pleasant, but you carry on to see what happens next. I wish my community building skills were as effective as this movie (maybe then ResLife would give me a raise). The theater erupted several times with communal gasps, groans of disgust, and even a few blatant what-the-fucks. These reactions sparked curiosity around how my friends and family would react to the movie. I started recommending the movie to everyone–even my grandparents. I’ll spare the spoilers, although I am sure they reached
your TikTok “For You” page. As interesting as this movie was, I would still call it one of my favorites. Its peculiar plot paired with vivid production makes Saltburn a true work of art.
inconceivable by Tabitha Lynn
I come from a movie family. While other parents introduced their kids to timeless musicians like Michael Jackson and the Beatles, mine educated me in movie classics. I spent my childhood learning the basics: Back to the Future, Star Wars, and The Matrix; all series released in the 80s were a given. During Covid, my parents and I spent nearly every evening studying each decade of rom-coms—spanning from 80s classics like Pretty in Pink (meh), to 90s Tom Hanks films like Sleepless in Seattle (didn’t like them), to 2000s comedies like 10 Things I Hate About You (my favorite). As we got older, my brother and I’s love for movies expanded beyond the home theater. We watched Marvel movies in theaters on their release day, waiting among the superfans in Spiderman onesies and Iron Man face paint. We found comfort and togetherness in the dim light of the theater and the aroma of artificial butter. On the rare occasions now that my family is all together, you will find us huddled together on the couch, a movie playing on the big screen. Now, when I’m away from home, I find comfort in rewatching. There’s a certain joy in watching people watch your favorite movie—to wait for their reactions to your favorite scenes, to see them laugh right when they should, and to fall in love with the movie yourself time and time again.
great white sharks and movie arcs by Susanne Kowalska
Under a canopy of mosquitoes and fairy lights, my sister and I sit outside, projector flickering steadily. On the screen plays Sharknado—sharks pirouetting in the sky, defying all laws of physics to terrorize the city of Los Angeles. A man jumps inside a shark, diving headfirst into its unhinged jaws and emerges unscathed, having chainsawed his way out. It’s a grotesque approximation of a story—and one of my favorite films of all time. My standards, typically high, fall away if there’s a shark, shoddy production, and a questionable storyline. I’ve watched shark films with budgets so low I could replicate them on iMovie, seen sharks mutate into gruesome creatures with legs, and gone to bed after hours of laughing at the political ramifications of worldwide shark invasions. I wish I had an explanation for the obsession; my sister’s favorite animal was once a shark, but that alone can’t explain the fervor with which I will watch a shark film. Maybe it has to do with a summer camp I once attended where they’d let us loose in the computer lab to watch clips from Sharktopus vs. Pteracuda, but all the same, it’s one of the inexplicable, arbitrary quirks that I’ve chosen to stake my personality upon. It’s a reason to invite my close friends over, armed with popcorn and sharp tongues, ready to make mountains out of molehill details in movies that by their very nature lack logic and plot. Huddled under blankets as if the sharks can reach our dangling toes, there’s joy in the banal.
post- cards cards for Mrs. Rose
by sArah Frank
Illustrated by Julia PArk
Imagine your text messages were for sale. Imagine a girl, much younger than the usual patron of an antique store, digging through a box of your most intimate correspondences. Imagine she buys them, takes them home, and tries to piece together what you might have been trying to say—who you might have been talking to, where you might have been writing from, what the response might have been. Imagine she gets it all wrong: thinks you were a firefighter, but, really, you were a line cook. Maybe she thinks you were in love with a certain man, but you really couldn’t stand the sight of him. Maybe she thought your hair was blonde when it’s as black as the ink on the postcard. But imagine, for a moment, that she actually gets it right—how fascinating a thing that would be. ***
I have collected old postcards for years, though only the ones with writing on the back. I can easily see pictures of places online, but postcards are not just pictures: they’re chosen deliberately and individually to carry home a story or a question or an invitation. It feels like I am holding a story in my hands. I enjoy the speculation.
Usually, when I sort through an antique store’s box of postcards, I look for a few things: Can I read the handwriting?
Is this written to or from a name on a postcard I already have?
Have I been to this town or landmark?
Very rarely do I find postcards that go together, but in the back of the second floor of Nostalgia Antiques, I find a pair undoubtedly written by the same person.
This first postcard was sent on September 25, 1950 from Onset, MA to Wareham, MA.
The cursive is easier to read than most cursives of the time, but the misspellings throw me off. Finally, after zooming in and checking my transcription against the card, I settle on a transcription that feels right:
High Mrs. Rose, I hope you got home OK. Got your buss and did you see the 2 ladies that were here. They went back home. They are nice, hope to see you soon. Come often.
From Nellie
I imagine Mrs. Rose, whoever she is, receiving this card from a sender I imagine to be a little girl. The misspellings (or maybe I am not reading it right?) remind me of how I wrote as a kid. Perhaps Mrs. Rose is her piano teacher or tutor or nanny.
I imagine that Mrs. Rose wrote her back, though the antique store didn’t have any of those cards. It makes sense: Mrs. Rose kept these postcards she received, and, somehow, someway, they ended up at a vintage store in Providence, Rhode Island.
A postcard, one that I have simply decided is from Mrs. Rose, reads: Dear,
I am proud of your progress. You should be too. I believe I am moving to Fairhaven. Not too far, just a half hour or so. Write me at 71 Center Street.
Love you.
P.S. Remember your punctuation. The second purchased postcard from Nellie was from seven years later: July 3rd, 1957.
Why would Nellie not have heard from her? What might have happened?
Mrs. Rose said she was moving to 71 Center Street, but she ended up at 584 Washington Street—why?
Google informs me that 71 Center Street was (and still is) Our Lady’s Haven Skilled Nursing & Rehabilitative Care. So maybe she never moved in? Maybe she decided she’d rather live on her own or with a spouse? The facility is in an old inn, established in 1951— just after the letter was sent.
I flip the postcards around to read Mrs. Rose’s full name. The first one doesn’t include a first name, but the second one does. I just can’t read it. Mabel, maybe?
I open Google with a longshot search: Mrs. Mabel L Rose Fairhaven Massachusetts obituary.
Multiple Fairhaven sights come up but only with recent obituaries. There’s a Mabel Alice Morrison Rose in Boston (close enough?), born in 1903 and who passed away in 1986. It could be her, but maybe not—and either way, it wouldn’t explain why she stopped replying to Nellie.
I switch Fairhaven out for Wareham and look again. Nothing. Perhaps just Massachusetts, no city attached? The same result appears: Mabel Alice Morrison Rose, born and buried in Massachusetts.
Then a second match: Mabel Perry Rose, 1906-1994, a Massachusetts woman through and through as well. Born in Plymouth County and buried in Bristol County.
My transcription reads:
Dear Mrs. Rose, Just a line. Well here it is, another year gone. Don’t they go fast? Hope you are well if I don’t write I think of you just the same. Have not heard from you for sometime. From, Nellie
What county is Wareham Massachusetts in? I search next.
Plymouth County.
What county is Fairhaven Massachusetts in? I cross my fingers for Fairhaven to be in Bristol County, and for the postcard Mabel Rose to match the obituary website Mabel Rose.
Bristol County.
“Bingo,” I whisper, bookmarking the pages. This Mabel Rose married a man named Alfred Rose, son of a mill operative. Together, they had three kids: Jeanette, Alfred, and Carol.
Still, I am not sure how confident I can be about this being the recipient of the postcards. Did I even read the name right?
Left with only my speculation to fill in the gaps, I imagine her reply: Nellie,
I am so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you! I hope you are well. Would love to have you for dinner sometime soon. Loving it here.
Love,
Mrs. Rose
If I had more of their postcards, or if I had any of her response cards, maybe I could piece together the story more completely. I resolve to keep checking Nostalgia, though I know the odds of any more appearing are slim. I imagine both Nellie and Mrs. Rose are not around anymore, but I like the idea that in a way, I can keep them alive. I imagine they exchanged dozens more letters over the years, shared stories over home-cooked dinners, and perhaps even celebrated the holidays together. And perhaps those postcards are out there somewhere, maybe even picked up by another girl at another antique store.
There's truly one thing in the world that frustrates me more than the current state of American politics: Roblox's viral multiplayer dress-up simulator, Dress to Impress. Whether during a particularly monotonous period of lecture or a restful moment of Mock Trial practice, I find myself consistently returning to the Roblox app to torture myself once again with a round of this infuriating game.
For those yet to experience the joy of DTI, the game starts with you receiving an avatar and, for the most stressful five minutes of your life, maneuvering your character through throughout a Hannah-Montana-level walk-in closet with hopes of curating an outfit to match that round's theme, e.g. Dark Coquette, Fairy, Lolita Fashion, etc. (Additionally, I'd like to dedicate the prior sentence to my dad, who insisted I spend a full 30 minutes trying to explain the game's pop-culture significance to him over FaceTime after hearing of this article's topic.)
However, despite the seemingly innocent atmosphere of the poorly animated dress-up game, the game lobby also serves as a breeding ground for some of the internet's most bitter, biased, and altogether merciless pre-teens. No matter how impressive your outfit, no matter how creative your design, when it comes to voting on the number one outfit, the communal judging becomes harsher than that of an online dating app. I truly don't know what goes on in some people's heads during such ratings (actually I do—people just suck), as players will often give one star (out of five) to each and every participant in the hopes of boosting their own avatar in the rankings (I guess that says something broader about society, but I don't have the word count to go into that right now). As a result, the weirdest attempts at fashion always end up making the leaderboard. I could be wearing an Oscars red-carpet-level look and lose to a blue mannequin wearing nothing but galaxy leggings and a 2000s style Claire's headband.
Dress to Impress: battle of the pre-teens
playing Dress to Impress with my baddies, obvi by Ann Gray
Golpira Illustrated
by
Anna Nichamoff INSTAGRAM: @mossmilkshake
top, another player who spent their life savings on the game may come out dressed in a periodaccurate Marie Antoinette cosplay. I'd rather play all six rounds of Netflix's Squid Game than a round of DTI against a VIP member; at least in “Red-Light, Green-Light,” you don't have to pay 50 Robux to run faster.
But despite all my hatred for the horrid 12-year-olds I'm up against, I somehow still find
While the VIP members practically have access to a combined collection of all the Kardashians’ closets (opposed to the regular players who have the choice between a Shein tank top or a pair of Sketchers light-up sneakers), there is in fact a way for individuals to increase their closet size…that is, if you're committed enough. I was recently introduced to the undercover world of Dress to Impress codes, which are special codes
The other thing that sends me reeling is the in-app purchases. For a certain number of “Robux,” the Roblox currency (I truly had to take a deep breath and ask myself what I was doing here as I typed that out), one can buy extra outfits to add to their personal virtual closets. Garments range from baggy jeans to mermaid tails, and, without a doubt, the VIP players inevitably have access to the best of the best. For example, the theme could be something like “Royalty,” and while I may only have access to sneakers and a ruffled
a surprising amount of joy fromwithin the game. It's a guilty pleasure, and I'll often find myself meticulously debating over dress patterns, handbags, and hairstyles with the focus and precision of a surgeon. It's also the perfect game to play with friends, as the collective frustration and anger that it evokes in players is truly a sight
The primal rage that the game wrenches from my body sets in onsets with the very starting note of the lobby's theme song; just turning up the volume to hear those taunting, high-pitched EDM beats is enough to send me into true fight-or-flight. To research further, I logged into the app while writing this, and the adrenaline that ran through my body upon entering the lobby was like that of three straight shots of espresso. But the adrenaline only continues.
that allow access to extra (slightly less hideous) outfits. After scouring TikTok and Google for all the codes currently available, I was able to revamp my avatar's closet with extra hoodies, cowboy boots, necklaces, and more. In that miraculous moment, I finally understood the true meaning of happiness. I'll be sure to relay my findings to my therapist.
Anyway, despite all the rage that Dress to Impress has so often filled me with, there's honestly no better game to randomly and mindlessly scroll through late at night, during classes, or even at a party (for those of you curious—yes, yes I have). It's a world of deceit, discovery, and questionable fashion choices (aka my entire middle school experience). And yet I enter each game with the same ceaseless determination and dream: to one day beat the bitter 12-year-olds of the internet and finally take my rightful place at the top of the DTI leaderboard.
a nostalgia trip through Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame performances
by Ozzy Wagenseil
Illustrated by Rokia Whitehouse
Instagram @saturnkt4
“1…2…1, 2, 3, 4!” All at once, the messiest, most disorganized, most insane group of rock ‘n’ roll legends come together for an iconic cover of a Beatles classic.
On January 20, 1988, the third Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony took place in Cleveland, Ohio. Only five artists were inducted: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Beach Boys, The Drifters, and The Supremes. Four extremely talented music groups and one Bob Dylan were enough to put on a messy show.
Tensions were already high among the bands and the people inducting them. Mike Love of The Beach Boys, being the self-pompous ass that he was, started insulting the other guests, especially Mick Jagger. Mick Jagger himself then followed suit by inducting his “rival,” The Beatles. Diana Ross didn’t make it to the show because she had a falling out with one of the other Supremes. Ringo Starr was drunk as shit. The quiet Beatle, George Harrison, had to take the stage and improvise a charming speech. Paul McCartney didn’t attend due to songwriting royalties and legal issues with Starr and Harrison.
When you take a look at the performance, the stage looks like it might collapse. As the keytar swinging Paul Schaffer finishes the countdown, a hammer of instruments comes clamoring down. Instantly, the chords of “I Saw Her Standing There” ring out from two drum sets and too many guitars on stage. Two jukeboxes sit on the edges of the stage, tightly squeezing the performers in the center. Overhead, an ugly design of what I suppose is the Hall Of Fame hangs downward over the cascade of fellows. The camera zooms in and holy hell, it’s George Harrison and Bob Dylan. George is rocking back and forth, doing his signature headshake to the “Wooo!” of the song.
Bob Dylan, as usual, looks lost.
Throughout the first verse, you wonder: Who’s singing? George and Bob aren’t at the microphone, so whose rough vocals are cutting through everyone else? And then the second verse starts. The immediate shot shows the back of the head of none other than Billy Joel. The proud piano man of New York is chopping up the keys, singing his soul into that microphone. And fuck, he’s pretty damn good, taking over the first two verses and the bridge. No wonder the camera couldn’t find him at first, cause he’s way in the back. Props to him for holding that high note at the end too! My parents have always hated him for “Uptown Girl,” but man oh man, can he sing The Beatles!
The third verse comes along and, let’s be honest, that’s definitely Mick Jagger. After a passing shot of Ringo trying to keep tempo while drunk, we cut to George and Mick sharing the mic for “How could I dance with another!” With George’s head shakes and Jagger’s wideass mouth, the two “rivals” smile at each other before entering the guitar solo. For a brief moment, although I’m sure the two were friends regardless, a Beatle and a Stone were singing one of the most iconic covers of all time. This sound engineer sucks.
While Mick’s shaking his cute hair and Tina Turner turns around, confused about who’s supposed to do what, there’s a brief oscillation of some rapid guitar playing. Turn up the volume, god dammit! I don’t want to see Ringo’s drumming or Paul Schaffer swinging that fuckass keytar around. And just like that, as the crowd parts ways and the tone of a guitar is turned up, there he is…in his black mullet (there were a shit ton of mullets in the 80s), striped suit, the one and only: Jeff Beck. Whooo mama! Make that Telecaster sing real good, baby!
Right before the camera switches away, peep the bottom right corner. As Mick and George are swaying away, a head pops between them. Who dares pop their head between legends other than another legend himself, Bruce Springsteen? He’s the only New Jerseyan, other than Patti Smith, to convince me that their pizza is better than NYC’s (everyone else is just plain wrong). After some delightful encouragement from the two, Springsteen seizes the mic with his hand, delivering the bridge in that mighty voice. Some people say he shouts the lyrics rather than sings. I say who gives a shit, it’s the Boss. These critics just haven’t heard “I’m On Fire” yet. He can’t hit that high note like Billy Joel, but Jagger and Harrison swoop in like two angels on his shoulders. With a little bit of backand-forth vocals, the song abruptly concludes. Yes, Bob Dylan still looks lost as hell.
So what’s the big fuss about?
I like to imagine myself in the front row of that crowd in ’88. I would be squealing like those Beatles fans 20 years prior. There’s so much drama surrounding this performance. I bet Jagger and Love shared some private words after the show (maybe Mike Love got socked; you never know). But I’ve never seen some of these music legends have such gleeful joy before on stage. Of course, The Beatles knew how to pick a good song to cover from Little Richard. But the way Springsteen hops on the end beat is so adorable. I love how Jagger’s hair shakes with his tambourine. I didn’t see any frowns from the Beach Boys, The Drifters, or The Supremes. And if I were in the crowd, I could fall in love with music all over again. Through all the drama that life throws at you, music can make you sob, space out, punch a desk, and more. But, in my opinion, music like that would make me dance in my seat in Cleveland, back in ’88.
make a wish & hang it up a self-evaluation two months in
by Michelle Bi
Illustrated by JunYue Ma
The vision board that hangs crookedly on my dorm wall has seen its fair share of wear and tear. Its corners are wrinkled from traveling cross-country in my backpack. A little too heavy for its tape, from time to time the vision board falls off the cinder blocks, and I wake up to it facedown on my windowsill. The twenty-five pictures collaged across it— representing my resolutions and aspirations for the year—are beginning to peel at the corners, as if they’re trying to leap away from the glittery cardstock I hastily glued them to.
I made it alongside three of my best friends at a sleepover during winter break, all of us hunched over our own piles of paper on a tiny kitchen table until 2 a.m. It’s been months, but I still remember the way the hours blurred and melted together as we talked about boys and parties and aspirations and dreams—the past and the future. “2025 will be my year,” we said about a hundred times. We all pasted our own lofty goals onto our boards, which now reside in our individual dorms, scattered from coast to coast.
For every New Year’s resolution I’ve ever kept, there’s ten more that I’ve failed. And unsurprisingly, I’m not doing particularly well this year either. I present a mostlycomprehensive, almost-completely-tragic breakdown of the goals that illustrate my wall this semester.
Read More
In elementary and middle school, I spent much of my free time tearing through book after book. I stumbled under the weight of my tote bags every time I left the library, loaded down with Roald Dahl and Rick Riordan. I was on a first-name basis with the woman at the front desk.
But when I hit high school and instantly waded knee-deep into homework, I virtually stopped reading for fun. The only books I cracked open throughout junior year were Moby Dick and Walden —required reading for AP Lang during which every lecture bored me out of my mind.
So over winter break, I set a goal to read outside of class with purpose and intent this year. For three weeks at home, I was relatively successful. I devoured Pachinko by Min Jin Lee in three days. After receiving a copy for my 17th birthday, I finally picked up Max Gladstone and Amal El-Mohtar’s This Is How You Lose the Time War and made similarly quick work of it. I even got through several hundred pages of Evicted by Matthew Desmond before I had to return to Providence.
But since the semester started, I’ve only been reading for my Shakespeare class, and I can barely even keep up with that. “There’s something in the air here,” I tell my friends jokingly, something that seems to physically prevent me from opening Othello or A Midsummer Night’s Dream more than three hours before class begins. Hopefully some
week soon, I’ll manage to wean myself off of SparkNotes summaries: but it’s certainly not this one.
Study More and Get Good Grades
I’ll practice some radical honesty here. My transcript from last semester was less than satisfactory. More than any other resolution, my vision board is peppered with Pinterest pictures of girls studying in cute cafes and pictures of red A+’s stamped across papers.
As difficult as it’s been to keep up with this particular goal, I’ve been doing my very best. And even though not everything gets done perfectly ahead of time, everything does get done. My Notion board is up-to-date, my backpack is full, and my newly-acquired iPad is open to Goodnotes nearly 24/7. After a first semester focused on socializing and settling in, I’m making a conscious effort to improve my focus and self-discipline over these next few months—to develop sustainable study habits that will hopefully carry me through the rest of my time here.
Maybe more importantly, I’m also trying to let go of the idea that perfect grades are absolutely vital in the first place. I put a lot of pressure on myself in high school to do well on every single assignment in every single class, and while it did get me here, I spent far more time stressing out over unnecessary work than I should have.
I’m still striving to do well, of course, but I’m making a conscious effort to rework my perspective and to understand that B’s and C’s are not the end of everything as I know it. It’s probably inevitable that I’ll fail a test, or two, or even three. The snow keeps melting. The world keeps turning.
Go to the Gym
To be perfectly candid, I haven’t been to the gym once this semester. A series of slight misfortunes has befallen me—a bad cold, a sprained ankle—but honestly, my biggest obstacle has been myself and my unwillingness to trek through the snow to the Nelson. There’s not much more I can say about that.
Spend Time with Friends
Pictures of people hiking, going to the beach, and playing board games take up a good deal of my board: they represent the idea of the healthy, social, balanced life I’ve spent many a nights dreaming of. Before I entered college, I imagined long weekend trips up to Portland, Maine, where we’d rent an oceanside cabin and spend hours sunbathing in the waves. Or nights of cooking in apartment kitchens; we’d whip up multiple-course meals and have mature, adult dinners.
Now, when I look back on those daydreams, I genuinely can’t help but laugh. High school me had no idea what was coming. Instead of airy and beautiful apartments, my roommate and I spot silverfish scuttling along the corners of our dorm floors and walls. Instead of the sparkling New England coastline, my friends and I make pit stops in the SciLi lobby to shake the gray snow off our boots before they get soaked through. Instead of hiking into forests and across rivers during my downtime, I’m hunched over lecture captures in the basement of the Rock.
My college life is nothing as glamorous or sophisticated as I imagined it might be. The half-dozen Pinterest boards I’ve accrued throughout the years are a far cry from the messiness of my Google Calendar and the newfound hubbub of young adult existence. Still, though, I’m glad to be enduring freezing temperatures and hours of homework and dorm hall pests alongside the people I’ve grown to love. There’s no one else I’d rather be living this aggressively non-Pinterestfriendly, messy, beautiful life with.
Be Grateful
After the reprieve of winter break and weeks spent lazing around at home, the first month back at school has been nothing short of a whirlwind. There’s always an assignment to be doing, a club meeting to go to, a deadline to set six reminders for. It’s beyond easy to feel overwhelmed.
The other day, two exams deep into
midterm season, I caught myself saying, “I hate this school.” But the moment I stopped to actually think, I immediately regretted that declaration. Sure, my schedule is rigorous, and classes are demanding. But in the grand scheme of things, the me from two years ago would have sold her kidney to be here. Even if I’ve got three club meetings lined up back to back in one day, they’re all clubs that I genuinely care about; even if I’m drowning in work, it’s work for the subjects I wrote my very college application about.
I must admit that this last resolution is sort of a cheat; no pictures symbolizing gratitude actually appear on my vision board. But perhaps it’s the one that I care about the most. “2025 is my year,” I find myself repeating, day after day. Sometimes the declaration is joyous and satisfied; sometimes it’s a phrase at the end of a long week that I force myself to say until I start believing it again.
And at the end of the day, I always do. I’m grateful for the clear gold sunlight and the warm weather we’ve all been enjoying this week—no matter how much New Englanders tell me that “second winter” will hit again soon. I’m grateful for Blue Room booth tables and the photo strips that paper my dorm wall and the second floor of Rhode Island Hall.
Mostly though, through the hours and hours of studying and working, I’m grateful for the people I sit with. We procrastinate our readings and slip on the ice outside and go out on the weekends and then we do it all over again. This life is imperfect in almost every measure. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
east coast winter a glittering wonderland
by Reina Jo
Illustrated by Allie Abraham
This winter is the first I have spent entirely on the East Coast. I come from the sunny beaches of Los Angeles, where 50-degree weather is enough for us to break out our warmest layers.
I was convinced I would hate the cold here—my belief solidified by the horror stories my older sister and friends told me about their first East Coast winter. They insisted I would be pummeled day and night by harsh winds, blizzards, and rain storms; therefore, my spirit quickly became worn down.
However, I have quickly come to realize that winter here in Providence is so much more than just rainy days and gloomy weather. What I once saw as a desolate landscape, haunted by the creaky branches submitting to the whim of the wind swirling through campus, has transformed.
Winter means snow glistening at every angle I turn my head. The gleam seems magical, and the world is illuminated by tiny jewels scattered everywhere.
Snow days are pelting your friends with small, but mighty snowballs, the fluffy snow quickly transformed into weapons of war. I duck behind my school bag for cover, scrambling to respond with a snowball of my own.
We never turn against each other for too
long though. Our snowball fights quickly turn into making pictures on the snow-covered lawns, using our shoes as paintbrushes, and giggling over the images we trace out.
This sense of camaraderie carries on once we’re in the warmth and comfort of our dorm rooms. The cold weather seems reason enough to cram as many of us on the twin XL bed as we can fit and watch The Sound of Music late into the night.
Last weekend, my friends and I walked back from the train station late at night after a day spent in Boston. It was snowing heavily as we trekked up the hill back to North Campus. Instead of complaining about my cold, wet feet or the mascara streaking on my face as I once would have, I was propelled forward by the Christmas carols we sang and the swinging of our hands in unison. My face was rosy—not just from the cold, but also because of the laughter and face-splitting smiles we shared.
I admit I am excited to walk outside without the wind whipping my face, to not have to contemplate how many layers I should wear to make sure I am warm enough for the day. I look forward to sunny days spent on the beach or hanging out with friends on the Main Green.
However, now I am able to appreciate the contrasting beauty of the wintertime. It seems unfair to only appreciate nature when it is vibrant and green during the warmer seasons. To truly love and enjoy the outdoors is to also embrace it even when it is less forgiving to my preference for the sun and the warmth. The world has become brighter because of how beautiful it looks in the winter.
POST-POURRI
BEFOR E YOU GO
A Love Letter to My fatalistic Fairy Lights
by Tarini Malhotra
by Fiona McGill
Some people wake up with a purpose. I wake up with my signature cocktail of defeatist optimism and near-certainty that the star and moon fairy lights hung precariously on my wall have fallen again.
You would think that after five months of this tomfoolery, I would have learned my lesson and fixed them once and for all. But there is something so exquisitely silly and deliciously pattern-reinforcing about knowing something to be imperfect (and often irritating) and loving it anyway.
On a good day, the fairy lights perfectly intertwine with the delicate chains and threads that hold together the moons and stars, and they harmonise in a symphony of sparkles and shine. However, these good days are far and few in between.
Instead, it is customary for the stars to lose their will to live and flail, a one-eightydegree oscillation of the chains that renders a predictable yet unnecessarily theatrical death. Meanwhile, the twinkling lights that embrace the chains become entangled into a contortion so tenacious that it is almost impossible to set them free.
Cats have nine lives, and my fairy lights have at least fifty-three, because they vacillate between the two states of flawless and floundering far too often, unyielding to the assortment of methods I have employed to keep them in line. From command strips and hooks of all sizes to several types of tape and rubber bands, I have kept my lights afloat, hoping with each new method and
contraption that they will not fall again. I don’t blame them when they do, however, for how can I expect an inanimate object to be perfect at all times when I, as a living breathing human, find it so hard?
The lights may be dazzling and the moons and stars lustrous, but even the shiniest metals can tarnish. Glittery things raised to heights have as much of a right to flounder as tiny, lowhanging fruit. So maybe my pretty lights are allowed to swing between opposite poles of impeccable and disarrayed at their whim, even if it often causes me distress. Maybe it’s okay for them to sway unsteadily, if only to find their footing.
Now, obviously, it would be goofy of me to compare myself to a non-living object—I do have free will after all—but I am known to occasionally engage in silly-goosery. So, I have to admit, somewhat reluctantly, that it is so tempting to generalize the case of my fairy lights to myself. It is alluring to, perhaps, feel comfort in a sense of solidarity with my moons and stars, as they are perpetually on the verge of falling, yet still trying their best to twinkle with grace and splendor even as invisible forces (or the incompetence of my most recent command strips) threaten to destabilise them.
No matter how many times they fall, the lights do their job remarkably well when the circumstances favour their stature, and I have to give them credit for that. And if I can forgive and admire the fortitude of what is probably just a product of flawed manufacturing, maybe I am allowed to do the same for myself, as a creation of nature and Life, when my own imperfections rise to the surface.
Illustrated
anyone watching? post- mini crossword
by AJ Wu
1 3 6 7 2 8 5 1 5 8 9 7 Across Common fish in salads and melts It swept the 2025 Oscars, winning Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actress (among others)
Tablecloth material
2025 Oscars host with a trademark pompadour
U.S. agency that's out of this world
“I don’t have patience for a letter. I don’t like wasting time putting pen to paper or finding a stamp or waiting for USPS to drive past your house. I care about you, and you should know that today.”
— Eleanor Dushin, “I’m Trying to Tell You” 03.7.24
“My most cherished times are spent sprawled on the floors of my friends’ rooms, wrapped in the warmth of the pillows and blankets on their twin XLs as time unravels quietly in the background of our conversations.”
— Katherine Mao, “Restful Rhythms” 03.7.24 9
The softest mineral 1 Workers' rights group Granny, to an Italian Regions Tolstoy's "____ Karenina" 4 2 3 6 4
