post- 11/20/2020

In This Issue

Collecting Pieces of Eternity

Kaitlan Bui 4

People, Places, and Things

post- staff 2 Minako Ogita 5

Au Revoir, Switzerland Lauren Toneatto 6

A Full Family Affair Ethan Pan 6

Polishing Off the Thanksgiving Plate

postCover by Jeffrey Tao

NOV 20

VOL 26

— ISSUE 10

FEATURE

People, Places, and Things what are we thankful for in 2020?

By post- stafF Illustrated by Elliana Reynolds

Things: n a year spent motion sick, it’s the things I could grip onto.

A pencil, at first, tucked in a new notebook, sheathed in black matte leather. For thoughts and their consequences, words.

The hard spine of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. A story that, for the first time, invited me to join it on its pages, representing me as a queer Asian American. How it said you can write too. How Ocean’s storm was my weather.

Resulting: the first piece I ever submitted for publication. My first pages of pride, processing the story of my grandmother entering quarantine as she

I

sheltered from a novel coronavirus just across her city’s bridge to Wuhan.

Pages—turned into handlebars—as her story became mine, and then new pages to reprocess.

Still short of direction, though, as I grieved my community fleeing.

Whispered goodbyes into necks, fleeting.

A replacement: the neck of my guitar, into which I sang to cure my vertigo. Crooning, careening. The only stable point: a pen firmly on paper.

—Ethan Pan I was gifted a beautiful teal Moleskine journal as a high school graduation gift. Three-and-a-half years

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, After almost four years, I still don’t fancy myself an English concentrator, but cartloads of English courses have primed my brain to pick up on any pattern that vaguely presents itself to me. Recently, I’ve found that this has been the year of contradictions—so much so that I’ve become a walking contradiction myself.

You see, I’m a writer who doesn’t write. I’m a plant-sitter who cannot bring herself to hydrate. And tonight, my heart is heavy with all the fondest, lightest, kindest, happiest memories of post- and the seven semesters I’ve been here. I remember the first time I walked into our office at 195 Angell, a cramped cube draped in fairy lights, carpeted in old newspaper, full—of laughter, of creation, of people. post-its. Fear of copyright infringement aside, that’s the unofficial official term of endearment we have for the lovely post- staff. I’ve been so lucky to join, grow, and, this past year, lead brilliant teams of people—all of whom eventually must go.

It’s unbelievable that now it’s my turn to pass the torch. I am weighed down by having to say goodbye to all of you and to all of my time here. And yet, thanks to everything you have done for me during my time at post-, I float.

It’s no surprise that our Thanksgiving issue also delivers us gratefulness this week. post-its take the stage

2 post–

in our Feature this week, sharing the people, places, and things they’re all thankful for. In Narrative, one writer shares her deep appreciation for the chance to explore her family history and the other her time growing up in Switzerland. And in Arts & Culture, our writers consider family—one writes about bonding with her father over Schitt’s Creek and the other about closeness and separation of family during this holiday.

Of all the things I’ve written, nothing has brought me as much frustration as these notes. Still, nothing I’ve written has been more true. post-its, you mean the world to me, and as we’re reaching the end of the semester, here’s my final thesis: You have given me the chance to be everything I needed to be as a student, as a leader, as a person figuring out her life. I am both saddened to leave and overjoyed to know that post- will continue to flourish in Olivia Howe’s ever-capable hands. And to you, post- readers, I speak for all the post-its when I say, we’re forever grateful that you let us take you along on our narrative journeys. As captain becomes passenger, all I have left to say is that I cannot wait to join you all on the ride.

Love,

Amanda Ngo Editor-in-Chief

later, I’m embarrassed to admit that only six out of the 240 pages have been filled.

I had plans for this journal: I entered college with the intent to document my not-so-wild life, a goal of reflecting at least every week. Clearly, this was wishful thinking.

The journal’s emptiness is not for a lack of noteworthy events. The journal has been everywhere.

It’s been stowed in my luggage and carried across the country with me when I started college in Providence.

It accompanied me halfway across the world on my study abroad adventures in Amsterdam. It was hauled home with me to Seattle when COVID-19 struck in March, sending the world into disarray. I even

Things We’re Thankful COVID Took Away 1. Having 10 minutes between class to run from Watson to Smitty-B 2. Dressing nice in case this is the time you bump into that one night stand from freshman fall 3. Accidentally setting bread on fire in the Ratty toaster 4. Going to an event for free food and it’s all gone by the time you get there 5. Running into professors in person and making a fool of yourself 6. Roaming Faunce to find just one seat 7. Hearing your neighbors do the devil’s tango 8. FOMO about the party you’re too tired to go to 9. Cold noses 10. When Jo’s runs out of spicy mayo and the good fries

FEATURE brought it on my first-ever backpacking trip to the White Mountains two summers ago, sealed carefully in a Ziploc bag as protection from the elements.

As I enter my final semester at Brown and prepare for the post-graduation future, I will make one lastditch attempt to fill these pages. I’m not sure I’ll succeed—I’m always distracted by each new event as it happens, having convinced myself that living in the moment is more important than logging it. But maybe jotting down my memories will help me preserve them; maybe reflection is just what I need.

—Jasmine Ngai Places: The first picture I saw of the apartment freaked me out. Were we sure we’d like the wood paneling?

Could we imagine ourselves locked inside it for weeks or months, if need be? Would we resort to murder due to household conflicts, wondering who would do the dishes and mad about people drying our one knife wrong? Instead, almost a whole semester in, we have created a home, and a family away from our families. My housemate’s art lines our walls. Every night someone cooks a dinner that we all eat around our beat-up table.

At exactly 7:30 p.m., crazy hour starts and we laugh so hard we nearly throw up. In the darkness, we turn on lights that make everything golden; in the mornings, sun streams into the living room glinting off the Persian coffee table sourced from my basement.

There are so many things to be grateful for this year—the editor who took me out for birthday coffee, the friend who insists on hiking and makes us join her despite our inability to plan, homemade lemon liqueur out of thermoses in Blackstone Park as the leaves change, conversations about love, my parents who answer my phone calls every day and seem to enjoy them, and each cat I see through Providence windows—but our apartment and the people who have made it a home are at the top of my list.

—Emma Schneider In a year spent at home, it’s the places I could fully rest.

The first night—my childhood bed. Eerily, then comfortably, familiar. A return to form for my spine.

Then, a window, full screen, displaying miniatures in my friends’ likenesses. A feeling of relief, like finding my keys.

Not the keyboard, onto which my wrists relaxed and nothing else, but its consequences—words, which I used as tethers.

The crook between Philly and Boston, as my boyfriend and I tried to pull the two closer together.

The crook between his neck and shoulders, at some point.

—Ethan Pan Imagine yourself sitting in a vast, eerily silent room. The slightest noises—the rustle of pages, the

drop of a pen—draw glares. Ceramic busts of dead white men surround you, staring into your soul.

Unsettling, right?

I’ve heard every imaginable criticism of Brown University’s John Hay Library: it’s not open on Saturdays, it closes too early, it’s too quiet, it’s just plain creepy. But to me, it’s a place where time just stops, bathed in mahogany wood and a soft yellow lamplit glow.

I often found myself at the Hay in my spare hours— before class, after dinner, in between meetings. It was a place of transit, a place I rarely intended to go. Yet it was the place I simply gravitated toward, where I chose to be when I had nowhere I needed to be.

I haven’t set foot in the building for the entirety of 2020, but I make a point to walk past it occasionally, if only to stare longingly at its elegant exterior. Although, my senior thesis has yet to be completed, so maybe I’ll finally see you again in 2021, old friend.

—Jasmine Ngai People: In a year spent in isolation, it’s the people I found ever closer.

My grandmother, with whom I’ve found a new vocabulary as we check on each other’s health.

My mom, with whom I made an old house a new home. Pouring each other coffee before work.

My pod, like back support, as we’ve made another new home—new beds, new rooms, a fresh coat of pink paint.

My Keys—finding them again, no longer miniatures. Once more singing lullabies, behind cloth masks, but in front of each other.

My first partner. Grasping his wrists to pull myself back up. A release of hands as we broke apart, and then when reaching out was right, a stable bridge, still.

And last, my peers here, with whom I share this paper, and an editor-in-chief who so generously opened up this community to let me read (and now write).

So I am thankful for the silver linings of this year.

As Psychology Today puts them: creativity, grounding, community. These are what I’ve found tucked in this moment of darkness, now set in words.

—Ethan Pan I left my final in-person production night in December 2019, knowing that the post- staff would look different when I returned from my semester abroad. For much of my time at post-, the editorial team consisted of familiar faces, but I left that meeting understanding I’d said farewell to post- as I knew it, with much of our staff graduating that spring.

Over the past two years, post- became a reliable routine in my life. Yet I was hesitant to accept a managing editor position this past April, knowing that not only post- had changed, but the world as we knew it had, too.

I was nervous about stepping into a new role on a team of new faces and feeling like I was intruding on an already tight-knit group, with 195 Angell replaced by the harsh impersonality of Zoom. One semester, ten issues, and countless laughs later, I know now that I didn’t need to worry. I’m grateful for the moments spent together in this alternate reality called virtual prod night.

—Jasmine Ngai Dear Amanda, I’m not crying, you’re crying. Not because we post-its are going to miss you loudly interrupting the serene silence of our Extremely Focused editing or simping with us over the trials and tribulations of quarantine. No, the thing that makes me sad is that this is the last week I will be able to lurk on your editor’s note.

Thanks to my truly shameless creeping on your sacred note-writing process pre-COVID, when it was invasive rather than logical to hop on someone’s Google Doc during an in-person meeting, this has become a tradition. It began as a light roasting to pass the late hours of prod, but I hope we’ve come to a point where you can reasonably accept at least one suggestion per note. I guess this is the point in the paragraph where (if I’m following your incredibly formulaic structure) it’s time for me to drop the quirky humor (no one can ramble about the agony of being perceived like you) and confess an emotional truth: stalking you (only at prod, I promise) has taught me a lot. I mean, I guess, like, you’ve inspired me.

Yes, it’s hard to believe. This note definitely has undertones of someone who is gleefully usurping your position of power. And you know that I’m already planning a hundred ways to roast your post-ghost next semester. But in this week’s spirit, I can’t deny how grateful I am for the space you have given me at post-.

From my first prod, you brought me into a magical six hours (magical because I have no other explanation for why I volunteered so much time each night) of laughter, comma debates, strawberry-cream cookies, and groovy tunes, not to mention limitless warmth and a deep love of post-. I’m talking deep.

Ugh, I was hoping I’d keep my word count to an acceptable length to set an example for you. But maybe that’s the point: You put hours and patience and time-capsule-for-the-aliens-worthy emails into post-, and I feel only the occasional twinge of selfdoubt that I can match your energy and dedication.

Believe me when I say I have changed by learning from your example: widening my circle, twisting words into wit, and listening to people exactly as they are. Thank you for showing me the way. Don’t trip on the way out.

Take Care, Olivia Howe Happy to have been your minion

"I have a big juicy ass that you won’t get to see on Zoom. Please hire me for this job.”

“She’s such a ray of fresh air..”

November 20, 2020 3

NARRATIVE

Collecting Pieces of Eternity on forgetting, family, and living as a human

by Kaitlan Bui Illustrated by Claire Lin I have nearly forgotten the world.

Some days, I even go without peeling my curtains back—sitting, hunched over a silly brick of data and lithium. I nibble on internet jokes written by strangers I don’t care about. I forget to dream, and sometimes I forget to breathe. I get writer’s block. A lot. I also get dehydrated.

A lot of people on my shore of the internet have been joking that 2020 has been an eternity. But when I tell you that 2020 has been an eternity— that it is an eternity—I mean it in the most literal sense. Eternity is timeless. Each moment of our lives is happening at the same time: overlapping, defining, redefining each other. 2020 bears the weight of last year, and the year before, and all of the past, and all of the future. Somewhere in that vast ocean of parallel realities, we live. And in our living, we attempt to collect the parts of ourselves that wind up in different timelines, in different seas, on different boats. *** The boat I have boarded, after months of searching, pulls me to the murky waters of Bến Tre, Việt Nam. It is January 24, 1979. Haggard silhouettes bend over each other, desperately shoving themselves onto small wooden boats.

Bodies blend into other bodies. The air is sticky with perspiration and panic. Near the edge of the river, a couple hunches over a small, feverish girl.

“Keep her here,” a woman tells them. “I can take care of her. Đi đi, để nó ở đây với chị. It’s better that way. She’ll be safe.”

But the young mother only shakes her head and insists, “Không, chị. I know she is sick, but I can’t leave her. Em không biết số phận của nó, but if she does die, she will die in the arms of her mother.”

And so they left. They climbed into a small canoe and rowed towards a Panamanian-registered freighter, Skyluck—towards escape, and life, and a violent promise of peace. Over and over, the young couple counted the heads of their five children, whispering prayers to any god that would answer.

They lived on bits of salt, half-cups of porridge, and recycled water. Another girl their daughter’s age

died, her body tossed into the sea. But God answered their prayers, and the feverish girl survived.

In December of the same year, the family arrived in Orange County, California—and never fled again.

The once-feverish girl found her medicine in candy canes, her joy in the Goodwill dumpster. “America is so rich!” she and her siblings exclaimed as they rummaged for free clothes. *** But in America, my great aunt told me, you have to pay for a place to die. She recalled the sunwarmed soil of Việt Nam, tilled by families who reused it to bury their ancestors.

“Don’t cremate me,” she said. “Cremation is too hot.”

And if cremation was too hot, the person who least deserved its flames was my great aunt, who had farmed the earth and slept on it. In 1979, she was the woman who had proposed to take care of the feverish child—my mother—and the woman who stayed in Vietnam for another decade and a half.

For so many years, my great aunt bore the burden of solitude. This year, she is the only sibling from her family still alive. Her sister—my grandmother— passed away in 2013, and her younger brother died just last year. Her three other siblings have been long gone.

She lives with my aunt Dì Hai 20 minutes from my house. She often drinks the jasmine tea I gifted her, and sometimes she eats fruit without her dentures. She wears long-sleeved velvets and age-old linens, and when she dresses up for celebrations at the local Chinese restaurant, goldrimmed glasses perch atop her nose. I used to see my great aunt as a conglomeration of wrinkles and un-American charm, but quarantine has shattered that image—and good thing too, because it was unfair and one-dimensional. For the first time in our lives, we spent deliberate time together, sorting out the past in bits and pieces. Our conversations, broken but eager, have given us a glimpse of what it means to finally talk between generations.

Three years ago, I began an oral interviewing project with my great aunt, but I was quickly distracted by college and the idea of shaping a future for myself. In the midst of a global pandemic, though, those “shaped futures” have proven futile and unfulfilling. College shifted a continent away, and friends became virtual screen-buddies. What remained was my great aunt. What remained were her stories.

So this past summer, I resumed our oral interviewing project, reimagining her life from 1933 until present day. The fatality of coronavirus

created an urgent mandate to memorialize her story, and the intimacy of quarantine life provided an extraordinary platform to do so. I would sit with my great aunt in the living room, asking questions and trying to navigate the barricades of language, culture, generation, and memory. My aunt would shred carrots at the counter and help translate.

After our sessions, I took the recordings home and played them aloud. As my mom and her sisters sewed face masks, and as I sat on a rocking chair with my laptop, my great aunt’s words suffused the room. The four of us waited for her bodiless voice to paint a portrait of the past, and then we translated her story together. We laughed and cried and often murmured, “Wow. I never would have known.” *** Next month, 41 years will have passed since my maternal family’s landing in California. Thanks to the eternity that is 2020, I’ll celebrate this milestone at home (California)—probably by tagging a friend in a “Zoom Memes for Self Quaranteens” post bemoaning finals.

If I do, I will be casually exercising my tremendous privileges: technology, access, education, even the ability (the audacity!) to complain about such privilege. Now that I am home, I also have access to parcels of my family’s past, things I learned to miss during my first two years of college—as well as things that I wish I could escape from. I find myself in limbo, constantly balancing the abstract of virtual school, the reality of family life, and the shadow of family history. Home’s habits are connected to a past that I cannot claim as my own, yet one that exists concurrently with my present.

I thought I wouldn’t learn much in quarantine, except maybe how to cut my bangs (disclaimer: I still need my mom’s help), but I’ve learned quite a lot about the people around me, their past, and how an alternate conglomeration of eternities resulted in our big Chinese-Vietnamese-American family, ca. 2020. We eat thịt kho with kimchi while watching the presidential debates. We cry and we get angry and we feel sorry. We miss my grandmother and my grandfather, and we don’t call my great aunt as much as we should. We say “I love you,” and we also realize that some things will take a long time to fix.

Some things, like history, can never really be fixed.

But if there’s one lesson I’ve learned in these many months of intimate living, it’s that parents are human, and their children are human, and so are our older relatives who don’t speak English. We all have a past that haunts us, and we all have a past that helps us.

Somewhere along the way, our timelines overlap, and their frequencies align. Their rhythms converge, and then they give birth to a voice. We are not alone, the voice says, and we never will be. People are living, it whispers, flesh-and-bone people are living so close to us. They are vibrant, and they are vulnerable. Most of all, they are all experiencing similar things—in this very moment, in another reality, in the same eternity.

Human stories purl like waves across the living room, ethereal voices playing from the speaker of our souls. They collide with my body, thrusting me towards Bến Tre, Giồng Trôm, the Philippines, Orange County. They wait in patient anxiety, pulling at my fingers and picking at my present.

Don’t forget the world, they tell me. Don’t forget.

Kaitlan is writing her great aunt’s story into a book. For more updates, you can follow her on Instagram @by_kaitlan.

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NARRATIVE I refused to jump into the lake because I was still a little scared after, some summers ago, I’d inhaled lake water through my nose. But from my tiny boat, I laughed as I watched the ducks plunge themselves, tails-up, into the water for a drink, and I laughed even more when they flipped over to bob back into place— as they should be. On the lake, heat shimmers made the world blindingly bright, and the burn of the sun against my skin made me feel alive.

Au Revoir, Switzerland

twelve years of memories in geneva

By Minako Ogita Illustrated by Talia Mermin Snow Winter was the worst time to move.

That was what I thought, trailing close behind my parents as they walked through the looming black gate. We stepped into a courtyard boxed in by three-story buildings with washed-out walls; at the far end, bare trees framed the edge of what I was later baffled to learn was a Greek theatre. In what world was this considered a school? The imposing scenery bore no resemblance to the long, low buildings and homey colors of the school I’d left behind in North Carolina. I looked to the ground, intimidated by the incomprehensible vastness of this “campus,” and grew even more afraid that I wouldn’t fit in. As if changing schools in January wasn’t enough, I was also being abruptly catapulted into middle school.

Swaddled in the thickest jacket I’d ever owned and fitted in clunky snow boots (both of which were foreign to North Carolina, where temperatures rarely dipped below freezing), I felt as swollen as a balloon and moved with all the dexterity of a bowling pin.

Even then, the wind gnawed at my face, unbearably cold. I’d almost decided that European winters were horrible, when I noticed the mounds of snow piled to the edges of the courtyard—the most I’d ever seen in my life. These were mountains compared to the mere whispers of snow that I was used to during NC winters. The piles looked grisly: browned slush and ice, a far cry from the marshmallow softness that graced my Japanese picture books. But, as I experimentally nestled my boot atop this mountain, I was awed by the way it glinted with the light, a quiet promise of future White Christmases in Switzerland.

Soup When I entered high school, I crumbled under the pressure to commit myself to something—so I joined the track club. That fall was a string of sunset afternoons running grueling laps through a grove of pines, always failing to notice the dirt that clung to my legs until my mom stopped me from coming into our apartment. My stint on the track team ended when, that winter, I participated in the yearly Escalade run, a two-mile affair that ended with me clutching onto my mom while dark spots jittered through my vision.

That was a tiny wrinkle, though, ironed out by the

festivity of the Escalade: Geneva’s annual celebration of triumph over Savoyard invaders.

As I stumbled through the sloping Vieille Ville streets, fighting down the taste of copper, I thought of escalade, French for “scaling walls.” I envisioned my own struggle through the eyes of the Savoyards, who were prevented from scaling Geneva’s walls because one woman poured hot vegetable soup on their heads. Slowing to a walk, I wondered: If running the Escalade was the invasion, where was my saving grace—my hot soup?

I found my soup eventually. Roaming the grocery store next to my apartment, I came across a pyramid of boxes, a bunch of marmites proudly on display.

These were chocolate cauldrons embossed with Geneva’s seal which, when cracked, spilled out vibrant marzipan vegetables. In year six, my class had flocked around the innocuous marmite; as was tradition, I, the youngest, jointly took hold of a paper towel roll with the oldest in the class and slammed it into the pot. Not the best of weapons, seeing that the marmite didn’t crack; but, when we eventually shattered it, I was warmed by the rich chocolate taste seeping onto my tongue. No use buying one now, though—no one wanted to eat the marzipan anyways..

Lake I’d never thought of myself as kin to water, even though my dad’s hometown is built around a shrine that worships one of the many Shinto sea gods. I often forget how much my family is “of the sea”; I was even surprised to learn that sometimes my dad would commute home by boat instead of bus. Geneva’s public transit boats are a tacky yellow, so low that they look like they could sink at any moment; on board, with their erratic rocking and water lapping at the windows, that fear appears dangerously close to reality.

Basking in the freedom of summer, my friends and I headed across the dock bordering Lac Léman, the lake at the heart of Geneva, to the rental hut.

“The motorboats have already been rented out,” my friend lamented. All that was left was the yellow boat’s cousin, a pedal boat of the same garish color.

The rental worker pushed us out into the water and we pedaled, little by little, as far as we could go—a yellow inchworm traversing the vivid blue water. We stopped only to feel the undulations of the boat as the water rippled around us. The rev of a motorboat, the chatter of tourists, the laughter of people sunbathing on the beach—the harmonies of Geneva’s summer were lost out on the lake.

I watched the outlines of the algae, their dance exposed in the mid-afternoon sun.

Name Tag At Faunce, I gave my name to the International Orientation committee and received a lanyard in return. Boldly printed under my name was my “home”: Switzerland. Self-consciously, I hid the name tag in my palm; after several days, I shoved my ID into the plastic sleeve so no one could see it anymore. I was tired of explaining how “I’m actually from Japan, but I live in Switzerland” as if that wasn’t already an abridged version of my confused cultural origins. I was even more embarrassed by this proudly-printed lie: After all, there were bound to be people here who were actually from Switzerland, right?

In answer to the inevitable where-are-you-from’s, Switzerland was tacked on like an afterthought, a feeble attempt at explaining why I pronounced croissant the French way, or why I liked meat mediumrare. I didn’t like to consider how Geneva was the place I’d spent most of my life; for me, a UK citizen by birth and Japanese by blood, it was impossible to make sense of the hold that Switzerland had on me—a country to which I had no claim. Yet I couldn’t ignore the familiarity that had bloomed in me over the past 12 years: The walks through bustling streets, the smooth glide of a tram, the picnickers sprawled across the grasses of the neighborhood park, the outdoor ice rink set up as soon as it was cold enough.

Last March, I’d been longing for Geneva, even before Brown sent us away due to the pandemic. When we were told to “go home,” I fooled myself into thinking I would choose to stay in Providence when I’d long ago decided that I needed to go back. I still can’t quite explain why, waiting for my luggage at the Geneva Airport conveyor belt, I had to choke back tears.

Jet My last vision of Geneva would have been the stretch of pavement between our apartment and the grocery store, had we not been running out of rice. As it was, my dad and I made our way to the other side of the lake to the Asian market. On our way back, we cruised past the lakeside: Lines of trees, the dock, and the water to our left, hotels and restaurants to our right. Approaching the bridge, a massive jet of water materialized across the lake. It curved into an arch, too tall to fathom, and cascaded downwards, a rainbow glistening where the light hit the falling stream—a beacon against the Geneva sky.

And, nine years old again, I shouted: “It’s the Jet d’Eau!” Several days later, I boarded a different kind of jet and sailed into the open air—an anticlimactic goodbye, the end of my life in Switzerland. This coming March, when my parents return to Japan permanently, there will be no more paths to lead me back: No visa, no cozy apartment, no family to welcome me. But, even as I lose the right to say “I live in Switzerland,” there are things I’ve received in these past twelve years that have seared their place into my memories. In the quiet moments to come, maybe when the snow winks with light or the water ripples with laughter, I’m sure I’ll think back to the day I first caught a glimpse of you, Switzerland—the peak of Mont Blanc from the airplane window—and how I couldn’t possibly have imagined how much you’d give me.

November 20, 2020 5

ARTS&CULTURE

A Full Family Affair

the relatability of schitt's creek

By Lauren Toneatto Illustrated by Gaby Treviño Behind the closed door of my upstairs bedroom, I shouldn’t be able to hear my father’s bellowing laugh coming from our family room downstairs. After several minutes of failing to muffle his chuckles with loud music, I decide to walk downstairs to investigate the source of his laughter. When I enter the family room, I find my father doubled over; his face has turned red, but I can barely tell because his hand covers it as he wipes tears from his eyes. Following his line of sight, I turn to see a “Welcome to Schitt’s Creek” sign displayed on the television screen as Johnny Rose (Eugene Levy) asks in disbelief, “You don’t see anything wrong with this? That man, standing awfully close to that woman, wouldn’t you say?” As Eugene Levy’s infamous eyebrows shoot up, accompanied by the blank, naive stare of his companion who has lived in Schitt’s Creek all his life—clearly unfazed by the inappropriate town sign—I join in on my father’s laughter, though admittedly more from laughing at my father than with him.

Originally aired in 2015 on Canada’s CBC Television, Schitt’s Creek follows the Rose family’s sudden fall from the lap of luxury. Having nowhere to go after their multi-million dollar mansion is taken away, the Roses find themselves in Schitt’s Creek, a town that Johnny, the patriarch, once bought as a joke for his son. Since the show’s landing on Netflix, Schitt’s Creek has found a new audience. Don’t just take my word for it, look to the 15 Primetime Emmy Awards Schitt’s Creek took home five years after its initial creation and following the series’ conclusion this past April. Yet, despite the show’s critical acclaim and Emmys sweep, and even though I call the show one of my favorites, I have found myself face-to-face with an unpopular opinion, coming from a friend of all people: After watching all of season one, she didn’t find Schitt’s Creek even remotely funny.

For my part, once I initially confronted my father for his over-the-top reaction to discovering the show, he never watched Schitt’s Creek alone again. While we don’t have a set day of the week or an exact time at which we convene, our viewings occur at least once a week and consist of watching a minimum of three episodes in one sitting, a count which rises exponentially depending on the cold open. Take the introductory scene of Season 3, Episode 2 for example: David (Daniel Levy) and Alexis (Annie Murphy) engage in typical brother-sister banter as they discuss David’s unique situation of being in a

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“throuple.” To prove her point that “when it comes to three people, David, there is always a favorite,” Alexis notes, “it’s just like how Mom likes you more.” David quickly refutes his sister’s claim only for their mother Moira (Catherine O’Hara) to waltz into their room, look directly at David, and ask him exclusively to eat lunch with her. After David declines, Moira somberly declares, “Very well, I’ll dine alone,” overlooking Alexis entirely and proving her point that David is the favorite child. Reading this exchange on paper, the words don’t spark humor like The Big Bang Theory’s “Bazinga!” might. Watching this scene, however, my father and I could barely catch a breath from our uncontrollable laughter. Why exactly was it so funny to us? Well, because similar scenes frequently play out in real life between my mother, my brother, and me.

All in good fun, my dad and I often tease my mom that it’s obvious she prefers my brother over me. While she’ll never admit it, she will shower my brother with words of endearment when he calls from college, her voice rising a few octaves because she can’t contain her excitement at hearing from him. My brother will say he’s cooked himself plain pasta for dinner––the bare minimum a college student can do to keep himself alive––and in return, my mother will ask follow-up questions, share tips to liven up his meal, and relay how proud she is of his accomplishment to our extended family members.

When I inform my mother of far more important news, such as scoring well on an exam, my mother will dismissively reply with “oh, good work” before returning to her daily tasks. As this response pans out, my father and I will share a glance before letting out a laugh and making my mom aware of her implicit bias. While I have no doubt my mother loves me wearly (we bond over Broadway shows and similar taste buds, nothing my brother can compete with) and that her dismissive comments are entirely unintentional, my dad and I can’t help but notice the all-too-frequent times she unabashedly praises my brother while seemingly overlooking me. It’s these familiar familial connections that make Schitt’s Creek the critically acclaimed comedy which I rightfully believe it should be.

My friend, meanwhile, won’t let out even a slight snort when Moira asks Alexis, “Has it gotten worse, or are you just not wearing any makeup?” because she doesn’t live with a “Moira” herself.

While my mother is not an ex-soap opera star like Moira, her unintentionally comical comments elicit similar responses as Moira’s delightfully wrong pronunciation of bėbė and other fan-favorite phrases (my mother will continually say “pass me the spatulur” no matter how many times we insist it’s called a spatula). Once my dad and I noticed the root of our hysterical reactions, watching Schitt’s Creek together became that much more of a family affair.

In addition to playing father and son on screen, Eugene and Daniel Levy, the show’s creators and stars, are father and son in real life, suggesting the source of the show’s emotional touch. Looking past Moira’s extravagant wigs or David’s garish monochrome outfits, Schitt’s Creek explores what it means to be a family following a humiliating hardship. When I watch a television show, I usually play a game or text my friends live commentary, rarely giving my undivided attention to the actors onscreen. With Schitt’s Creek, though, my less-thanfavorable television manners are put on hold; I sit alongside my father on the edge of my seat with my eyes glued to the screen, waiting for the next comedic bit that mirrors conversations my family has on a dayto-day basis. Schitt’s Creek doesn’t rely on elaborate props or punchlines that build throughout; what makes the comedy so magnificent is its relatability.

Just as Moira says the right thing at the wrong time to prove Alexis’s point, my mom can make my entire family hoot with a seemingly innocent comment.

Both women are naturally charismatic and comical without trying to be. Now, when my dad and I watch Schitt’s Creek, my boisterous bellows match his in volume. But even when the episode ends, we know we’re in for a laugh just by being together and living in the same household as my wonderfully brazen mother, who I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Polishing Off the Thanksgiving Plate not the perfect day, not just another thursday

By Ethan Pan ILLUSTRATED BY Chloe Chen If you asked me a year ago what my perfect Thanksgiving was, I’d have immediately shown you one thing: Bon Appétit’s Making Perfect: Thanksgiving.

The holiday follow-up to their breakout series Making Perfect: Pizza, these videos had everything I wanted.

Decadent shots of burnished turkey skin, tournamentstyle brackets pitting pumpkin against pecan pie (they settled on mixing the two together), and a coterie of funny, knowledgeable, freakishly charming coworkers.

Four-plus hours of USDA-prime food content.

I cannot stress how much the people behind the food—Claire, Christina, Molly, Carla, Andy—played into my adoration. They weren’t nameless chefs, mise en place already set out in front of them, cooking a whole meal in ten minutes. No, I watched Claire and Christina struggle to make the best brussels sprouts for half an hour, and I cherished every minute. The visible toil left me in awe of another feature of the series—its congeniality. The chefs quibbled, but they never fought. Initial disagreements always mellowed into consensus. It was assured that by the end of each episode, they would prevail, snacking on their final product with satisfaction. For the last episode of the series, they all gathered in Claire’s cozy Cape Cod cottage to make the big family feast. That’s what made it seem so perfect. Not just the baking bread, but the breaking bread. Not just coworkers, but family.

Growing up, Thanksgiving carried an air of unappeased appetite. Like Peppermint Patty in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving: “Where’s the turkey, Chuck? Where’s the mashed potatoes? Where’s the pumpkin pie?” Every year, I expected a certain magic to fall over my family on that fourth Thursday. I expected the smell of golden-brown to waft all day as my dad basted the bird and my mom whisked the gravy. I’d jump in to mash the potatoes, or I’d try (and

ARTS&CULTURE fail) at carving the turkey. I’ve loved cooking since I was young, so Thanksgiving was supposed to be bliss for me.

But this bliss was just ignorance. Thanksgiving is not celebrated in China, and as such, my parents’ conception of the holiday (at least in its stereotypically American sense) was null. They had never heard of green bean casserole (and still probably haven’t) and they lacked all desire to consume chalky, flavoravoidant breast meat for the sake of “tradition.” Still, like the good parents they are, my mom and dad attempted to provide my sister and I with as normal a Thanksgiving as they could manage. This meant honey baked ham (for the flavor), mashed potatoes and gravy from Boston Market, and 年糕 with raisins for dessert.

Ever the mule, by middle school, I started planning the Thanksgiving menu. Self-satisfaction came from smelling sage, resinous, as it baked in my stuffing. But it never amounted to all the stuff of my dreams. At thirteen, I attempted roasting a chicken (turkey’s too big for just the four of us), tragically overlooking the unequivocal truth that any thirteen year old will fail at this task. I felt a deep shame as I forced my family to nibble at their pieces of chicken, coppery skin belying the fact that the meat was literally raw. I could’ve put it back in the oven, but at that point, we were already an hour past the planned dinnertime, and so I spouted lies about how “it’s supposed to be pink” and left it at that. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave my family hungry.

After that devastating experience, I pulled back from cooking the main protein (much to my family’s relief ), but by the next Thanksgiving, my sister had moved to college, and my dad’s company in China started gaining momentum. Thanksgiving 2014 was marked by the wistful absence of my dad, his replacement by my sister’s college roommate (lovely, but lacking my dad’s affability), and a meek, quiet dinner once again devoid of poultry. The food was satisfactory but wanting, and there was a collective understanding that this would not be the last time my dad’s seat would be empty. The past six years have seen my family drift further and further apart: my sister moved permanently to New York, my dad began spending more than half the year in China, and I started college here in Providence. We would always try to make it back for Thanksgiving, but even when we accomplished that, it was probably one of only three or four times a year that we were all at home together. Otherwise, we were the ones being consumed—by our duties, our schedules, our real priorities.

Bon Appétit’s YouTube heyday coincided with a moment of personal tumult. I was just starting to reconsider my long-term career plans, feeling stuck

between my original intent to pursue academia, my burgeoning interest in tech, and my cautious dream of food writing. Bon Appétit represented a fantasy life, a holy grail: show up at work, eat delicious food, chat with my coworkers-turned-family, write thinkpieces about my lunch, and then go home satisfied with my eight hours of labor. I knew it was nearly impossible to attain, but if Claire and Christina could do it, why couldn’t I? Making Perfect: Thanksgiving and the rest of Bon Appétit’s video content soothed my worries. It could all work out like this. I could find family in The Industry; I could work with food for money; I could make the meal, and everyone would just gather.

And then the news broke: Bon Appétit was toxic. Unfair wages, catty employee culture, a racist editor-in-chief—the whole nine yards. The chefs’ interactions were genuine, but whatever else I had projected onto them—the sense of one big happy family—was not. I had not reckoned with the fact that I was worshipping a cabal of mostly white faces, that the few POC on screen weren’t being paid as much as their counterparts, and that their perfect Thanksgiving played right into the aspirations I had for my own perfect Thanksgiving, putting my disappointment on repeat.

For many, Thanksgiving is a bitter time of familial conflict, or it’s spent alone eating a cold turkey sandwich with wine, or it represents a history of exploiting the labor of Indigenous peoples, colonialism sanitized and glorified. For me, it was a narrative iterated by white voices telling me who

“Whether it’s long socks, the kind that reach my knees; hot chocolate in my hands, a tiny hearth to-go; or the collection of photos on my wall, displayed haphazardly with letters from home, I’ve never felt more grateful for the small things.”

—Danielle Emerson, “at the pocket-size” 11.22.19

“I, like many other musically minded people with an at least moderate inclination toward aesthetic observation, have a thing for the city at night. Did that sound pretentious? That’s good; it was meant to.”

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Amanda Ngo a FEATURE Managing Editor Liza Edwards-Levin Section Editors Alice Bai Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Olivia Howe Section Editors Maddy McGrath Emma Schneider

I was not, by way of what I ate. So, while it is a time for breaking bread, Thanksgiving also breaks other things—families, individuals, nations—apart into crumbs. It’s about gratitude, yes, but it’s not necessarily what we should be grateful for.

So if you ask me what my perfect Thanksgiving is now, it would be the Thanksgiving I actually had last year. It was the largest table we’d set in years—me, my parents, my sister and her husband, and our four closest family friends. The spread was impressively diverse; I brought squash agrodolce and broccolini in goma-ae sauce, and my family friends, knowing my sister’s husband was Brazilian, made moqueca along with their usual 东坡肉 and 凉粉. Funnily enough, the least interesting plates of the dinner were the mashed potatoes, stuffing, and turkey—the best part of which was just carving it, finally.

As I contend with this year’s holiday season, I realize how special that Thanksgiving was. My dad has been stuck in China since February, and by a stroke of luck, he has secured my mom a visa to visit him. She leaves the 30th; she won’t be back until next year. So Thanksgiving is all the more important this year, as my mom, my sister, and I get together for the last time in the foreseeable future. Our gathering will be decidedly cautious, uneasy like all other pandemic gatherings, and further tinged by the fragility of my parents’ reunion plans. Still, I’ll be grateful for the time we spend together because it’s rare enough already. The table will be set once more. I’m thinking I’ll try for that roast chicken again to celebrate.

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Jasmine Ngai Section Editors Siena Capone Minako Ogita Christina Vasquez LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

—Griffin Plaag, “that is all, that is all” 11.16.18

COPY CHIEF Mohima Sattar Copy Editors Laura David Kyoko Leaman Aditi Marshan Eleanor Peters SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Joanne Han Iris Xie Layout Designers Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen WEB MASTER Amy Pu

STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Editors Eashan Das Julia Gubner Danielle Emerson Kyra Haddad Jordan Hartzell Jolie Rolnick Nicole Kim Chloe Zhao Gus Kmetz HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Elliana Reynolds Gaby Treviño Victoria Yin

Want to be involved?

Email: amanda_ngo@brown.edu!

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