post- 01/31/20

In This Issue Successive Shifts in Self ROBERT CAPRON 5

Home, For Now

DANIELLE EMERSON 4

The Bumbling Fool’s Guide to London

NAOMI KIM 3

Moving On Up

ANNA HARVEY 2

ALISA CAIRA 5

The Art of the Book

postCover by Gaby Treviño

JAN 31

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VOL 24 —

ISSUE 13

FEATURE

Moving On Up

Looking for post-grad advice in a 56-year-old docuseries

BY ANNA HARVEY ILLUSTRATED BY CECILIA CAO

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hen I grow up, I want to...learn about the moon and all that.” This is Nick, a seven-year-old from the Yorkshire Dales, who only minutes earlier was shown clomping in a comically tall pair of rainboots toward the one-room schoolhouse that provides the interior for this shot. Nick is the only child in his village (except for his younger brothers), and much of the camera’s time with him is spent panning over the rolling hills and imposing cliffs that he explores in place of playgrounds. This landscape dwarfs Nick’s body, and yet he walks on, resolute. Little does he know, in 21 years, he would be a nuclear physicist.

The Up series began in 1964 when director Paul Almond and 22-year-old researcher Michael Apted scoured English schools looking for children from disparate backgrounds. Inspired by the Jesuit maxim “Give me a child until he is seven, and I will give you the man,” their initial documentary, Seven Up!, set out to suggest that children’s socioeconomic backgrounds would predetermine their paths in life. Almond left the project after the first episode,

but Apted, harboring his own directorial ambitions, decided to continue following the same 14 subjects every seven years and filming updates from their lives.

The most recent installment, whose participants are now 63 years old, aired in June 2019 on British television and is now in some American theaters.

I watched the back catalog over winter break, initially hoping for an interesting sociological study of the country I had recently spent a year living in.

What I got instead was a meandering meditation on what it means to live a good life.

A good life is something I have been thinking about a lot recently. I am about to graduate college. I have applied to a few graduate programs, a smattering of jobs. I have mostly been whipping myself into a froth worrying about how to pursue the most ethical path in life while also making enough to pay rent. I have envisioned a vague sort of future with a family of my own and at least one pet. I cannot decide if I want to live in the city or the country, but I know I want a house whose walls are lined with books, one that calms me when I walk in. I say all of this to say that I don’t know—at least concretely—what I want

out of my life. So I watched other people live theirs.

Apted’s pool is admittedly narrow. A mere four of his 14 interviewees are women, and the cohort includes only one person of color. All appear to be straight, or are at least shown in heterosexual partnerships if they don’t remain single. Yet there remains something profound to be gained from sneaking a peek into someone’s life every seven years. We see marriage and divorce, birth and death, hardship and happiness. The series spans Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government, Tony Blair’s New Labour, and the 2008 financial crash, exploring their resultant impacts on people’s livelihoods. The series does not deny that structural factors impact the way we move through the world—those most severely affected by the crash, for example, are the working-class interviewees. But the Up series is more than a straightforward longitudinal study. It invites us to contemplate the ins and outs of human life and, ultimately, to recognize that we are, each of us, full of something greater than the statistics which scaffold our experiences.

Humans are remarkably resilient, I thought while watching, and this is largely due to our relationships with one another. Neil, who at seven declared his ambition to be an astronaut (“or if I can’t be an astronaut, I think I’ll be a coach driver”) was homeless at 28 due to a persistent “nervous complaint.” Bruce, a former boarding school boy and fellow participant in the program, took Neil in sometime during the interval between 35 Up and 42 Up. At 42, Neil appeared to be back on his feet, and had been elected as a city councilor to the London borough of Hackney. When Bruce married a fellow teacher shortly before the filming of 42 Up, Neil gave a reading at the wedding. I think about the weddings whose invitations will soon flood my mailbox, wherever I’m living. I think about my friends here, that one day soon we’re not all going to live together, and that we may never live together again. I think about our future spouses and children, and how I

Letter from the Editor Bowls

Dear Readers, Congratulations on making it through your first full week of classes! In the frenzy that is shopping period, I hope you are letting yourself enjoy the air of leniency that comes with these two weeks, as superficial as it may be. I know that I am, what with dropping my morning classes, hosting dinners, and fully devoting myself to new roles in the groups I love, post- being one of them.

In line with the many changes at the beginning of a semester, post- is also welcoming some new old faces to lead our editorial family. I am ever so grateful to have Liza Edwards-Levin, Nicole Fegan, Griffin Plaag, and Caitlin McCartney as this semester’s Managing Editors, and Moe Sattar as our Copy Chief. No matter the changes, with a team like this, post- is marching full speed ahead, bringing you the same meaningful, funny, and personal content you’ve come to love.

Kicking off our first issue of 2020, our Features section has a soon-to-be-graduating writer reflecting on her future alongside Up, a British docuseries. In Narrative, our writers ruminate on the places they have been, one describing a trip to London while abroad,

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and the other finding common points between her homes at Brown and in New Mexico. And finally, in Arts & Culture, one writer invites you to think about the value of classes that allow you to explore your creative side, while another encourages you to observe your humanity as he does with the help of TV shows High School Musical: The Musical: The Series and Succession.

I wish you all the best in figuring out your schedules during this hectic time. During it all, remember to take ample breaks with a copy of post- to bring some peace to your busy days.

1. Puppy Bowl 2. Mixing bowls (the nesting kind) 3. Bowl cut 4. Bowling for Soup 5. Acai bowls 6. Bowler Hat Guy, from Meet the Robinsons 7. Bowling ball 8. Ken Burns’s The Dust Bowl

Amanda Ngo Editor-in-Chief

9. Panera Bread’s bread bowl 10. Super Bowl

want them to know each other like I have known their mothers. I hope we all land where we want to, but I also hope that if we don’t, we’ll have the strength to pick each other back up.

The strangest episode for me to watch was the third, 21 Up, because I am now 21, if only for a few more weeks. Suzy, smoking sardonically in an armchair, is confident that she does not like children and does not want to marry. Having witnessed her parents’ divorce, she feels cynical about the whole process: “I think it kills what love is; it just seems to go wrong.” At 28, though, she is married with two young boys and muses that it has made her a much happier person. At 56, she is still married to the same man.

Meanwhile, 21-year-old Neil is highly critical of his upbringing in the church. From the London flat he is squatting in, he tells Apted that he was taught “if one was to survive in the world, one had to believe in God,” yet finds himself leaning toward agnosticism.

It’s hard to imagine that by his forties he will have embraced his faith and become a lay minister. Our perceptions of the world and our place in it can change dramatically; what we hold as pillars of our identities now may crumble in seven years. Like Neil says when asked what he thought of himself being “all bright and perky” at age seven: “It’s hard to believe I was ever like that, but there’s the evidence” on video.

I likely wouldn’t have been picked as a participant at age seven—I was so painfully shy. I wanted to be a veterinarian so badly I woke up at six every Saturday to watch the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

I was brave enough to write to Sesame Street to correct Elmo’s grammar that same year, though. I probably wouldn’t do either now, but under the right circumstances, I can still imagine myself doing both.

These 21-year-olds seemed more set in their ways than their 56-year-old counterparts, which made me wonder just how much I will have let go by 56 that I hold to be true now. Perhaps then I will have weathered enough change to learn that I can’t stop it from happening, no matter how steadfastly I will everything to stay the same.

I recognize that I am dealing in platitudes.

Relationships are important. Change is inevitable.

These are not the most electric sentences, but their meanings are clear. Platitudes are maligned because they are so often repeated, but they are repeated so much because, in some fundamental way, they are true. Sometimes the best way to say something is also the easiest.

Here is another: We are the authors of our own stories. We cannot know everything about anyone else, and making assumptions does no one any good.

In one of the most powerful moments of the entire series, Jackie, one of three women from London’s East End, criticizes Apted for his treatment of their stories. Aged 49, Jackie recalls a scene from 21 Up in which Apted asks her and her friend Lynn whether they feel like they’d dated enough men before getting married. “I thought that was an insulting question, and I got very angry, and we actually had to stop filming because of it,” she tells Apted in 49 Up before pointing out that the upper-class boys would never have been asked that type of question. “This is your idea of what you want to do, and how you see us, and

that’s how you portray us,” Jackie says. Indeed, for the rest of the interview at 21, she can be seen staring steely-eyed at the floor.

It is tempting to look at a child and hunt for hints of their future. It is exciting when such predictions work out. And yet, what we hope for others more truthfully reflects what we hope for ourselves.

We may devote ourselves to something for decades only for it not to work out. This terrifies me. But as the Up series demonstrates, in some instances, unforeseen obstacles can divert us toward a path that turns out to be rewarding in its own right.

Nick immigrated to the United States to do nuclear fusion research, only to fail time and again before he was forced to abandon the project altogether. Yet he has retained a post as an engineering professor at the University of Wisconsin since the early 1980s, and scenes of him in front of a blackboard show undergraduates laughing at his jokes as he gestures wildly and smiles, clearly full of passion for his profession. Before becoming a London cabbie, Tony dreamt of being a jockey and apprenticed at a stable at age 14. He rode in just three races before realizing he lacked the skills of his competitors, but still calls his race with famous jockey Lester Piggott one of the proudest moments of his life. I hope one day I can learn to let go with as much grace.

“Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged,” Virginia Woolf once wrote. Rather, it is “a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.” There is much to be learned from this sentiment (yes, more than the fact that I’m writing an English thesis). The Up series has reminded me to notice the light my gig lamps cast, to recognize how much brighter it gets when I stop trying to put them in order. I’m trying to trust that I, too, am wrapped in an envelope of possibility, even if it’s too transparent for me to fully see just yet. Seven years from now, 28-year-old me is cringing at these metaphors. In another universe, 56 years from now, a 63-year-old woman is laughing at both of us.

The Bumbling Fool's Guide to London

The Ryanair of Logistics, the Ritz of Memories

BY NAOMI KIM ILLUSTRATED BY CAROL DEMICK

For Elaine and Paddington Bear, as promised It will help if you are already studying abroad in Dublin, Ireland, because then you and your friend can book last-minute $29 Ryanair flights to London after freaking out at how expensive getting to Budapest is now.

Then you can complain about Ryanair, ride Ryanair, and subsequently swear you’ll never ride Ryanair again (although let’s face it: Ryanair, famed Irish budget airline, is part of the experience). Don’t forget to book a place in a hostel! If you want the full bumbling fool’s experience, you can even stay at a slightly sketchy hostel a good ways out of the city center—perhaps in Elephant and Castle?

If you pay a bit extra, you can get a room for just the two of you.

Of course, your flight out of Dublin will be at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., and neither of you will have any concrete plans about how to spend the two days in London. When you get to the airport, you two will stand in the wrong line until finally noticing that the signs are actually for British Airways, not Ryanair. You are already proving yourself to be the Ryanair of travelers.

Congratulations!

Once in London (Stansted Airport—not Heathrow— because you flew Ryanair, remember?), you’ll step off the plane into thick fog with a Brexit-induced confusion about whether or not your Irish SIM card works in the U.K. the same way it works in other EU countries. Don’t worry about that for now. Find one of the kiosks for the airport coach into the London city center, fumble through the fog to a bus stop, and settle in for a long ride to Victoria Station.

“Everyone! Shh, listen, this is called ASMR.” “My human contact has shrunk to, like, Sylvia Plath levels.”

january 31 , 2020 3

NARRATIVE Once you’re there, you and your friend can immediately trot off toward Buckingham Palace. On the way, you can stop by a very English tea shop where you try samples, chat with the quirky saleslady, and each buy a somewhat expensive tin of biscuits—otherwise known as cookies to us uncultured North Americans.

You will, of course, make your way through that tin of biscuits pretty quickly—just as quickly as you’ll make your way through London’s streets—out of your desire to see as much as possible. At Buckingham Palace, you’ll find that you have somehow arrived just in time to watch parts of the changing of the guard. You’ll have to push and squeeze by the gathered tourists to peek through the gates at gray-clad men marching in place. Leave the crowds behind for a walk in nearby St. James’s Park, where you can gawp at the strange birds and eat even more biscuits.

Wander in the gray drizzly weather to see major tourist stops. Find yourself a red telephone booth. Realize that everything is under construction and that Big Ben is currently nothing but a tower of scaffolding. Visit the Waterstones bookstore in Trafalgar Square—there’s a whole Harry Potter corner!—and then start heading to your faraway hostel because you’d like to get there before dark. Which is, of course, round abouts of 5 p.m.

Your hostel will definitely look a little bit...scrappy.

When you open the door to your room, you’ll find yourself in something resembling a bunker—a very dimly lit, very small space with a spartan bunk bed pushed against the one narrow window. Laugh hysterically at how absurd this is. Also, note the useless outlet somehow placed above the bathroom door. Laugh some more. You’ve managed to find the Ryanair of hostels.

But it won’t be too bad. There are lights by each bed, embedded into the wall, and they have a warm glow that creates a campfire ambiance. You and your friend can lie side by side in the narrow bottom bed to watch (and talk through) half of Paddington 2 on your phone because, naturally, there’s no wifi. You can even make shadow puppets on the wall to add to that summer camp feeling.

The hostel will grow on you, but the next morning, all the running water on every floor will stop working for a solid 15 minutes.

The one good thing about staying so far out of the city center is that you’ll end up seeing parts of London that tourists don’t usually see, and you’ll stumble upon treasures like Borough Market before other tourists inevitably discover it. Go by the Tower of London (you already got a glimpse of the interior last night in Paddington 2) and the Tower Bridge. Head off to the Charles Dickens Museum in the rain. Round out the day with another long walk to King’s Cross. On your way back to the hostel, you can take some pictures in front of Shakespeare’s Globe and stop by Borough Market once more. (Bumbling fool pro-tip: If you are ever unsure of which direction the cars are going to come from, have your friend look right while you look left as you both run wildly across the street.)

Back at the hostel, finish Paddington 2. Go to bed assuming transportation to Stansted will be just fine (it won’t be).

The next morning you will discover that the hostel is too far out of the city center for taxis to be available at 5 a.m. Full of agitation and nervousness, walk in the dark and the rain to a bus stop. A division of labor is highly recommended for such a situation—your friend should have Google Maps open to navigate, and you should be prepared to dial 999, the U.K. emergency number.

Realize again that you two are definitely the Ryanair of travelers. Realize it once more when you try to get on the bus without the Oyster Cards required for London’s public transit. The driver may take pity on you for being such fools, in which case: Hallelujah, you are saved!

Get off at the Liverpool Underground Station, dash to buy tickets for the Stansted Express, and cut it close at Stansted to make your flight back to Dublin.

Finally, let out that breath you’ve been holding the entire trip—and laugh. Turns out that bumbling about is a surefire way to make the very best memories.

Home, For Now

home in uppercase and lowercase

BY DANIELLE EMERSON ILLUSTRATED BYJULIE SHARPE

Is home where we come together?

Does it exist in quiet moments, the tips of the sunset?

In the number of stars I can’t count on my hands?

Maybe along the edges of our noses, inhaling smoke from the dying embers of cheii’s fireplace?

The January night I returned to Brown, these questions flickered in my head. Walking across brick sidewalks is a stark contrast to running along dirt roads.

The cold, wet wind of Providence stuck to my face, unlike the wind back in New Mexico, which brushes lightly over my nose. The moment my suitcase hit the hard, cobbled floor of Faunce Arch, my mind instantly began comparing everything at Brown to everything back in Shiprock, New Mexico.

Home in New Mexico simmers under late night conversations, full of hushed laughter, casting shadows along dirt floors and broken tree branches.

Home in New Mexico speaks over the silence, howling like the wind through harvested cornfields and steaming hot chocolate.

Home in New Mexico sings out of shimasani’s beaten radio, spilling Diné bizaad around the kitchen table, sweetening her morning coffee.

Home in New Mexico warms my fingertips, slips down to my toes, silk on my tongue and firm between my teeth.

Home in New Mexico grows with each birthday, watching as chizhíí siblings slowly tower over

grandparents and aunties.

Home in New Mexico slips into my hair, tangling as I toss and turn in bed. My younger sisters attempting to steal from the cloud of pleasant dreams over my head.

Home is the place lost between my fingers, caught beyond the Providence skyline, over miles and miles of stolen land.

But even as I ponder what I’ve left behind, I also see the value in what I’m returning to. Brown’s campus is quiet for the first few days back—returning a week before the start of spring semester leaves me with no friends to talk to. Though Brown can seem incomparable to Home, there are people here who make it a home of its own. A home for now, if you will. So much of my first year was spent looking for people who sparked a feeling of familiarity, who left space for others to breathe while in their presence. This was and continues to be important to me, especially as I attempt to navigate a place filled to the brim with unfamiliar emotions and pathways. And, though the search continues, I’m proud to say I’ve found a lovely handful of people who make Brown a bit more homey—people who see me as more than just another student in the crowd. Yes, I still compare everything to Home with a capital “H,” but there is still goodness scattered in a home with a lowercase “h.” home at Brown is sitting outside with friends on a sunny day, listening to music, and feeling the grass through our shirts. home at Brown is late night trips to Jo’s for fries and orange soda, tying back messy hair, and slipping on coats over baggy pajamas. 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. home at Brown is up four flights of stairs, buried in worn out couches, illuminated by frayed paper lamps, and smelling like dried oil paintings. home at Brown is quiet study sessions, each person breathing in their own unique way, living in space.

Returning to Brown is always difficult. But as I enter the spring semester of my sophomore year, I remember how I've turned this place into a home with a lowercase "h."

The home I’ve found and helped make. The home where I’ve had hard conversations and watched as my friends and I have grown from each other’s advice. The pieces of home I’ve found in my roommate, my housemates, my community partner, and the lovely members of Natives at Brown. For them, I’m ever grateful. They all make up my home, for now. And while Brown and New Mexico carry so many distinct differences, I find in them a bittersweet handful of similarities. Home in uppercase and home in lowercase are still composed of the same four letters, even when it doesn't feel like it.

Home is instantly recognizing comforting smells lingering in the air, whether it’s burning firewood or rain on brick sidewalks.

Home is seeing familiar faces, smiles lining lips and arms open to embrace—family and friends gathered `round tables and couches.

Home is a warm feeling near the bottom of your stomach, full tummies from kitchen meals and melted strawberry ice cream for dessert.

Home is laughter spilling out the corner of your lips and filling your face to the brim of your ears, aching stomachs bringing tears to your eyes.

Home is understanding each other, opening doors for difficult conversations and whispering I’m here for you at 3 a.m.

Home is knowing you’re gonna be okay tomorrow, because you’ve got people to count on today, both at Brown and in New Mexico.

Home isn’t so much a place as it is a set of feelings.

This is my thanks to everyone both at Brown and back in New Mexico for making me feel at home with you.

Ahéhee’.

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ARTS & CULTURE

Successive Shifts in Self

finding balance in our television

BY ROBERT CAPRON ILLUSTRATED BY RÉMY POISSON

Ah, winter break. The most wonderful time of the year: binge season. Why should I traverse the world or expand my self-knowledge when I can simply lounge in bed with quality entertainment?

Netflix, Hulu, HBO Go, even Crackle­­— with the age of streaming wars sweeping down upon us, there’s more content to watch than ever before. For this aspiring actor and screenwriter, that means it’s way easier to find the “good shit” to learn from. Whatever that means.

Yes, you read that right: Having made the highly dubious choice to pursue a career in filmmaking, what I watch must matter, even in my free time.

Now at first glance, this is all a movie obsessive could ask for. Spend twelve hours a day taking in television! It’s research! But this cure-all excuse for endless basement binge sessions can only work for so long; what happens when your program of choice has a name like High School Musical: The Musical: The Series? You read that right, Wildcat; this show is real—and a serious challenge to my self-imposed viewing standards. It’s addictive as hell. Will Ricky and Nini end up together, or will that asshole EJ (seriously, f*ck that kid, no offense to real EJ’s) keep meddling? Will Gina get over her crazy ambitions and allow herself a genuine connection with the cute skateboarding boy? Why can’t every goddamn person in this television program just tell each other how they feel and get it over with?!!?

Eventually, the resurfacing of the film nerd mentality that shamelessly judges your content choices becomes pretty much inevitable. Yes, while that uber-pretentious film crit living in your head couldn’t possibly prevent you from loving that stupendous Lucas Grabeel cameo, you’ll nevertheless be left with a continuous nagging feeling that says you’re wasting precious time. That the wildly entertaining, yet inarguably…“silly” content at hand is somehow a step down from the more “prestige” material you were taught to study and emulate. Can I learn from the likes of Parasite and also unironically love HSM:TM:TS? Will I ever get used to that insanely elaborate acronym?

I’ll admit, I’ve always been a perfectionist. The desire and drive to be better—no, the best—regardless of the effect on my mental health, has guided my every move since I acted in Diary of a Wimpy Kid and thought what’s next? The odd distinction of already being in my future career quickly instilled a sense of fear within me, one that told me I could never rest upon my laurels. My dreams were my reality, and I had to keep the ball rolling. New projects, new victories, new validation were necessary. And now, 10 years later, as graduation looms like a cloud above my head, the question of future endeavors— and the knowledge that success is most assuredly not guaranteed—continues to chip away at my anxiety-addled brain. Which is probably why the mad dash world of HBO’s Succession has won me over in a heartbeat.

Succession is about bad people. Every morally contemptible (yet oddly sympathetic) member of the Roy clan shares a singular goal: to claim the power wielded by their aging family patriarch for themselves. The patriarch himself adores this “game”—he wants his successor to inherit his empire not through mere bloodline, but by crushing

his legacy and earning the title through their own maneuvers. They’re a fictional family based on the Murdochs, afforded nearly every luxury known to humankind and in possession of the power to destroy hundreds—if not thousands—of lives with the snap of a finger. I watch them eat caviar as I wipe Goldfish crumbs off my graphic tee of the day and worry that I forgot to empty the dishwasher. Clearly, our lifestyles are vastly similar. Though I’ll avoid spoilers, it goes without saying these one-percenters of the one-percenters have cracked a few eggs to stay on top. I’m lucky to make someone crack a smile with a joke.

But what is it the Roys want, exactly? To simply quench their thirst for power? Of course we can sympathize with these characters to some degree; that’s the magic of film and television, after all.

Through stories, we can identify and sympathize with people who live lifestyles leagues beyond anything we have ever known. And the Roys are not like the average civilian, morally or fiscally. Part of what makes this show so successful is its uncanny ability to render privileged monsters relatable.

Each of the Roy kids has undoubtedly been warped by the cruelty and neglect of their callous, nearomnipotent father. He regards their affection as little more than a weakness, emotionally and verbally abuses them constantly, and gaslights them with flickers of genuine connection to twist the knife even further. Yet time and time again, the choices of the characters and the way the show presents them affirm that what we are watching—the precarious negotiations, the anxiety-riddled breakdowns, the merciless abandonment of familial loyalty for legacy—is completely and utterly hilarious. There’s a constant sense of irony at play, one that hurls itself to the forefront with every exaggerated zoom into a character’s wide-eyed horror. And the irony is that, simply put, every character is making the conscious choice to play this stupid little game. They have all the money, all the influence, and all the toys they could ever need, regardless of the “title” dangled over their heads by their father. The Roys are the absolute definition of “success” in every way except the one that counts: happiness. We can’t help but laugh at their horrendous choices; they have so much, and yet so little of what makes life worthwhile.

It is this polarity—the conscious refusal of happiness in pursuit of something “more”—that illustrates the cost of ambition. And as weird as this may sound, I am so glad I live in a world where I can watch Succession and High School Musical:The Musical: The Series in tandem. For HSM:TM:TS (I will never get tired of this acronym) is—and I mean this—a spiritual sister to Succession. Ricky, Nini, and a host of other people you have no knowledge of whatsoever need to get over their shit and confess that they wanna belt pop songs at each other with

decidedly less grace than Troy and Gabriella. But they don’t. Because they see other things standing in the way: the quest to be the lead, the quest to be seen as “cool,” the quest to live up to Troy and Gabriella in the first place (an impossible task, to be sure).

In other words, they engage in a conscious refusal of what would make them happiest in pursuit of something more. Are the stakes lower? Sure. But the message is the same. And in both cases, you can only laugh at the decidedly human chaos running before your eyes.

And honestly? I love HSM:TM:TS. I love it because it’s so unabashedly silly. I love it because it loves its own corporate rendition of high school life and knows you think it’s ridiculous. And I love it even if it is hot garbage. It puts a big ol’ smile on my face. Isn’t that half the reason I want to work in this industry in the first place? I could dress up my own work with the prestige style Succession employs. Hopefully, it’d be just as funny. But as I continue my journey forward in the months to come, I’ll remember that the wannabe Troy within me is just as valid. It’s possible to have your head in the game, but your heart in the song. Who says they’re mutually exclusive?

The Art of the Book

or, a defense of non-essential coursework

BY ALISA CAIRA ILLUSTRATED BY RUIHONG JIANG

Who knows anything about necessity? Not me.

Imagine this: It’s last semester, and this campus is your oyster. You feel like you’ve really figured some stuff out since freshman year—what you want to concentrate in, who your friends are, how to manage time, and so on. You’re abundantly ready for—scare quotes—the rest of your life. Yet, before you settle down, get on LinkedIn, and really thrust yourself into pre-professional floundering, you realize that you’re so set in your life path that you can take a whole semester to just “do whatever!”

How incredible!

I, for one, don’t have to imagine it: Last semester, I decided I was going to take courses purely because they interested me, without allowing the constraints of what might be practical to my education define my experience. I ended up with the impressively ridiculous enrollment of Art of the Book, Photography Foundations, Artist in the Archives, and Beginning German. Needless to say, my mom was thrilled to see the important practical skills my tuition money was paying for. She was even more thrilled with the cost of my triple digit, online january 31 , 2020 5

ARTS&CULTURE German textbook.

I distinctly remember speaking on the phone with her last shopping period as I hesitantly discussed the idea of these classes with her, trying my best to answer questions about why any of these courses were "necessary" to my education and why buying these resources was advantageous. At the time, I didn’t know how to explain to her that they weren’t necessary at all. I didn’t have the words to convince her that things that were pleasurable and new deserved as much space as the necessities.

I think I have those words now, or I hope I do.

If I didn’t know what mattered beyond necessity at this point, I would consider last semester a legitimate waste. Luckily, though, I believe I was able to discover the ways in which art and cultural skills deserve respect and footing within a University-sized lake of requirements and academic expectations. Moving forward, my LinkedIn page might grow a bit scattered, but I know that I am better equipped to navigate the world because of the new ways I engaged with courses last semester.

After all, my decision to take these courses was based entirely on sparks of interest I had while shopping them. These were the classes that made me feel like I was actually reaching into worlds of knowledge I had never interacted with before. I didn’t know German, or film photography, or how to make paper, or any of the other niche things I found myself looking into. All I knew was that I wanted to know. For some reason that my mom would never agree with, that felt like enough.

And it was enough. Every day, I walked into classrooms to be educated on things in their simplest, foundational forms. With the knowledge level of a middle schooler, I had to learn how to load film into the camera I was given for class. Perhaps more like an elementary schooler, I learned to fold pieces of paper into books. I learned the foundations of how to tell stories, how to spread them across pages.

All of these experiences sound silly, and to some extent they were. My classes were filled with humor and community: groups of people collectively knowing they probably should have learned these things by now. As a community, we would spend late nights in the studio, working on our specific visions and watching each other grow as artists. Were these relationships conventionally necessary to my education? Absolutely not. Did I leave filled with inspiration, new friendships, and more encouraged creativity? Of course. You tell me if the lack of necessity made those experiences useless.

Ultimately, these relationships weren’t even the most satisfying part of my more artistic and whimsical classes. The most gratifying element was my ability to alter my foundational knowledge in a

way I often struggled to in my "necessary" classes.

I wasn’t learning the most advanced concepts or reading the hardest texts. I was expanding the simplest base of what I knew how to do in ways that, still, are not "necessary," but are endlessly helpful and productive.

In my Art of the Book class, for example, I was able to fundamentally change the way I interact with the medium of the book; I was able to take a form of art I see and interact with all the time and learn how to engage with it more deeply. By doing that, I not only had an enjoyable and engaging experience, but was also able to apply that niche knowledge in other unexpected areas. I ended up using my bookmaking knowledge toward my final project in a separate class because, let’s be real—once you know how to sew a book by hand, why wouldn’t you put that to use?

In my photography class, I developed a portfolio that I’m now able to put out into the world if I so please. In Artist in the Archives, I learned real skills about how to apply for grants and fellowships that no theoretical class had ever taught me. Needless to say, my German class made me feel equipped to communicate and survive in another country.

Ultimately, these lessons felt more important to me than the “necessary,” pointed knowledge I’m used to receiving in classes for my concentration. I might have been able to graduate Brown without them,

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Amanda Ngo

“The top description of 'adulting' on Urban Dictionary includes the phrase: 'to carry out one or more of the duties and responsibilities expected of fully developed individuals.' I figured that being on hold with Verizon definitely counted.”

- Caroline Ribet, “my year of adulting,” 2.1.19

“If you ever manage to find a table at Coffee Exchange, located just a few blocks west of The Shop, I suggest you buy yourself a lotto scratcher.”

- Daniella Balarezo, “browntown beans & brews,” 2.2.18

FEATURE Managing Editor Liza Edwards-Levin Section Editor Erin Walden Staff Writer Anna Harvey NARRATIVE Managing Editor Nicole Fegan Section Editor Michelle Liu

but I would never have had the chance to expand my narrow educational experience.

Now, terrifyingly, my college game plan is a bit off track, and my resume is only getting odder.

I’m starting to think about what would happen if I explored more visual art or took my German into a study abroad program. I’m starting to think about all the new ways I could exist in the world, all the new forms of knowledge that I could keep acquiring to bring me there. The thought of going back to required courses is looking a lot bleaker, but on this semester’s phone call with my mom, I think I have a better idea of how I’ll justify my waning academic course load.

These aren’t skills that are necessary to one path.

They’re skills that open up opportunities to choose between many paths while also exploring new ones.

Perhaps more radically, they are the classes that have brought me joy and reminded me what it feels like to learn subjects—artistic and creative subjects—that most colleges don’t bother giving a shot and that most students don’t have a chance to explore. If you haven’t leapt out of your pool of prerequisites yet, now might be the time to try before the real world, shockingly, sweeps away so many of our possibilities for exploration. Don't hold back because they don't seem essential; college is all about expanding your cultural knowledge, and those strange courses—the ones that allow you to explore—might be the ones you end up remembering most.

Staff Writers Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Danielle Emerson Naomi Kim Anneliese Mair Kahini Metha

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Griffin Plaag

COPY Copy Chief Moe Sattar

Section Editor Maddy McGrath

SOCIAL MEDIA Head Editor Paola Solano

Staff Writers Rob Capron David Kleinman

Staff Writers Eashan Das Lauren Toneatto

HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Gaby Treviño

Want to be involved?

Email: amanda_ngo@brown.edu!

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