post- 02/18/2022

In This Issue 4

Olivia Cohen

zoe creane

2

(Don't) Be the Cowboy

Getting to Know BDS Employees Nadia Heller 5

Love the Day of Love 6

Malena Colon

Dorrit Corwin 5

The Case Against Binging

Full House, Fuller Heart

postCover by Elliana Reynolds

FEB 18

VOL 29 —

ISSUE 1

FEATURE

Getting to Know Brown Dining Service Employees on a quest to create family dinners in college

By Zoe creane Illustrated by habesha petros

When I arrived at Brown, a delighted, wide-eyed freshman, each moment was a novelty. My first time swinging open the door to Archibald-Bronson; my first sweaty basement party; my first 9 a.m. class.

On move-in day—a day full of firsts—I headed to the dining hall for one of the greatest rites of passage: my very first college meal. My newfound friends and I yanked open the obscenely heavy doors, stumbled up the linoleum steps, and strode into the glaring lights and ringing conversation of the Sharpe Refectory. Dazed and overwhelmed, I handed my student ID to the woman behind the entrance table.

“Hello,” she said, smiling. “First time at the Ratty, yeah?” I nodded silently, suddenly swamped

by the great unfamiliarity of the moment. At home, dinner meant family gathered around the same table, a repetitive repertoire of dishes, an ease and comfort that seemed impossibly far from the chaos of the Ratty.

“Well come on in, honey!” said the cashier, shaking me out of my stupor. “The main dish line starts over there… If you need anything, just come ask,” she encouraged. It was just a few words of kindness, but her warmth put me at ease. I felt welcomed, grounded amongst the sprawling pandemonium of the space around me. “Thank you,” I said.

Brown University’s dining halls are an indispensable element of the college experience, and a nec-

essity for most undergraduate students. However, it’s the Brown Dining Service (BDS) employees who transform that necessity into something cheerful and welcoming. They are the ones who bring the comfort of our homes and families into our dining halls. Whether greeting us at the entrance or laying out the dishes, refilling our coffee or frying our eggs, BDS employees ensure that we feel taken care of.

Despite my deep appreciation for the people who feed me, I recently realized that I haven’t shared much more than a “hello” with many BDS employees. In the crush of the self-serve line or the methodical speed of the build-your-own stations,

Letter from the Editor

You Just Know the NYT Will Pull Out of Their Ass for Wordle

Dear Readers, Today felt like spring. I know, I know. It’s only a brief reprieve from Providence’s propensity for freezing rain, and it’ll be in the teens again by Sunday. And who can experience a warm day without the weighty knowledge that it portends only bad things for the climate at large, anyways? Despite it all, though, a 60 degree day unlocks the part of my brain that usually slumbers the winter away. My shoulders get a wellearned rest from scrunching up against the cold, my room gets some fresh air rolling in through the window.

A wonderful day for the first spring issue of post-!

Some of our writers have naturally landed on the topic of Valentine’s Day. Can you believe that happened this very week? Time passes oh so quickly.

Anyway, this week our Lifestyle piece outlines a recipe for self-love, while in Narrative one of our writers advocates against hating Valentine’s. Also in Narrative, an author reflects on her complex relationship with her grandfather. In A&C, one writer recalls fond memories of Full House, while the other considers the benefit of watching TV shows week-by-week.

Finally, our Feature article shows huge appreciation for Brown Dining Service, including interviews with BDS workers.

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No matter what the temperature happens to be when you see this issue, dear reader, take a moment— take several moments—and let post- breathe some gentle springtime energy into your day. And welcome to a new semester with post- magazine! We’re excited to have you, and I for one am excited to see what this spring semester brings. If it’s anything like the energy of this oddly warm day in February, then it’ll be spectacular.

Busily photosynthesizing,

Kyoko Leaman Editor-in-Chief

1.

UMBER

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PSYCH

3.

ENNUI

4.

AGLET

5.

BOOBS

6.

LMFAO

7.

GOOFY

8.

EERIE

9.

KAZOO

10. BIMBO

FEATURE my panicked need to secure sustenance prevented me from making connections with the staff. But how could I hope to share homey meals in a dining hall served by people I haven’t yet gotten to know?

Determined to create that sense of family, I chatted with five BDS employees about their work at Brown and their lives beyond. *** My first stop was the Ivy Room, where I was greeted at the doors by Octavia Pacheco, a cashier for BDS. “I cook a lot of Portuguese food, I love to dance… All in the Portuguese way!” shared Pacheco, who grew up in Portugal and came to the US with her family when she was seven years old. “It was very different for us here, we were very poor in the beginning,” said Pacheco. “But we eventually moved to Providence, I got married and started to work at Brown, and I’ve been here my whole life.” As a cashier, it’s Pacheco’s job to swipe people into the dining halls, meaning she spends more time interacting with students than other BDS employees. “I am so honored to work at Brown… I really like working with you guys, the students are number one,” she shared.

Pacheco loves to cook for others, and will often cater for baptisms or other parties—mostly Portuguese food. In her limited free time, she also loves to crochet and dance. “You know, when I was younger I did a lot of gymnastics, and when I met my father-in-law, I told him I knew how to do the splits,” Pacheco shared. “He said, ‘No you don’t,’ and so I showed him!” Pacheco is from the Azores region of Portugal, and hopes to retire there soon. “That’s my dream, to go back home for good.” With this goal in mind, Pacheco works seven days a week and often does over time—you’ll see her everywhere. “Say hi!” said Pacheco, smiling.

On my way toward the exit, I ran headfirst into Shawn Spardello, whom I recognized as an Ivy Room constant. I asked if he wanted to be interviewed, and he pshawed while leading me over to a table.

Spardello’s life motto? “I pretty much take the good and throw away the bad, that’s the best you can do every day.” Spardello is a temp for BDS—you can often find him whipping out Ivy Room smoothies or sandwiches with enthusiasm. “I’ve been here six or seven months, and I’m waiting for the right spot to open up here for a permanent position,” Spardello explained. “I like this job because it’s organizational, it’s methodical, but then you get to feed the kids and keep them happy.” Spardello works seven days a week, and has a second job at a diner in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. “I’ve got a son in Florida and a daughter here that just got married, so that’s why I’m working so much!” he shared.

Spardello grew up in Lincoln, Rhode Island, and has been working in food service his whole life.

“Feeding people feeds me, it makes me happy!” he exclaimed. Spardello doesn’t have much free time beyond work and household tasks, but he loves that he gets to spend most of his day with college students.

“It’s hard to be cognizant on an empty stomach,” remarked Spardello. “I know kids are leaving class early to beat the line, and I can’t condone that, but I did the same thing a hundred years ago when I was in school!”

Waving goodbye to Pacheco and Spardello, I began the quick trek across campus to the V-Dub, the other dining hall I deemed laid-back enough to accommodate a nosy student. I grabbed a muffin and began to chat up the woman laying them out.

She wasn’t interested in an interview, but pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m sure Maria wants to talk!”

“Food makes people happy, that’s what I like about working here,” shared Maria, a food service employee. “I fix the lines, lay things out… I like to work with the food, but I really like to talk to you kids!”

Like Pacheco, Maria grew up in the Azores region of Portugal, and immigrated to the United States when she was 14 years old. “It was very tough when we first came to this country, but now I love it, I’ve been here almost 50 years,” she explained.

In her free time, Maria likes to go out, to cook, and to spend time with her family. She has three grandchildren, and they each bring her so much joy.

“With my grandchildren, we go to movies. They love to watch Disney!” When I remarked that I had just chatted with a woman who loves to cook Portuguese food, Maria exclaimed, “Oh, Octavia!” Maria also loves to cook Portuguese food for her family, especially seafood. “My granddaughter loves my food,” she said, grinning. “Yesterday, I made shrimp for her in the Portuguese way and she was so happy!” Maria plans to retire in the next few years, and is looking forward to having more time to travel and be with her loved ones. “First, I want to go visit Azores, stay and relax for a while… It’s such a beautiful island,” she said. “But right now, I love to work here, I love the kids, so much energy!”

Maria gestured to another woman working behind the food line, encouraging her over. “This is Marie,” she said, introducing us. Marie is quiet, but was quick to express how much she enjoys working at Brown. “I love my job here, I have everything I need!” she explained. Marie grew up in Cape Verde, an island country off the coast of Africa. “I came here for vacation a long time ago, and I stayed because it is easier to be here than in my country,” she shared.

Marie started working for Brown in 2002, on a recommendation from a friend. “I have my job, I have my house, I have my car, I can go to my country every year, I can take care of my daughter… There is

noth-ing else that I need.” Marie’s daughter went to college nearby, and is now working as a nurse practitioner. “She got married this December, so I’m hoping for a grandchild soon!”

Marie loves to go out with her husband, whether it’s parties and events or shopping and vacations.

“When I get off work, I go home to do all my things, and then we relax or go out,” she explained. Marie has three years left before her retirement, and plans to spend a lot of time traveling. “I’d like to go back to Cape Verde often, to visit where I grew up,” she said.

“But I will keep coming back here, this is my home now too.”

After saying goodbye to Marie, I greeted the cashier swiping cards at the entrance. He introduced himself as Nelson Lopes, lead food service worker.

“I love interacting with the students and getting to see the progress from freshman to senior year,” he shared. Lopes grew up in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and started working at Brown through an internship in high school. “I had fun, I felt like I was learning and being productive, and I just ended up staying here,” said Lopes. He explains that in his role as lead food service worker, “I manage all the things the supervisor doesn’t handle.”

Lopes’s home life is busy and happy—he has five children who are between five and 19 years old.

“I’ve got four boys and the youngest is a girl… She’s very spoiled by her brothers!” Lopes spends most of his free time with his kids, who love to play sports and adventure. “My daughter is just five, she’s still finding out what she likes to do, but she’s got a ton of support,” he said. Like Marie, Lopes is originally from Cape Verde, and hopes to move back when he retires. Of his country, he says, “It’s just a whole different world there, it’s so free, everything you eat is fresh and the air is clear!” *** While chatting with Octavia, Shawn, Maria, Marie, and Nelson, I was rocked by a sense of joy and gratitude. The gap between my cozy family dinners and my meals in Brown’s cafeterias is shrinking, made smaller by connections to the people who feed me. We united over our love of sharing meals and cooking for our loved ones, and I saw the care and intention behind the food served in the dining halls. When I see Portuguese food on the menu, I think of Octavia and Maria. When I go to the Ivy Room for a smoothie, I seek out Shawn. When I think about traveling, I remember the love Marie and Nelson shared for Cape Verde. Just as I thank my parents for nourishing me, I thank the dining hall staff for doing the same. Little by little, I’m building a family within my college world, and I’m beyond happy that the BDS employees are becoming a part of it.

“Oh no! I got honey mustard on the Maggie Nelson!“ “You know the Pope is a power bottom.”

February 18, 2022

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NARRATIVE

(Don't) Be the Cowboy

wrangling with my grandfather's two identities

by Olivia cohen Illustrated by connie liu My grandfather used to be a cowboy—a real one. He wore a wide-brimmed, faded brown hat and crocodile skin boots. He had a leather belt with an intricately carved sterling buckle, and he wore it every day over blue jeans and a tucked in plaid button-down. As a teenager, he spent his summers riding "ol' cow ponies," playing poker, and learning the business of ranching from the inside. After the death of his father and a stint in the Marine Corps, he stopped wrangling cattle and started investing in it instead. But he never lost his Wyoming drawl or bow-legged swagger.

That's the story of my Pop Pop that I grew up hearing. My mom loves to embellish the narrative with her own personal tales, too, and my brother and I quickly committed the most oft-repeated ones to memory.

"You know, when I was a little girl, your Pop Pop was driving through Vail Pass and my sister Sara and I were fighting over a Barbie in the backseat, and he—" "Pulled the car over, opened the back door, took the Barbie, and threw it off a cliff. Yeah, we've heard that one," my brother or I would finish, to which Mom would reply, "I'm just so predictable, aren't I?" But it wasn't that my mom was predictable.

Stories about my grandfather were just vividly memorable. One time, as a teenager, my mom asked him for $50. "Sure," he told her. He pulled a $100 bill from his wallet and ripped it down the middle, handing her half. For Mom, it was a lesson not to expect handouts. For us, it was a reminder of his wit and his irrevocable status as a "tough guy."

He was also her knight in shining armor. When my mom was 12, my grandmother—whom my grandfather had divorced when my mom was five— moved in with a new husband and sent Mom and two of her siblings to live in a foster home in Omaha. She describes how she managed to escape her captors, sprinting to the post office to drop off a letter begging for my grandfather’s help. He showed up a few days later outside the foster family's ram-

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shackle house, piled Mom and her siblings into the back of the car, and threw their trash bags full of clothes into the trunk. As my mom tells it, they were on the road within 15 minutes. I always pictured an engine roar and a cloud of brown dust, just like in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. *** Every summer, my family and I used to drive four hours to visit Pop Pop in Saratoga, Wyoming, a town of fewer than 2000 people where he lives for six months and one day out of the year (the extra day spares him from paying taxes in Palm Springs, California, where he resides for the other five months and 29 days). Although I loved how excited my parents were to visit, I found myself dreading these trips. I respected my grandfather, but I had to admit that his gruffness scared me a little. I was timid and silent around him, a fraction of myself, always worried about saying the wrong thing and therefore proving my naivety. I would sit stiffly in his cavernous, barely furnished living room while he and my parents drank whiskey and talked about Western art and guns and politics and things I didn't understand. Driving home to Denver always felt like letting out a big breath that I had been holding for a long time.

One of my family's yearly trips to Wyoming stands out in my memory. I was at an Italian restaurant with my parents, my brother, my grandfather, and his much younger wife. We were sitting at the table for quite some time before a waitress finally approached us, apologizing for the wait and citing the understaffed kitchen and the busy holiday season. My grandfather didn't like to be kept waiting.

We placed our orders, and my mom tried desperately to maintain a flow of light conversation, but Pop Pop's mood had darkened.

As we waited for our mains—30 minutes, then 45—he descended into a kind of vibrating quiet, a bomb primed to detonate. When our food finally arrived, my grandfather said something sharp and sarcastic to the waitress. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember that her eyes welled with tears, and she hurried back to the kitchen with her head in her hands. We ate in tense silence, and my grandfather asked for the check before we had finished. When the check didn't arrive within a quarter hour, he stood up and pushed his chair back, dropping his napkin on the table. "Thanks for the free meal," he told the hostess, and strode out of the restaurant, leaving us scrambling after him and apologizing to everyone in our wake.

Perhaps we could have written this off as classic Pop Pop, always expecting the most from people.

I'm sure we laughed about it after a few weeks of space. But for me, the veneer had started to wear off. For the first time, I felt ashamed of him. I could suddenly remember some of the stories about my grandfather that I had glossed over when my mom told them, because they hadn't fit my idyllic mental picture: how he stopped paying for my mom's college education when she refused to break up with a boyfriend he didn't like; how he had disowned his second-eldest son, a drug addict suffering from schizophrenia; how my mom had been hesitant to introduce him to my dad out of fear that he would reject her engagement to a Jewish man.

In eighth grade, we were assigned a final project; the prompt was to make a memory box to commemorate someone we admire. My response was a no-brainer: Pop Pop was my idol, quick as a whip and steel-willed. Of course I would dedicate my project to him. I constructed my box with meticulous care, cutting out his photocopied portrait from his autobiography to paste alongside the little pictures I drew of lassos and boots.

But even at the age of 13, I was developing a prickly feeling, the itch of cognitive dissonance in the back of my brain. I had this growing realization that maybe I didn't idolize him as much as I thought I did. I respected him, but did I look up to him?

I wasn't so sure. With my growing self-awareness came a keener, more critical eye, and I was starting to see glimpses of my grandfather that were downright ugly.

I would have done anything, in those moments, to unhear the thing I had just heard, to separate that statement from the person sitting across the table from me. If he was really the man my mom had spoken about with such fondness and reverence, how could he also be so ignorant? How could he be the gruff-but-loveable patriarch of my family, a brilliant businessman, and also be a bigot? I could no longer superimpose the two images of him in my head; the version of him I had constructed from stories was too different from the one I had experienced myself.

There had been such comfort in the assumption that the grown-ups I respected were always right and moral and good. He had swiftly and bluntly acquainted me with the life-altering reality that adults are often wrong, that they can both do good things and be bad people.

After the presidential election in 2020, my grandfather sent a poll over email to my mom and her eight siblings asking who they voted for. I suppose my mom answered wrong, because we haven't seen him or spoken to him in three years. Any communication we have with him is supposed to go through his wife first. It has been difficult to watch my mom wrestle with the same cognitive dissonance that I experienced in my early teenage years, struggling to integrate her innate love for her father with the deep hurt of his rejection.

As for me, I've found peace in the realization that I don't have to reconcile the two versions of my grandfather. I don't have to choose the stories to remember. I'll never forget his heroic rescue of my mom from her foster home, nor will I forget the fluttering anxiety I felt as a young girl sitting in his living room. And I have learned a lot from him, too, lessons both helpful and painful. He taught me the infinite power of a strong work ethic, and that if you keep your standards high, other people will reach to achieve them. He also taught me that nobody is worthy of worship.

NARRATIVE

Full House, Fuller Heart

remembering bob saget

by Dorrit Corwin Illustrated by ooviya sathiyamoorthy

Love the Day of Love

why you shouldn't hate valentine's day

by Nadia Heller Illustrated by John gendron Before I relate to you how Valentine’s Day isn’t about relationship status, I must admit that I spent Valentine’s Day gobbling gnocchi decorated in melted mozzarella while seated across from my fabulous boyfriend. A last-minute 9 p.m. reservation had landed us on Federal Hill; a flame and fake rose petals kept our tablecloth company while we gossiped together and occasionally sprinkled in cheesy comments on our feelings for each other.

So with that in mind, you may think that it's hypocritical for me to say this, but here it is: Valentine’s Day is not about analyzing your relationship status— it's about celebrating your love for the people who love you. In my defense, I’ll tell you that no one has sent me more chocolates, more cookies, and more words of love on any Valentine’s Day than my mom. I will always be my mom’s Valentine first and foremost, and if I were to suggest otherwise, I wouldn’t be welcomed home. I would also like to further clarify that out of the 20 Valentine’s Days that I’ve spent breathing, only two of them were spent with a significant other. Ten percent isn’t nothing, but it’s far closer to zero than a hundred.

Instead, I’ve spent nearly all of my February 14ths with my best friend. Emilie and I met in daycare and immediately ignited each other’s more diabolical characteristics: Emilie’s only-child greed for attention seeped into my own psyche. Unfortunately for my brother, Emilie schooled me as an attention grabber.

I threw tantrums when my parents’ attention diverted anywhere else, especially toward my brother.

But it wasn’t just Emilie who was the corruptor in this friendship—I wasn’t an angel of influence either.

A mischievous streak plagued my toddler years.

(The time-out corner will always hold a special place in my heart.) In daycare, I refused nap time and made Emilie stay up with me while all the other twoand three-year-olds slept soundly. We both grew up in Providence, a mile apart, until eight candles lit our birthday cakes and Emilie’s family packed their bags for a new city. Emilie left me the only princess of Providence, and enthroned Pawtucket with a new monarch. A whole half of a mile was added to the journey between our homes. Still, we spent

every Valentine’s Day together in Providence (along with most other days).

I remember a particular Valentine’s Day in our middle school years when we both fell sick. Not lovesick. Just a snotty, coughing, feverish type of sick.

Emilie’s mom drove her the seven-minute drive to my house. She appeared at my front door and through the glass I could already see how terrible she looked. Her face was paler than usual, and the tip of her nose was dried up and red. I was no model either. I hadn’t combed my hair in days, and the smell of sickness emanated from my body. Despite the chills, the achiness in our bones, and a couple of drum-like pounding headaches, we were determined to have a good day. We set up fairy lights and made hot tea. Emilie brought a homemade candle and cherry honey Ricola cough drops (the red kind, of course). We ate the cough drops and sipped the tea, letting them cure the itches in our throats. We were exhausted and cold, but it was love all around.

Now we live much farther apart. I’m in Providence (in a new castle), and Emilie is in her third city, Montreal. Our seven-minute journey has been extended into a seven-hour drive, and our Valentine’s Days are spent at a distance.

On February 14, 2022, I got ready for my first Valentine’s date in two years in my dorm room.

I changed into a black long-sleeved dress that I borrowed from my neighbor, and slipped on my overworn, ripped CVS tights. Suddenly, my phone rang next to the massive jar of heart shaped sugar cookies, sent (of course) from my mom. Emilie was calling. She, too, was getting ready for her date. We wished each other a happy Valentine’s Day, and said our I love yous. And then, in the midst of our individual rushing, we hung up.

My Valentine’s Days have been about celebrating my best friends (and my mom) and the crazy amounts of love I have for them. Even though I am thrilled to have spent it eating Italian food with my boyfriend this year, I miss my February 14ths with Emilie. On our healthy and unhealthy Valentine’s Days, we have never failed to cherish each other's company. WhileI love and am loved on every day of the year, Valentine’s Day is specially reserved for those who have always been there for me, in sickness and in health.

“When you’re lost out there and you’re all alone, a light is waiting to carry you home…” “Everywhere You Look” by Jesse Frederick, better known as the Full House theme song, floods me with a special type of sentimentality each time I hear it. While most people my age grew up on Hannah Montana and SpongeBob, my childhood television nostalgia is entirely defined by 70s-90s sitcoms: The Brady Bunch, Bewitched, The Nanny, and especially, Full House. Full House, a half-hour family comedy in which a widowed dad’s brother and best friend move in to help him raise his three daughters, made me fall in love with the genre. At age 10 I wasn’t sure how a sitcom was made or how they differed from shows my friends were watching, but that warm and fuzzy feeling that rushed through me every time I heard the theme song at the beginning of each episode would later translate into a passion for sitcoms and a dream to one day work in a writers’ room.

Some of my fondest childhood memories took place on lazy Sunday mornings, cuddled with my sister in my parents’ bed, enveloped in the latest— from twenty years prior, that is—Tanner family drama. Our parents preferred we watch shows that highlighted characters we could look up to, and that they would enjoy watching with us. When Full House reruns happened to be on one morning, we were immediately hooked.

My sister resonated most with Michelle (played by both Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen), the littlest sister, and would go around shouting, “You got it, dude!” to seven-year-olds who entirely missed the reference to Michelle’s adorable catch phrase. We also loved Aunt Becky (Lori Loughlin), a fun-loving, elegant local newscaster and wife of Uncle Jesse (John Stamos), so much that we named a hamster after her.

Meanwhile, I found myself drawn to the men of the household. Uncle Joey (Dave Coulier), Uncle Jesse, and Danny bring zest from their eclectic and varied lives to the family fabric that is appealing and relatable for many demographics and age groups. When I recently began re-watching some of my favorite episodes in honor of Bob Saget’s death in January, I picked up on elevated jokes and plot points that went over my head a decade ago when I first encountered them. Uncle Joey’s ridiculous sense of humor and Uncle Jesse’s dry and shrewd demeanor complemented one another as ideal and entertaining co-parents, but the sensitivity and patience with which Danny Tanner raised his three girls was unparalleled both on and off screen.

Somewhat subconsciously, my lifelong obsession with Full House altered my conceptions of masculinity and my appreciation for my own family—a phenomenon led valiantly by Bob Saget as Danny Tanner. Saget saw an opportunity in that role to redefine family structures in a way that made me want all my relatives to live in my house with me. As the head of the household, Danny showed viewers that no matter what everyone had going on in their personal lives, family came first–even sometimes to the detriment of individual egos or teenage embarrassment. Being raised in a big Los Angeles Jewish family with cousins scattered all

February 18, 2022

5

ARTS&CULTURE

The Case Against Binging how yellowjackets rekindled my love for weekly tv

by Malena Colon Illustrated by Connie liu

over town just wasn’t quite as intimate as sharing a San Francisco painted lady home.

In an episode called “Michelle a la Carte,” Danny’s youngest daughter set out to build a gokart with Aunt Becky but found herself discouraged when she realized that people were making fun of her for it. There was a life lesson to be learned from every Full House episode—some conveyed them more subtly than others. At the end of the go-kart saga, Danny said to his daughter, "See, Michelle?

Joey's a boy and he can do ballet. And you and Aunt Becky are girls and you can build cars. As long as you're not hurting anybody, you can do anything you want to do." Cheesy, but pretty progressive to explicitly teach to Full House fans in 1993.

Beyond crafting one of the most wholesome characters in all of television during a time when the families represented on television were largely traditional and the gender binary permeated society even more so than it does today, Saget embraced his Danny Tanner-isms offscreen, as well. As is the case with many long-running sitcoms, the cast of Full House really did exist as a family unit by the end of their eight seasons together. Especially since many of the actors were so young in the pilot, Saget served as a real-life father figure to child actors Candace Cameron, Jodie Sweetin, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, and Andrea Barber.

The closeness of the cast could be glimpsed by their electric onscreen chemistry at the time.

Decades later—despite having taken very different

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career paths—they all remain good friends. By 2017, I had outgrown much of the humor present in Full House. Nevertheless, I attended a live taping of an episode of Warner Bros 5-season reboot (Fuller House), starring many original cast members, and was flooded with much more nostalgia and warmth than I anticipated. I loved seeing Bob Saget, my childhood TV dad, in real life, interacting with his fellow cast members in between scenes as playfully and generously as I’d imagined he would.

Most recently, the Full House family came together to mourn the sudden loss of their gentle giant dad. As many of them have taken to social media and shared over the past month, the world is unequivocally less bright without Bob Saget’s brilliance and wit. His memory lives on in eight immaculate seasons of Full House, five endearing seasons of Fuller House, countless other comedic endeavors, and in the hearts of his original TV family and fans.

Bob Saget as Danny Tanner set the golden standard for dads, men, and comedians everywhere.

Though at the time I was bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me watch the shows all my friends were watching, now, I couldn’t be more grateful for or proud of the sitcom that raised me. Danny once asked his oldest daughter DJ onscreen, “Am I the raddest, baddest dad a kid ever had?” While moody teenage DJ had replied, “You were until you said that,” that’s exactly what Danny Tanner was.

The clock strikes midnight. We gather on the couch. For once, my mother does not fall asleep.

For once, my brother comes down from his room.

We turn the TV on, eagerly anticipating another installment of our ten-week-old ritual. We’re watching Showtime’s latest series, Yellowjackets.

The show centers on a girls’ high school soccer team stranded in the wilderness after a plane crash.

Take The Lord of the Flies, dive into the complex world of female friendship, survival, and trauma, then spice t up with time jumps and addictive cliffhangers.

Riddled with gore and secrets, it’s both tantalizing and riveting, each episode feeding us breadcrumbs only to leave us even hungrier.

I think what I love and hate the most is the mystery of it all. The intrigue. The slow-burn. The drawn-out, weekly suspense. My family and I are reluctant to let any episode end, always savoring the previews for the next. I find myself on Reddit, scrolling through the app hoping to prolong my hour-long midnight high, and our theories erupt into dinner-table discourse: Is Jackie still alive? Can we trust Taissa? Who’s the pit girl? Who do we think is the Antler Queen? If I wasn’t restricted by Showtime’s weekly releases, then perhaps I’d keep watching and neglect to relish the suspense. Perhaps the family ritual wouldn’t exist at all.

Generally speaking, I (and many others out there) have absolutely zero self-control when it comes to watching television. I will most certainly let whatever streaming service I’m using automatically play the next episode. It’s often to my detriment: my butt permanently dents the couch, my eyes are screen-fatigued the next morning, and the whole season feels like a fever dream. The worst was when COVID-19 first hit: from The Queen’s Gambit to Tiger King and even a return to old TV hits like New Girl or Avatar: The Last Airbender, I indulged in a steady stream of comfort and distraction.

The pandemic has been an isolating experience, and binging has been a surefire way to pass the lonely time. But beyond the occasional Twitter meme or Netflix party, perhaps somewhere along the way we’ve lost sight of TV culture, of communal viewership and anticipatory waiting times. Perhaps we’ve been all too charmed by the allure of instant gratification, our answers and endings just around the corner. I’m fully a part of the Netflix generation, so waiting a week for each episode feels like a crime.

But something about waiting works. And in many cases, it’s making a resurgence.

Take Disney+’s WandaVision, for example. As an ode to the many pre-streaming decades of television, the show’s weekly format was a success. The series’s mysteries fueled conversations week after week, fans buzzing with their own theories and ideas. The wait solidified WandaVision’s place in the social sphere. Since then, Marvel has doubled down with several other weekly-release shows: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Loki, and Hawkeye.

Other streaming giants have recently followed in Disney+'s footsteps. Amazon Prime’s The Boys released a weekly second season, and now the fourth

season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel will release two episodes a week. Hulu has used its own modified version of a weekly release schedule with shows such as Only Murders in the Building and, more recently, Pam & Tommy. HBO’s Euphoria, the epitome of our generation’s zeitgeist, also comes to mind. Waiting for a new episode of the second season to air every Sunday makes the memes that come in between even funnier, and the Cassie-Nate plot

was the first time in a long time all four of us were able to congregate on an agreed schedule, in equal anticipation for the questions and answers awaiting.

Yellowjackets rekindled a love I hadn’t realized needed rekindling.

And so as we watch, there are brief moments when my mind drifts back to the early stages of the pandemic. Each day and episode blending into the next as both my sense of time and personhood slip

even more frustrating.

Though there is certainly a case to be made for binging, all of this is to say, in essence, that we are slowly seeing the medium go full circle. As friends and families from far and wide resume weekly rituals in front of the TV, they can watch and discuss onscreen events as they unfold. Maybe this is something that we’ve forgotten—that TV can be enjoyed in pieces rather than all at once, that many of our favorite series can be shared rather than solo experiences. Fanbases become revitalized, the bonds between people become stronger, and TV becomes an experience. An event.

I didn’t exactly realize what “event” I was missing out on until I watched Yellowjackets. This

away. My butt leaving its imprint on the couch, my legs melting into the cushion. My shouts at the TV screen as my parents, working from home, tell me to stay quiet because they’re on a call.

I return my attention to the screen in front of me. The opening credits play. Grainy, grungy, 90s-inspired with an aptly angsty theme song, it’s a sequence of VHS-type scenes, many of which come from episodes we have not yet seen. They serve as teasers, reminders that as viewers we must be patient before these answers become revealed to us.

As the credits come to a close, I look at my mom, dad, and brother crowded on the sofa around me, their eyes fixated in a single direction. And I smile.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kyoko Leaman

“I heard somewhere that growing up happens in one moment, and if that’s true, then maybe my moment was with the tangerinecolored vegetables.”

—Kaitlan Bui, “And Now the Piñata’s Burst” 02.05.21

“Home in New Mexico speaks over the silence, howling like the wind through harvested cornfields and steaming hot chocolate… home at Brown is shared smiles over wooden tables, asking one another to pass the salt and pepper, because the Ratty food has absolutely no seasoning.”

—Danielle Emerson, “Home, For Now” 1.30.20

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

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editor Danielle Emerson Leyton Ho LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Kimberly Liu Section Editors Tabitha Lynn HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Connie Liu

COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan Copy Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Eleanor Peters Tierra Sherlock SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Chloe Zhao Tabitha Grandolfo Natalie Chang

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen Layout Designers Alice Min Angela Sha Caroline Zhang Gray Martens STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Olivia Cohen Ellyse Givens Joyce Gao Zoe Creane Danielle Emerson Kaitlan Bui Julia Vaz Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay

Want to be involved?

Email: kyoko_leaman@brown.edu!

February 18, 2022

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