In This Issue
3
ellie jurmann
Ellyse Givens
2
Friends in Hihg-Five Places
Deserted 6
sofie zeruto
5
evan gardner
jeanine kim 4
Creating Your Own Media Canon
Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce
The Unbearable Weight of Thanksgiving (Meals) Olivia Cohen
Holiday Gift Guide 7
Will Hassett
Leftovers 8
postKimberly Liu @kimiliuu
NOV 30
VOL 32
— ISSUE 9
FEATURE
Deserted
itself—the pursed lips of all things. Grandpa Bill loved his desert home. From a
her tongue out. __________
on heat, home, & my hero
regular brown belt he macgyvered a fanny pack for his
It was in the desert that the pilot met the Little Prince.
By Ellyse Givens illustrated by emilie guan
neighborhood walks, attaching to it plastic bags for dog
The pilot’s plane had broken down, and he hardly had any
poop, a pouch for his phone, and maybe a case for glasses,
water, only enough for a week. The first night, the pilot fell
with rubber bands or strings around the leather. He strolled
asleep on the sand and felt more isolated in this desert than
in weathered running shoes to Palma Village Park where
“a castaway on a raft in the middle of the ocean.” But then a
“those younger people,” as he termed children, dawdled in
little voice woke him up.
On my ninth birthday, my Grandpa Bill gifted me a copy of The Little Prince. I remember the cover with the blonde
awe through the shrubbery.
“Please draw me a sheep!”
boy who stood amongst the stars, but I didn’t read the story
Each morning, after a peach-flavored yogurt at home,
The small fellow seemed to the pilot neither astray, nor
until recently, when Bill sent a letter that reminded me of
he would head outside again for an “exercise walk.” He
the image.
carried five-pound weights and wore a t-shirt with the
“What are you doing here?” the pilot asked.
fatigued, nor hungry. He wore green velvet.
The Little Prince is from a planet called Asteroid 325.
sleeves cut off—a homemade tank top, of sorts—that would
“Please draw me a sheep…”
When he arrives on Earth, he meets a snake, who informs
dampen a darker gray as he meandered. Then noon arrived
The Little Prince came from afar, curious about the
him that he is in Saharan desert where “there are no people.”
and he went back home and napped. Awakening again, he’d
planet called Earth and the “grown-ups who lived upon
The Little Prince reckons that one must be “a little
greet the puppies and the concrete and the neighbors and
it.” Within each planet he had visited before Earth, he met
walk once more, as the dusk started to make everything a bit
adults like the vindictive King, the perturbing drunkard, the
more yellow.
materialistic businessman, and the vain old man with an
alone in the desert…” But my grandfather never was. __________
His backyard was my favorite; I loved the fan palms
orange hat, none of which impressed the Little Prince.
I remember the mountain drives to Palm Desert. When
and the pool that looked like the sky. I remember watching
__________
I was little, I hugged my knees to my chest so that the sharp
Lilly forage the small hill furnished with green, greeting
My father would shhhh us upon the hawk’s arrival
car turns thrusted me left and right, making me giggle. I
aloe vera and barrel cacti whose beach-ball-like shapes
above. He would always spot it before we did during the hike
remember getting out of the car and hearing the faint sighs
must have fooled her. She returned with dozens of clear
up the Bump and Grind trail in the San Bernardino National
of the wrens, the fountain grass that rustled softly amongst
needles puncturing her nose’s slimy leather, grinning with
Forest. Everything is already tan in this desert, but the
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, As I sit down to write my penultimate editor’s note, a much-loved story from my youth comes to me. For those of you that have read Journey to the West, my favorite thing that Monkey did was burn the annals in Heaven that dictated the birth and death of all monkeys, granting eternality to all monkeys on Mount Huaguo. Little me thought he was so real for it and, needless to say, reveled in the idea of things being forever. Being the ripe ol' age of 5 at the time, I felt I’d seen enough of the world to want it to stay exactly how it was. No unknown to fear, no pressures of growing up… But as our writers explore, stopping time definitely sounds better than it feels. As the everyday becomes extraordinary through nostalgia, as the changes in seasons bring us festivities and warmth, as Taylor Swift might finally get her happy
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ever after, it seems the happy ending is in the future, deliverable only by change.
The feeling of entitlement to give unsolicited elderly advice comes naturally with age. Take it from
In Feature, against a desert landscape, the writer
the POV of someone who tried clawingly to hold on to
reminisces about visiting her grandfather, intertwined
the past, who denied change where it tried to sneak
with pieces of The Little Prince. In Narrative, the writer
in, who pre-humously grieved each incoming major
introduces us to her finger puppets and reflects on how
change with countdowns: It’s only from the point of
these little characters allow her to better empathize and
view of the future that it seems obvious that things can
connect with others; another writer talks about the tra-
only get better. I know this for a fact for post-, which,
ditional and nontraditional aspects of her multicultural
in the capable hands of Joe, Tabitha, Kathy, Klara,
Thanksgiving celebration and the importance of famil-
Eleanor (and the team!), will undoubtedly welcome a
ial reunion. In A&C, the writer explores the T. Kelce and
whole new era. Whole worlds can exist unbeknownst to
T. Swift craze through the lens of a fairy tale—specifi-
the current you—explore some by leafing through our
cally looking into how it seems like Taylor has immense
ninth issue of post- Magazine!
control over her own fairy tale “ending”; another writer reflects on her friendships and the canon of references, musical memories, and inside jokes that gets built within them and makes them so strong
Keep sleighing,
Kimberly Liu Editor-in-Chief
NARRATIVE Cooper’s Hawk is of a mightier shade. I am not sure what is
God is also in the rocks that look like jagged teeth, and the
more striking, the wings’ brown that is like freshly watered
heat that makes the pavement sparkle, and the Joshua trees
topsoil, or the white cotton-like hunks speckling the chest.
that bend in a permanent “hello” to the shrubbing ocotillos.
In my thickset blue and purple sneakers, I watched its kingly
And that he is in everyone’s imagination.
flaps, wanting to dig my soles into the ground and bury
Grandpa Bill’s office faced the backyard and had
myself up to my ankles and become immobile. Creatures so
bookshelves that went up to the ceilings. It was a place
vast render human beings into nothing—at least if you look
where you could find practically any book in the world,
at them for long enough.
and he would be able to tell you everything about it. Every
To Percy Shelley, the desert is a “global stage,”
Shutterfly calendar my mom has ever made is there, my
upon which an entirely new reign of life on Earth begins. He
sister and I posed in front of gardens and theme park
describes the “immeasurable sand[s]” and the “shrill chirp
entrances. My uncle is there in a photo, at seven, as is my
of the green lizard’s love.” In other, more negative poems of
grandfather’s sister and brother at their favorite Cayuga
the era, a desert landscape suggests tyranny, but Shelley’s
Lake. That office was everywhere and everyone all at once.
desert is one of a different kind—a place of death and rebirth
Grandpa Bill doesn’t live in the desert anymore. I reckon
all at the same time. Indeed, the jackrabbits and great
he finds home now amongst the folding hills and cinnamon
horned owls find life in this death land. Owls flutter their
ferns of Barbourville, Kentucky. Yet it’s not the amethyst
throat region to evaporate water and hydrate themselves,
verbenas that stand bravely amongst the tawny, nor the
while the ears of jackrabbits are made of many blood vessels,
green that is shiny and scaly like rubber is to fingertip. I miss
which release heat when in shady locations.
his mismatched decorations, the plaids and the toiles and
There was a jumping rock positioned perfectly by the
the weaves, the horse paintings that once adorned his Los
deep end of my grandpa’s pool—a mountain all for me. The
Angeles home, the giraffe figurine on the coffee table, and
pool helped the humans adapt, too. My dad and I would tread
the lamps with textured torsos. But maybe I still see these
water and play catch with a miniature basketball; my sister
things with my heart, and maybe that is enough.
begged my mom to buy blow-up rafts shaped like sea horses,
__________
atop which she’d try to balance, then fall off. My grandfather
The Little Prince had a flower back on his home planet.
would even take his puppies in for a daily “happy hour,”
A single flower that he loved, and that grew among the small
attaching ropes to plastic rafts so that he could keep a hold
volcano-like mounds that came up to his knees. The Little
on them, as they floated.
Prince nourished the rose with a watering can, and when she
__________
came to resent the air currents that made her bend, the Little
Before the Little Prince met the pilot, he met a fox,
Prince placed a glass sphere around her, for protection.
who he thought was quite pretty. The fox offered friendship,
The Little Prince was not the only book my grandfather
but only if the Little Prince would tame him, for if the Little
gifted me. Indeed, each year on my birthday I received a
Prince did, he would be “unique in the world.” The next
“birthday letter” of many pages, bound perfectly in black,
day the Little Prince returned and tamed the fox, which
supplemented with further reading material. I remember
bonded them, making the Little Prince devastated to leave,
the Queen Elizabeth-themed letter, the one called “Being
wondering why he forged the friendship with the fox in the
a Writer” and the 100 Speeches that Changed the World—
first place.
how each letter topic, in some way, connected to my own
“Goodbye,” said the fox. “Here is my secret. It is
particular world at that age.
very simple: one sees only with the heart. What is essential
At one point, I thought each letter was an instruction
is invisible to the eye.”
manual, filled with tiny lessons I’d wrap around myself
__________
before stepping into the world—the glass around the rose,
We gathered in the jacuzzi at night, and my sister and I
protecting her from the winds. Now, I think these letters
would run in circles, creating a whirlpool set afire blue by the
were like the Little Prince, each one inspiring the exploration
backyard lights. When we got a little older, we started asking
of new planets, of new possibilities. My grandfather’s final
Grandpa Bill who, and what, God was. Grandpa explained
letter, sent to all four of his granddaughters, was titled
that he was supposedly the father of Jesus Christ. But that
“Flying High.”
Places That Should Be Sound Towns 1. Santa Claus, IN 2. The Bermuda Triangle 3. Six Flags Great Adventure 4. Pound Town 5. My room 6. Your room ;)
7. Bikini Bottom 8. Providence, RI 9. Whoville 10. Cupertino, CA (this is a call to action for Apple Music for next year, xo)
Friends in Highfive Places more than just finger puppets By ellie jurmann illustrated by audrey wijono If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that there are actually eleven (and counting): Paul Ryan, Frederick, Stacey-Maurice, Jerry, Bridgette, Gordo, Deena, MiloJordan, Billy Joel (a.k.a. Ol’ Bluegrass), Dickens, and Bixby. These little guys are my whole world, and they fit in the palms of my hands. Better yet, they fit perfectly on the tips of my fingers though I do unfortunately have a maximum capacity of ten a time. Picture this: your favorite animal or mythical creature in a quasi-realistic, ultra-friendly form that is the size of your fingertip, and wearable. These perfect finger accessories are made of a soft plastic, and they look as though they are your favorite children’s book characters brought to life. Their beautiful, stupid magic condensed in such a small package makes them the best pocket-sized friends a girl could ask for. I call them my “finger friends,” and they each have their own backstory. Frederick, my strong and forthright raccoon, is a Napoleonic military commander currently based in the Swiss Alps. Stacey-Maurice, my overly sweet (likely phony) meerkat, is a PTA mom who drives a white Range Rover and is a proud anti-feminist. Billy Joel, better known as Ol’ Bluegrass, is my black-andwhite billy goat, and he is a slightly cynical, somewhat unhinged, but ever-wise town sage located in the Dust Bowl region of the United States. I also have a couple British finger friends, such as Bridgette, Dickens, and Bixby. Gordo is not even from Earth, so my finger friend posse is really an intergalactic force to be reckoned with. When I first pick out a finger friend, I peer into their soul. In a matter of seconds, I decide on a name and uncover their life story. I refuse to take one home until I really see them and know who they are. My imaginative mind and all of its whimsy make it too easy for me to give my plastic toys personalities more richly developed than those found in 1000-word novels. More than that, I grow deeply attached to the souls of these supposedly inanimate entities. With their lives so complex and beautiful, with their many ambitions and passions and various neuroses, it is impossible not to care for them as living beings. Maybe the self-ascribed personalities of my finger friends are a subconscious attempt to externalize my own feelings. Maybe giving them lives as magnificently intricate as humans induces human levels of empathy in me. Or maybe empathy extends beyond the living,
“Is it called a grandfather clock because it looks like he’s swinging his penis?” “I’m an avid not-doer. I hate doing shit so much.”
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NARRATIVE in understanding that we will never fully understand anything we cannot experience. There is importance and perfection in the existence of all such elusive bodies. Further, these plastic personas remind us that we are not omniscient, and thus we cannot dismiss the value of something simply because we do not relate to it. Paul Ryan—my white rat, my eldest, and my righthand man—has truly become part of me. No library study session, no train ride, no coffee shop venture is complete without him. As I write this, he sits in front of me on my airplane tray table beside my Diet Coke. Not all my finger friends can stand on their own—both literally and figuratively—but Paul Ryan is just like me: independent and well-grounded. While he and I have never spoken a word to each other, there is a certain comfort in his presence and the silence we share. His silly face provides me with serotonin, and I feel encouraged to embrace and be my full self. If I am already getting stares for carrying my finger rat around with me, I may as well have the time of my life doing so! After all, if I really cared what people thought about me, I would probably keep my finger friends at home and not give them the love and attention they deserve. To know my finger friends is to know me. They encapsulate everything I wish to be: curious, lighthearted, endearing, and bearing infinite potential. This collection of mine is more than a series of display pieces; it is a tapestry of the lives that could be. The stories of very real, very human individuals somewhere out there in the world are in all likelihood very similar to the stories I see in each of my finger friends. The guy in front of me in line at Trader Joe’s seems a bit aloof. He is wearing a black denim jacket and a grunge, all-black ensemble, and he reminds me of my pal Dickens, my black cat. Once I compliment him on the AC/DC iron-on patch on his jacket, he lights up, and we strike up an interesting conversation. Just like Dickens, some friends take time and need prompting before they warm up to you. When the little boy is screaming in the middle of the airport, at first I want to tell him to knock it off because it’s four in the morning and I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now. But then I think of my opossum Jerry—what a loon—and I can’t help but smile. Jerry lives, breathes (not literally), and embraces chaos—and we love him for it. I try to be more like Jerry and embrace the chaos of the little boy, and I maintain my cool until it’s time to board my flight. By making a friend out of a stranger, a neighbor, or any object placed beside me, I feel a much greater sense of comfort in being alone in the world. Plus, are we ever really alone? I, for one, would far rather feel like I have friends all around me when I am by myself than feel like I’m alone when I am surrounded by people. Whether in a bustling crowd or an empty field, I know that I’m in good company with a finger friend or two in my backpack. And if I forget them at home, there are infinitely many other friends—both living and inanimate—whom I cannot wait to meet. I can be a wanderer, but also find and make myself at home anywhere I go. Thanks to my finger friends, my pockets and my heart are now a whole lot fuller.
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The Unbearable Weight of Thanksgiving (Meals)
on traditions created and consumed by jeanine kim Illustrated by Sol Heo The table is set. A pristine tablecloth is laid— only the faintest of creases as evidence of usual irrelevance, when it sits forgotten and folded in a tiny cabinet high up in the kitchen. Further decorating the table is a feast. A true cornucopia. Filled with meats, carbs, and vegetables. It’s a quintessential image of Thanksgiving, an instantly recognizable picture for anyone familiar with the holiday. But zoom in closer, and the painting changes. Instead of a turkey, the centerpiece is a platter piled high with galbijjim, a meat dish traditionally prepared for holidays and celebrations. Rather than bowls of mashed potatoes and boats of gravy, there’s bindaetteok and donggeurang ttaeng, lovingly prepared by my grandmother hours earlier. Replacing the bread rolls and buns are mountains of purple rice, a favorite for its protein and fiber content. The talk is the same—a distant uncle espousing dangerously ignorant and inflammatory views about geopolitical conflicts—but it’s in Korean rather than English. This is my Thanksgiving, the only one I have ever known. Coming home for Thanksgiving is always a strange experience, even though I have done it every year since entering college. The calculus of weighing ticket prices against time spent home—subtracting the more than 12 hours of travel time between Providence and Los Angeles—is often enough to convince me that it’s not worth it to come home for the five or so days Brown allocates for this holiday. Yet when September rolls around and I open the American Airlines website in all its dysfunctional, infuriating glory, I always end up entering my card information to purchase my round-trip flight to the hellhole that is LAX. Even if every calculation comes to the same conclusion—that coming home is a waste of time and money—they all fade away in the face of Thanksgiving, a holiday that brings people together, an unskippable, necessary time for family. So when midterm season gives way to mid-November, I pack my tiny carry-on and begin the journey back, a series of flights and layovers that never fail to bring some new, unexpected
discomfort to fruition. Finally, after enduring my neighbors’ ceaseless yapping and the demon-child behind me who never stops crying, I’m home, ready to go back to my tiny childhood bedroom, with the bright teal walls that I stubbornly fought for in the fourth grade. Being home is often a disturbing experience, as I am filled with the sense that I am a stranger amongst all these objects that are both comforting and alien. Even this house, where I have lived since I was seven years old, surprises me with its unfamiliarity. While I know everything—the fourth step that always creaks when you land on its left side, the wonky light switch in the guest bathroom, the delicately balanced pile of letters and magazines on the coffee table—it’s as if I have read it from a richly descriptive book rather than my own life. A creeping sense of my own awkwardness—as if I’m a clumsy toddler trying to navigate a dollhouse— takes over, making me feel like a stranger in my own home. Falling onto my bed, hearing the familiar creak as I hit the spot where the springs have given way to time, it’s almost as if I’m back in high school, almost as if I’m the same girl I was four years ago. But the photos on my wall—Polaroids of new friends and loved ones—bear witness to the inescapable truth: I am a different person than the sad, lonely high schooler who graduated in a drive-through ceremony, celebrating with friends over Zoom instead of together. As Thanksgiving approaches, the demands of the kitchen grow more intense. Cooking for an entire family always requires extra hands in the kitchen, and as a college student with seemingly nothing to do, I am the prime candidate to assist with the feast. With the creeping onset of the holiday, the kitchen goes into overdrive, countlessly spitting out steam and gas as every stove, every counter, every appliance is crowded by endless pots and pans of food. As my dad and I grapple with turning the nebulous abstraction of a feast into a reality, the Thanksgiving mania consumes us. No longer is the refrigerator where we store milk and other perishables; it has transformed into a jail cell filled with taunts and expectations, only this time we are the prisoners. Dividing up the dishes, we work in tandem, seamlessly moving from one station to another as we prepare our holiday meal. After hours of slaving away at the stovetop, the meal is complete; a veritable feast sits on our table, waiting to be devoured by hungry family members. Near the end of the night, when the entire group has finally gathered, we dive in. The traditional Korean dishes—usually painstakingly prepared for birthdays and other milestone celebrations—await on the dinner table. Next to the pièce de résistance, the braised short ribs, there are countless accompanying dishes, banchan. A holdover from traditional royal court cuisine from the Joseon dynasty, banchan are as essential as the main course, not just the side dishes that they are
ARTS & CULTURE often translated as. Next to the kimchi and japchae, there sits a platter filled with delicious little mung bean pancakes and meatballs, brought over by my grandparents for our feast. Beyond the rice, just past the raw marinated crabs, there even sits a Caesar salad with all the fixings—an equally traditional part of our Thanksgiving meal. After the meal is consumed and our bellies are full, we all plop down in front of the television, ready to watch football, the sport that has become just as quintessentially “Thanksgiving” as the turkey. Watching the plays progress, with the home team inching towards the other end of the field, I am struck by how traditional my day has been—and how equally untraditional. Like many other Americans, I spend most of that Thursday more or less glued to my television screen, whether it is watching the Macy’s parade or seeing the Detroit Lions lose once again in prime time. Later, my family and I prepare another massive dinner, one that leaves us sluggish and sleepy, still with leftovers to spare. At the end of the day, I too am sick of my family members and their crazy ideas, thankful for the fact that I only see them a few times a year. All these and more are hallmarks of the American Thanksgiving tradition. Yet the drinks warming our hands and stomachs are not the usual wine or cider but rather somaek, a popular drink made from mixing soju and beer. After the football game finally ends, we play Monopoly, but we also pull out yutnori, a traditional Korean board game. When my extended family leaves for the night, accompanying the exchange of hugs and kisses are envelopes stuffed with cash, a mainstay of many Asian American households. Falling back onto my bed, despite all my earlier misgivings, I am so thankful to have come home once again. Moving beyond the initial awkwardness—which has become a tradition in and of itself—to come home to family, to take part in my own Korean American Thanksgiving is so special. What is a tradition but something we choose? I choose my dinner tables decorated by dishes from multiple cuisines, with chopsticks and traditional silverware sitting next to my plate. I embrace nights soundtracked by Konglish as people pick and choose from both languages. I celebrate my untraditional, traditional Thanksgiving. Who cares if I’ve never had turkey?
Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce the power couple at the center of this American Epic by evan gardner Illustrated by Kianna Pan Long ago, a girl with golden locks and cowboy boots beneath her princess dress declared: “there’s more to life / than dating the boy on the football team.” And so there was. The little girl went on to grant the gifts of a fairy godmother ($55 million in bonuses to her Eras Tour crew), make the earth (Seattle) tremble beneath her feet, and prance across the globe in a bedazzled cape. This is the fairytale of Taylor Swift. And so, fifteen years later, when rumors began to swirl about our golden girl with yes, a boy on the football team, it all felt a little too fantastic. Could real life really sustain such a fairytale ending—this full circle progression from wanting more, to getting more, to finally fulfilling that initial desire? Yet here he is, Mr. Friday Night Lights (or “Mr. Perfectly Fine”) hand in hand with her, opening the door to her coach (a gray Chevy Suburban) in the city. But is Travis Kelce “the 1,” or just another character in the narrative? The two are never far apart for Taylor Swift. This is a woman who is as much material as myth. To track all of the Swiftian characters and stories present in both her songs and her life requires one to question the boundaries between fact and fiction so often that it seems not even worth asking anymore. Her first album, Taylor Swift, was an inherent presentation of self as a story. While it is not entirely uncommon for a celebrity to live for the narrative, Swift takes it a step further and lives in it: there’s Holiday House, her Rhode Island property that is home to the autobiographical tale “The Last Great American Dynasty”; there’s Cornelia Street, her Greenwich Village loft that is the centerpiece of the song of that title (it’s a small wonder she doesn’t have more stalkers). Whether you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen or tracing the creaks in the floor, to live with Taylor is to live inside her narrative, as close as possible to the literal sense. Indeed, this is a woman who writes her own “Karma”—so how much of a surprise is it really that the soaring prophecy from all those years ago finally materialized? And still, the question remains: what is this story of Taylor and Travis about?
First, it is a story of growing. If what it takes to reach the boy on the football team is doing greater things, I’m sure she has qualified; for what else is this tour, if not superlative? After all, we’re talking not years, not decades, not centuries, but Eras. And after the popstar (Harry Styles), the country star (John Mayer), and the movie star (Jake Gyllenhall), Taylor’s finally found her happy ending not with a man who makes hits, but a man who hits—leaving the magic of making supremely hers. And indeed, Taylor is making herself grow superlatively. She’s growing tour dates, growing stamina, growing muscle (in case you somehow missed it, she reminds you with a bicep kiss in the first five minutes of the show). In the grand morass of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce TikToks, there is one in particular that sticks with me: it shows Taylor growing, over the course of several slides, from her eating disorder, to her recovery, to her training for the tour. It culminates with a picture of Taylor and Travis, tied in an embrace, basking in their bigness. It’s physical growth, yes, but more than that, this is the growth of her cultural stature: Taylor Swift as a figure has never been larger on the global stage. This is a woman whose characters always match her scenes; as she grows everything from her arms to the GDP, of course she would wind up with a man of such heft. Indeed, to look at these two is to behold what it is to be big and growing and strong: Taylor and Travis: even the compounded consonants sound strong. Taylor and Travis: our two AllAmericans. **** After a big, pink-caped, and ribbon-waving reveal, the first thing Swift says upon stepping on stage at the Eras tour is “Oh hi!” a short and sweet morsel of an introduction. But there’s something a little disingenuous—or maybe even cunning—about this greeting. If nothing else, Taylor Swift knows how long we’ve been waiting for her—she even projects a massive timer on the jumbotron, counting the seconds before her grand entry—and even if she didn’t, the seismic audience reaction alone is enough to communicate how long we’ve been pent up, itching, waiting. And yet: we only truly
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ARTS & CULTURE begin with “Oh hi!” her faux modest, girl-caught-doingsomething-naughtily-excellent intro, which seems to say: I know I’m a spectacle. But the show only begins when I see you. And perhaps that’s what she’s been doing with this entire tour. Whether she’s looking out at all of you Swifties in the crowd, looking back on her teenage years during the Fearless era, or facing a museum of old Taylors, encased in glass, during Reputation, she’s the one who is looking now—at her narrative arc, at her world of constituents, and yes, at her hunky football man. She’s gone from the frantic adolescent plea of “hoping that one day / you’ll wake up and find / that what you’re looking for / has been here the whole time,” (“You Belong With Me”) to the cool and collected stare of “that’s my man” (“Willow”). If you don’t believe me, watch that viral clip from the finale of a show in Argentina, where Taylor changes the final verse of her song “Karma” to “Karma is that guy on the Chiefs, coming straight home to me.” As she delivers the lines that echoed around the globe (by which I mean TikTok), notice her posture: for the briefest moment, it’s almost as if she’s sinking into a cat-calling pose. It’s the knees carefully staggered, torso reclining back of a well-refined lemme holla at you real quick—the subtle summoning of that single outstretched finger, reeling through the crowd, pulling him in. In this one precious moment, the sequins and streamers dissolve into swagger. Her money, her man, her karma: all coming home to me. All of this is to say: this is not the Taylor who once asked us to “Look What You Made Me Do” (notice the slim presence of this particular era on her setlist) but the Taylor who is looking wherever and at whomever she likes. It’s the power she recognizes when she looks from section to section, igniting each time a roar, gathering it all into a resounding you’re making me feel powerful. And what a reversal this is for the popstar, one who reigns supreme in an economy of being looked at. Our girl has outgrown supervision; she is grown now, and looking at you. That’s what happened to Travis Kelce (even his mom knows it—when asked about the relationship, she exclaimed, “God bless him, he shot for the stars!”). And if Taylor Swift likes to look at a muscly tight end for the Kansas City Chiefs, best believe us Swifties are looking too. **** For an American appetite starved of the power couple, it’s tempting to read Taylor and Travis as Posh and Becks, as seen in their recent docu-series. But Taylor Swift’s influence is more vast than the entire spice cabinet; and, more importantly, this meaty mustachioed Midwesterner—the kind who says that’s a helluva line about his billionaire girlfriend’s Grammy-awarded song while talking to the Wall Street Journal in his Rolls Royce–is no Becks. And that’s entirely the point. We Americans are less royal and more family. Yes, Taylor and Travis are American made. But just as important as their roots is their reach—as the two travel the world, step by step, from town to town, they grow from American examples to American exports, dance as diplomacy. Perhaps it’s a little too perfect for Miss Americana to finally find her heart in the heartlands—for “The Last Great American Dynasty” to be a blonde-haired, red-lipped girl, raised on a Christmas tree farm in Pennsylvania, walking hand in hand with her big Missouri man. But what else is Taylor Swift if not exactly that: a little too perfect, a little too grand, her show even a little too long (don’t kill me, but nobody needed that much Midnights in hour three). Even as old-fashioned as Americana sounds, Taylor is (and always will be) one with the zeitgeist—and, in 2023, the zeitgeist is a rootsy man with a touch of Americana. It’s Noah Kahan, with a 6
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little weight (okay: a lot) put on him. And what could be rootsier, while still “Bejeweled,” than midwestern chic? Than a Kansas City man who is as comfortable on the cover of Vogue as on the gridiron? What position could possibly be more fitting for Taylor than a flashy tight end? And Travis Kelce is exactly that—the flashiest of tight ends. In the purest pirouette of Swiftian wordplay, Travis Kelce is a flashy tight end to her “Love Story:” each end zone “Archer” celebration, aimed tenderly at her box, your marry me, Juliet of Sunday Night football. **** Taylor Swift’s happy endings often, if not always, come at the end of her songs. They come in big puffs of synth and smoke (“Love Story”), or in small turns of phrase (“How You Get the Girl” ends with “that’s how you got the girl”). More often than not, the true Swiftian happy ending is achieved in the bridge. Maybe, after a long and storied career, we’ve finally reached the end with Travis. Maybe, after a tumbling twenty year discography of romantic tribulations, Travis Kelce is the one. Or maybe, this storybook ending wrapped up in a mustachioed beau could be just that: a bridge. And for Taylor Swift, the hero of our American epic—New York Times critic Wesley Morris even called her a “conscientious steward of her own Odyssey”—it is safe to assume there are endless episodes ahead, waiting on the other side. Indeed, whether or not Travis is the one, Taylor’s adventures (and maybe even her Eras) will always be as big and epic, as far and wide, as she wants them to be.
Creating your own Media Canon
on friendship and the power of popular media to facilitate connection by sofie zeruto Illustrated by Emily Saxl “Hello, lettuce.” “HELLO, LETTUCE.” My friend Riley and I are FaceTiming each other in a rare moment when we are both relatively free—she is working on her fashion class final at 1:00 a.m. in Lacoste, France, while I lay in bed during my post-dinner slump. We both giggle and then start catching up. “Hello, lettuce” is a reference to Bella Hadid’s viral clip from the 2019 “Camp”-themed Met Gala after-party. Katy Perry, dressed
as a hamburger, stares off into space as Sarah Paulson yells, “Hello, lettuce!” over and over again. We’ve been best friends since the fourth grade—we essentially grew up together. In high school, we started joking that we were the same person. From fifth grade recess to middle school track and field to senior year AP Statistics, we’ve shared a hive mind of old and new gossip, inside jokes, embarrassing moments, and hometown opinions. She tells me she is going to Paris for the weekend. Later, when she posts the photos from the trip on Instagram, I comment, “Are you happy to be in Paris?” to which she responds, “Beyoncé! Beyoncé!” in a lyrical ode to her song “Partition,” the object of our brief obsession freshman year of high school. There’s something deeply affirming about being in on a joke, a secret, or a reference. In seventh grade, during a game of charades at a cross country Christmas party, we decided to hint at our answers by giving the first letters. When it was Riley’s turn, I could tell just by the way she smiled and declared, “T-E-N-G,” before she started acting that her word could be none other than The Emperor’s New Groove—a movie she had made me watch three times by that point in our friendship (and probably more since). Maybe I ruined the game for everyone, but the shock on her face and the realization that we knew each other too well was worth it. Every friendship has its own media canon. In the same way the literary canon arbitrarily consists of books of the “highest caliber” and “aesthetic value,” all longstanding friendships curate their list of movies, songs, books, memes, and niche references. A crucial aspect of friendship is vulnerability, and what’s more vulnerable than mutually sharing in the things you love? When I first got to Brown, I worried about finding friends I would feel as deep a connection with as my friends in my hometown. It seemed like everyone I met was from New York City or Boston or some other huge city. In my quiet, white-picket-fence, conservative Georgia suburb, everyone went to the same public elementary, middle, and high school—all located within 20 feet of each other. I had known most of my friends since I moved there in the fourth grade. We all knew too much about each other. Probably the most exciting thing to do in town was sit in the blazing heat at a tree-less “park” named after our hometown heroes and 2010s hit country band Lady A. By the end of senior year, Riley’s and my favorite activity was driving out 30 minutes to the bait and tackle store on the off chance this man who would sometimes sell cajun boiled peanuts was there. Back then, Brown had seemed like a pipe dream, but suddenly it was a reality, and even though I was happier than I had ever been, I mourned the familiar and the simple. “Nobody is funny like you guys are,” I texted my friends during those first few weeks— and at the time, it seemed true. There was no bank with a decade of memories and easy conversations about the
LIFEST YLE people we knew. And suddenly there wasn’t nothing to do: there was everything—a new school to adjust to, a new city to explore, and new people to meet. I hated to admit it, thinking I was cool enough to avoid it, but those first few weeks were a culture shock. I was at a loss for how to connect with people with no knowledge or history of each other. At home, music had always served as a source of connection with the world outside of the conservative suburban bubble of contemporary Christian and country pop. One of our favorite activities was watching music videos up in Riley’s dad’s office during the hellish midsummer months. We accidentally developed a routine playlist. I would force us to watch all of Lorde’s Melodrama Vevo performances, and then we’d delve into Miley Cyrus’s covers and somehow always end up on this very specific BBC radio country version of the Hannah Montana song “See You Again” she performed in 2017. Eventually, we knew all the ad libs and could mimic her country twang by heart; we’d blare it in the car driving through town before fighting to queue the next song. We were constantly sending each other new artists and songs, excited by the vibrant pop culture and experimentation that seemed to thrive in other U.S. cities and parts of the world. Rina Sawayama became a mainstay in our media canon after I sent Riley her song “XS” in mid-2020. We had always talked about going to see her in concert, but by the time she toured, we were both beginning our first year of college over a thousand miles apart. I bought tickets for her Boston show of the Hold the Girl tour and went with a new friend that December. As we shivered waiting in line for the concert, I felt those odd, new pangs of nostalgia for my home and childhood return. I missed my best friend and the people who really knew me. I was surprised to notice I missed the good things about the South—I missed its spirit of friendliness, bright aesthetics, and appreciation for the mundane. The show began, and a local drag queen opened with a DJ set. As I was taking videos to send to my hometown friends, the final song she played was a dance remix of “See You Again” by Miley Cyrus. Of course, I put down my phone and screamed the words as my friend confusedly tried to match my sudden burst of energy. It was bittersweet. On the one hand, I couldn’t believe I was in a big city like Boston. I had seen a drag show and a concert and had taken the train like a real New Englander. Riley was at art school pursuing fashion and following the same dreams we had talked about since middle school. But I was also reminded of the impermanence of childhood, relationships, and the daunting anxiety of crafting a new world for yourself in early adulthood. Jokingly, I tell friends that I am the opposite of a gatekeeper. I want people to love what I love, and I want to love what people close to me love. I find my joy and have found some of my closest friendships through a mutual love of all sorts of things—from Chappell Roan to Derry Girls to Vanderpump Rules to La Creperie on Thayer. I want to love the things that the people I care about care about—even if they aren’t things I enjoy or understand at first. We are all a unique mixture of the passions and traits we have chosen to adopt from the people we love, and when friendships or relationships are drawn apart by any number of factors in life, art and media remain an easily graspable point of connection. And even while I reminisce on the deep-rooted bonds I had growing up and continue to maintain, the past year and a half at Brown has shown me there is still so much to learn and discover from others, and the ties that bind do not stop at childhood. I treasure the unique “media canon” I have with all of my friends, from little jokes as frivolous as “Hello, lettuce” to the books and movies that bonded us as kids. And if the time Riley and I attentively watched all of Outer Banks to befriend a girl in our literature class tells you anything— it’s a beautiful way to connect with people and maybe even spark a friendship that changes your life.
Holiday Gift Guide:
unique presents for everyone on your list by Olivia Cohen Illustrated by Icy Liang As you get older, you realize that giving gifts is much more satisfying than receiving them. Seeing your family's faces light up at the perfect gift is the best part of the holidays. However, it can be difficult to decide what to make or buy while considering their taste, what they already have, and your own budget. That’s why I’ve listed below some creative and budget-friendly gift ideas to show your loved ones how much you care!
1. A candle
magnetic plastic Polly Pocket clothes to munch on.
7. A knife
Is your aunt always complaining about how dull her knives are? Instead of buying some scarf she'll never wear, why not give your aunt the gift she really needs this year: a sharp knife! No need to wrap it, just leave it somewhere she can find it. Your aunt will love the gift of a very sharp knife.
8. An all-inclusive trip to Palo Verde Generating Station
If your family needs a break from school and work, show them you care by purchasing them an all-inclusive vacation to the largest nuclear reactor in the United States! This affordable package includes Level 4 security clearance into the facility, an engaging presentation on emergency protocol, a tour of the exterior of the plant, and complimentary continental breakfast.
9. The Kansas City Royals
Help your mom freshen up the living room with a lovely scented candle! Choose her favorite scent to show her you pay attention to the little things.
The ultimate gift for the ultimate baseball fan! If you want an extra-special present for the baseball lover in your life, consider gifting them the Kansas City Royals this year.
Is your brother always on his phone? With the versatile gift of a $15 AT&T gift card, he can buy 30% of a silicone phone case! Or you can help him out with his phone plan this year; phone plans aren't cheap, and with this gift, you can help cover 9% of his monthly payment for December!
If your dad loves the outdoors as much as mine does, then he’s sure to love 126 acres in Kennedy County, Texas! He’ll be free to walk about his new land and dig shallow holes. Nothing says “I love you, Dad” like 126 acres in Kennedy County, Texas.
2. $15 AT&T gift card
3. Cellulite cream
If your sister is a teenager, then she probably wants some cellulite cream, but is too afraid to ask! Don't wait: buy her cellulite cream today and say “you're welcome” later.
4. A box of baby turtles
What's that scratching sound coming from under the Christmas tree? And what's that acrid stench? That's right, it's a box of baby turtles! Spare your little siblings from the banality of a regular old puppy this year with the gift of ~80 live baby turtles.
5. Authentic WWII metal and brass keyer morse code tape
Is your dad a history buff? Then he'll be thrilled to unwrap an authentic WWII metal and brass keyer morse code tape, in fair condition! It even comes with a power cord. This guy on Craigslist needs it off his hands in the next 36 hours, so act fast.
6. Polly Pocket clothes
Does your little sister love to chew on those rubber Polly Pocket clothes? Who doesn't? This holiday season, give her the gift of those discontinued hard plastic ones with the magnets in them! You'll win Best Gift of the Year this holiday season when you give your little sister some
10. 126 acres of land in Kennedy County, Texas
11. A bag of your hair
On your mom's hardest days, when she misses you the most, offer her the gift of comfort with a one-gallon Ziploc bag of your hair. She will be so happy to be able to remind herself of you when she looks at and touches a large bag of your hair.
12. A mysterious ring of keys
Does it seem like your cousin has all the toys he could ever want? Give him the gift of a rusty ring of keys! A rusty ring of keys offers hours of play and creativity. Make sure to remind him never to use the keys to open The Shed.
13. The Gift of Fire
Are there mortals on your list? As the wint'ry night grows long and cold, bestow upon these fragile creatures the Gift of Fire. Women and children shall fall at your feet and praise you for the Gift of Fire. Your name shall live in eternity, etched into pulsing hearts of the souls to whom you have off'red `the mercy of warmth.
14. A bracelet
A bracelet can be an excellent gift for any jewelry lovers in your life. Gold or silver, charm bracelet or bangle—the possibilities are endless!
November 30, 2023
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Leftovers
post- mini crossword 20 by Will Hassett
1
3
2
4
5
7
8
Down
Across
3 Some cash or gum
1 With Carta, royal charter circa 1215
5 Dark meat alternative to 3D
2 And so on abbr.
7 Commands a ship 8 American golfers grp.
3 Feathered limb 4 U.S. federal org. home to customs and immigration agencies 6 What a rabbit might do
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kimberly Liu
“Perhaps building a home means, instead, freely giving pieces of ourselves away, leaving them in the unexpected corners of the world. And maybe we cannot ever truly build homes anyway. Only places we call home.” —Kaitlan Bui, “In the Places We Once Called Home 12.3.21
“On nights I’m feeling particularly sentimental, it feels cruel that the conventional life path is set up this way: carefully knitting ourselves into the fabric of a place, only to be asked after a set amount to extricate ourselves and start again.”
—Siena Capone, “Anyway, Don’t Be a Stranger” 12.2.2022
Section Editors Emily Tom Anaya Mukerji
FEATURE Managing Editor Klara Davidson-Schmich
LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn
Section Editors Addie Marin Elaina Bayard
Section Editors Jack Cobey Daniella Coyle
ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa
HEAD ILLUSTRATORS Emily Saxl Ella Buchanan
Section Editors Elijah Puente Rachel Metzger
COPY CHIEF Eleanor Peters
NARRATIVE Managing Editor Katheryne Gonzalez
Copy Editors Indigo Mudhbary Emilie Guan Christine Tsu
SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Tabitha Grandolfo Kaitlyn Lucas LAYOUT CHIEF Gray Martens Layout Designers Amber Zhao Alexa Gay STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Gabrielle Yuan Elena Jiang Will Hassett Daphne Cao
Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Olivia Cohen Ellie Jurmann Sean Toomey Emily Tom Ingrid Ren Evan Gardner Lauren Cho Laura Tomayo Sylvia Atwood Audrey Wijono Jeanine Kim Ellyse Givens Sydney Pearson Samira Lakhiani Cat Gao Lily Coffman Raima Islam Tiffany Kuo
Want to be involved? Email: mingyue_liu@brown.edu!
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