Issue
In This
Sarah Lettes 2
20GAYTEEN
post- sweethearts 6
Dating Misadventures the skeptical romantic 6
Subtle Asian Traits Griffin Plaag 7
Nothing Feels Good Pia Mileaf-Patel 8
The Least Romantic Date in Providence
postCover by Connor Gewirtz
FEB 8
VOL 23 —
ISSUE 14
FEATURE
20GAYTEEN
Reflections on LGBTQ Visibility this Valentine's Day By Sarah Lettes Illustrated by Molly Young
F
or many years, I unknowingly suffered from a gay music deficiency. The gayest song I knew for most of high school was “Same Love,” a same-sex marriage anthem rapped by a straight guy. I first heard “Same Love” in tenth grade. I was standing in the kitchen, lazily scrubbing a pot from dinner, when a friend turned it on. I was so shocked to hear the word “gay” in a song that I had to listen to it later to confirm I had heard it correctly. For the next few years, these five minutes and 18 seconds of music served as a portal that transported me into the future I imagined. Sitting on the back steps of my school, doing homework in my room, or hitting the pavement for a run, I would pull up “Same Love” by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis ft. Mary Lambert, plug in my headphones, and listen to it over and over again.
The song carried me through a lot, sticking with me as I moved from iTunes to Spotify, from high school to college, and from Atlanta to Providence. It wasn’t until I was in Vietnam for a study abroad program that my friend Lucy helped me see the gaping hole in my music collection. “Same Love” was fine, she said, but there was a whole world of LGBTQ artists making amazing music that I was missing out on. She diagnosed me with a lack of queer artists and prescribed various treatments: Watch the “Girls Like Girls” music video by Hayley Kiyoko (known to fans as “Lesbian Jesus”), listen to “Honey” by queer singer-songwriter Kehlani, and report back each day with thoughts on each new artist she introduced me to. Song by song, I slowly got a healthy level of gay music into my system and explored this new world of music that broke boundaries
at every turn. This music went way beyond what Macklemore had given me. His lyrics envisioned a future where people could love who they loved; this new wave of artists was already living in it. Kehlani casually sang about the girls she loved; gay pop singer Troye Sivan crooned about breakups with guys. Every time I played these artists, I was struck not only by the messages of queer love flowing through my headphones but also by how nonchalantly these artists expressed them. In many of these songs, the point wasn’t “I’m gay,” it was “why won’t this girl text me back?” or “when will this guy notice me?” or “I can’t wait to see this person again”—the same messages heard on Top 40 radio, just with different pronouns. Through these songs, I entered a world where queer love wasn’t a big deal, but
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Listen, we need to talk. Yes, I know we’ve never talked before; as a collection of newspaper pages, I am functionally unable to hear. So perhaps what I’m saying is that I need you to read carefully. In fact, you should probably let go of my sides and set me down on this table/desk/pillow right now. You’re not going to like what I have to say. In short, I think it’s time for you to start looking at other magazines, and for me to find new readers. I know…I know…it’s hard to hear, but please believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you. You’re a complex, multifaceted human being, whereas I am an editor’s note consisting of 407 English words (many just simple conjunctions); our romance is a semantic and metaphysical impossibility. And like, don’t take this the wrong way, but…there’s an age difference. It’s true. Though my paper comes from a ripe old birch tree, my ink is only hours off the presses, and you’re at least 20, probably. What’s that? You knew, and you didn’t care? You still wanted me “because true love has no age difference?” Okay. Fine. In extreme bluntness, I’ve run out of
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things to say to you. Frankly, I’m unsure how you’re not bored of me as well. The extent of my knowledge on culture is limited to late ‘90s emo music and a single taco restaurant in the back of a West Providence supermarket. If you look back, I even dropped hints that you should move on; half of the Narrative section is about how dating is an absurd human construct, inevitably ending in grievous emotional body blows. Literally half of the section. And if you missed those cues, my article about 2018’s increased LGBTQ visibility should have been blunt in communicating that I’m...interested in new experiences. You just don’t fit the bill. Perhaps it was callous of me to tell you this right before Valentine’s Day, but I think my timing is expressive of the fact that I’m a jerk, and maybe remembering that will help you get over me. For what it’s worth, I’ll be back in print next week, and if you can’t wait, there’s always The Brown Dail— Hmm, on second thought… Maybe I do love you.
Julian
managing editor of arts & culture
Places To Tell Someone, “It’s Not You. It’s Me.” 1. In the Ratty, after you’ve used their swipe 2. During the weekend night rush at Jo’s, in between bites of mozz sticks
3. In your freshman dorm hallway 4. At Durk’s BBQ, while holding hands solemnly across the table
5. During your acoustic set at The Underground 6. In the eight-person seminar you both decided to take
7. At Shiru, followed by an offer to buy them a drink 8. In line at Andrews for pasta night 9. During office hours, with your professor mediating the whole exchange
10. In Blueno's hollow interior
FEATURE was just as difficult, joyful, and confusing as any other romance. It just maybe lent itself to music that was slightly more fun to dance to. I eagerly listened to these LGBTQ artists, and by the end of 2017, I had compiled my own small-but-mighty “Gaylist” on Spotify. I was proud of this playlist and would have been perfectly content listening to this same rotation of songs for the foreseeable future. But Hayley Kiyoko had other plans for me in 2018. Before I had even eaten breakfast on New Year's Day, Lesbian Jesus had taken to Twitter with a prophetic message for her gay disciples: “It’s our year, it’s our time. To thrive and let our souls feel alive,” followed by a hashtag that would soon become iconic: “#20GAYTEEN.” Kiyoko was signaling that it was time for the gays to take over the world—or at least that 2018 could be an important year for LGBTQ visibility and acceptance. Lesbian Jesus had spoken, and, as if she had sprinkled a cloud of rainbow glitter onto my Spotify account, songs to add to my Gaylist popped up at an astonishing rate. In February, genderqueer and gay singer-songwriter King Princess gifted the world with her debut single, “1950.” Hayley Kiyoko released her debut studio album Expectations in March. In April, Janelle Monáe came out as pansexual in Rolling Stone and released Dirty Computer, an album full of queer messages—from subtle references to bisexuality in “Make Me Feel” to bold and direct imagery in “PYNK.” Throughout 2018, new music flowed from every direction into my Spotify playlist; Rina Sawayama, Kim Petras, Christine and the Queens, Troye Sivan, and many other artists who identify as LGBTQ all released new music throughout the year. Some of these artists, such as Troye Sivan or Janelle Monáe, made their way up charts and across the world. These artists redefined what it means to be pop stars, reaching global audiences with their own perspectives on love, gender, and sexuality, weaving LGBTQ love stories into mainstream pop culture. In 2018, I watched Troye Sivan strut across a stage within eyeshot of the White House. I turned on pop radio and listened to bisexual artist Halsey sing about love. I talked to friends who were surprised to find that half of their favorite new artists identified as LGBTQ. Other queer artists have stayed out of the mainstream, pushing boundaries even further and thinking imaginatively about what queer love can look like.
This music set the soundtrack for a year full of important moments for LGBTQ visibility. I turned on the Olympics and watched figure skater Adam Rippon skate and spin his way into our hearts as the first openly gay U.S. athlete to qualify for the Winter Olympics. Love, Simon hit the theaters, the first romantic comedy centered on gay characters that I could watch at Providence Place Mall. Each time I walked into my living room at home, I saw my siblings watching shows with LGBTQ characters; a record 8.8 percent of broadcast scripted prime time characters identified as LGBTQ in 2018, according to GLAAD. And 50 percent of those LGBTQ characters were played by People of Color, another record high. A “rainbow wave” also swept through the political world this year. Over 400 LGBTQ candidates ran in the November elections. Jared Polis became the first openly gay man to be elected governor in the United States. And a record 10 representatives in Congress openly identify as LGBTQ. At times, it felt like I couldn’t pick up my phone without reading about important moments for LGBTQ visibility. By giving 2018 a name, Hayley Kiyoko helped make the year one to celebrate each moment of LGBTQ visibility. 20GAYTEEN helped us recognize the enormous strides the LGBTQ community has made, both in that year and the ones before it. Moreover, 20GAYTEEN wasn’t simply a burst of rainbow fireworks and glitter that came out of nowhere; each step forward represented an accumulation of decades of efforts. Each time an organization pushed for a policy, an activist organized a rally, or people came out and shared their identity with the world, they added a multicolored drop to a big gay ocean that formed the rainbow wave of 2018. However, underneath the layer of glitter that coated 20GAYTEEN, there’s still a long way to go. Even as mainstream LGBTQ acceptance seems to hit a new high, many queer people at Brown, throughout the United States, and across the world continue to suffer discrimination and silencing. For my friends who don’t feel safe coming out to their families, or for kids growing up in communities where being gay simply isn’t an option, no amount of LGBTQ characters on Netflix or songs with queer themes will be enough. Coming from accepting communities, it is easy for me to listen to this music that represents me, watch these movies that tell my story, vote for politicians who reflect who I am,
“It’s a scary time to have a uterus in America." Halley McCarn, “Body Tell-All” 2.16.17
“Every New Year’s Eve, I have trouble sleeping. I knew I would probably stay up all night. I would probably stay up all year.” Laruen Sukin, “the house” 2.18.16
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Anita Sheih a FEATURE Managing Editor Sydney Lo Section Editors Kathy Luo Sara Shapiro Staff Writers Sarah Lettes Caroline Ribet ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Julian Towers Section Editors Griffin Plaag Emily Teng Staff Writers Rob Capron Kaela Hines Pia Mileaf-Patel
and feel validated and excited to be living in this time period. I no longer need to listen to “Same Love” with my headphones in; I’ll blast Kehlani on my speakers for everyone to hear. I don’t need to watch Glee just to see a gay character; I can find non-token LGBTQ characters all over TV. On Valentine’s Day, I won’t feel like it’s a holiday just for celebrating straight couples; this year, it will feel more like a day to celebrate all kinds of love. But for people who aren’t accepted and supported, this wave of media and political representation feels like baby steps toward equality. The world continues to tell LGBTQ people they don’t belong. The Trump administration has actively worked to roll back protections for transgender people—banning openly trans people from serving in the military, for instance. “Homosexual activity” is still illegal in 70 countries, according to Equaldex. Thirty-five states have no laws preventing conversion therapy. Just last week, two people attacked actor Jussie Smollett while “yelling out racial and homophobic slurs,” according to Chicago police. And that’s why the work that these artists, politicians, and activists do is so important. It’s especially clear on Valentine’s Day, which—whether you see it as a capitalist scheme, a day of romance, or an excuse to eat chocolate—is a day when love is incredibly visible. You can’t turn the corner without seeing advertisements for roses and dinner specials (okay, maybe it is a capitalist scheme). But, especially throughout the past few years, the picture of love in the United States has begun to change. Each time we’ve woken up on February 14, the idea of love that’s projected over the radio or broadcasted on TV looks a little bit different. This Valentine’s Day, we can be thankful for the artists and politicians who have bravely and boldly shared themselves with the world. We can celebrate the visibility that the LGBTQ community has gained in the past year. We can commit to doing more to spread this visibility—by being more open with our own identities, by using correct pronouns whenever possible, and by supporting organizations and representatives who are pushing for LGBTQ rights. And we can enjoy all of the amazing music that artists gave us in 20GAYTEEN. So this Valentine’s Day, blast your own Gaylist, scroll through Netflix, and think about all of the queer TV romances you can bingewatch that didn’t even exist last Valentine’s Day. And get excited about this year, because it’s #20BITEEN. NARRATIVE Managing Editor Celina Sun Section Editors Liza Edwards-Levin Jasmine Ngai Staff Writers Danielle Emerson Abbie Hui Naomi Kim Anneliese Mair Kahini Mehta
SOCIAL MEDIA Caleigh Aviv Camila Pavon HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Rémy Poisson BUSINESS LIAISON Saanya Jain
CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Jacob Lee Nina Yuchi COPY CHIEF Layout Designers Amanda Ngo Amy Choi Assistant Copy Editors Steve Ju Sonya Bui Nicole Fegan WEB MASTER Mohima Sattar Jeff Demanche
Want to be involved? Email: post@browndailyherald.com!
“I’m just trying to figure out purple as a color.” “I feel like I’m vaping, but it’s just cold.” Febryary 8, 2018 3
NARRATIVE
Subtle Asian Traits
Bubble Tea and Barnes & Noble By The Skeptical Romantic Illustrated by Stephanie Wu
Dating Misadventures The Funny, Bad, and Unfortunate
By post- sweethearts Illustrated by Gaby trevino I went on a couple of dates with this girl I met on Tinder. She was cool, but she was intense in every single way that I wasn't—like talk-about-hardcorepornography-over-breakfast intense. I have not been able to look at yogurt the same way since. Anyway, I figured we weren't really compatible. But when she got up to leave after one of our dates, she noted that it was raining and looked at me in that way that expects something more than a shrug. Being the spineless fool that I am, I offered her my umbrella. No more than 15 minutes after she left, she texted me that she could come by later that night to return it. I did not invite her over that night. In fact, I did not contact her about the umbrella for a solid month before Providence's rainy disposition got to me. But I was so terrified of directly asking for it back that I almost threw myself in what could have been an awkward hookup scenario just to retrieve it. Luckily my roommate talked some sense into me. I got my umbrella back, but not without one last attempt from her to see my dorm. I'm happy to say it didn't get that far. ~~ It was fine—I just wish he had told me it was a date beforehand. ~~ I was bored, and somewhat lonely, while back home in Minnesota, so I finally gave in and created a Tinder profile. I destroyed it after approximately three hours of flipping through at least 87 profiles of shirtless men on boats holding the fish they'd caught. Classic. ~~ I was in Florida with my friends, and we were staying in my friend's grandmother's condo in a 65+ development. We thought it would be interesting to see if people of that age go on Tinder, so I raised my age maximum. Suddenly there was a multitude of 70-yearold men popping up. When I left the room for a few minutes, I mistakenly left my phone with my friends, and I came back to find that "I" had matched with a 75-year-old man less than a mile away who had superliked my profile. ~~ My experience with Tinder involves briefly activating it during periods of emotional distress only to quickly grow disillusioned with the vast superficiality
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of the world. But I did once spend three weeks chatting with a person only for her to turn down a date with me because she’d started dating my younger brother while I wasn't paying attention. C'est la vie. ~~ We've been messaging for weeks despite the distance, you ask if I have Spring Break plans, I say I don't, you say I should come to New York, I do, I take a bus from Rhode Island just to meet you, you text me when I arrive, we eat dinner together, you show me your room, we hang out with your friends, I laugh at all your jokes, you ask me about my life, we're sharing, we're smiling, we have so much in common, and then you send me off as if it never crossed your mind that I could like you. ARE YOU THE DENSEST MAN ALIVE? ~~ My Tinder date waited for me at a local restaurant dressed in business casual, five minutes early, and with two BYOB beers uncapped. He was a senior prepping to work at Goldman Sachs next year; I (a freshman) was still wrapping my head around the difference between meal credits and points. He invited me back to his place after dinner, but I made an excuse and returned to my dorm to share comfort snacks with my girlfriends. "What was wrong with him?" they asked. He was definitely cute—he boasted a rigorous workout routine and even flexed at the dinner table—and was suave enough to brush snow off my jacket, but... "He was too much of a grown-up," I said. ~~ We were a pair of star-crossed lovers. He was departing to Australia in a week; I was only in town for the summer, perhaps never to return—a truly classic tale of one right swipe meeting another. Messages met with emojis; jokes met with laugh reacts. Soon, we had plans for a night of bar-hopping and club-dancing. A couple of drinks in, arms were around shoulders, cheeks were flushed, smiles were shy. A couple more drinks in, we ran into a few of his high-school friends at the club. The next few hours were full of dancing, advancing, uncertainty, missed signals, and inaction. By 4 a.m., it was time to call it a night. He had an early afternoon flight the next day, after all. When we left, arms were still around shoulders, cheeks were still flushed, and smiles were still shy. But his arms were around her shoulders, his cheeks were flushed for her, and it was her smiles that were shy. As it turns out, she was his high-school ex-girlfriend.
There’s always the slight concern before meeting someone you started talking to online that the person is secretly an axe murderer and you’re going to meet an unfortunate end very soon. This thought crossed my mind on the subway ride to meet said person in the city, but I had taken some precautions: I’d agreed to meet the guy in a public place, my friend knew where I was going and, most importantly, one of her high school friends was friends with him on Facebook, so I had some confirmation that he was not, in fact, an axe murderer. Although I would like to say that I don’t make a habit of meeting virtual strangers for bubble tea, lately I have thrown caution to the wind and met a handful of guys from Tinder for this exact purpose—possibly because I’m recently single and possibly because I’ve read too many books and am thus always on the lookout for my next meet-cute. I did not, however, meet this particular guy on Tinder. I first became aware of his existence last semester after my friend tagged me in a Subtle Asian Traits post about how boba actually means breasts, to which I commented something like “I hate the west coast” (a sentiment that stems from both the post and, possibly, lingering resentment over my ex. but eh). To my astonishment, this guy liked my comment, friend requested me, and then sent me a message that went something like, “I know this is a super random add, but I laughed when I read your comment. It’s something I would say hahahaha.” By this point, I was internally screaming, because like, this isn’t even the Subtle Asian Dating page?? But curiosity moved me to check out his profile. His picture was pretty standard—and, okay, his smile was cute. His wall seemed normal enough, and his message was at least somewhat self-aware. However, he hailed from Singapore and was going to school in Cali. My confusion increased. If this guy was trying to slide into DMs, he could have picked someone closer by. Also, my comment wasn’t even that funny. Perhaps against better judgement, I responded to his message, and we had a sporadic, surprisinglyexpansive-but-not-in-depth conversation about the Subtle Asian Traits meme page, music, our respective majors (he’s computer engineering—yikes, do I attract a type?—and I’m English), and our parents. Flashforward to winter break: I was scrolling through my Facebook feed when I saw that Subtle Asian Traits boy was visiting a friend in NYC. “Angry reacts only,” his post said. In a rare moment of city pride, I sadreacted instead. A few hours later, he messaged me and asked if I wanted to hang out in the city. Cue more internal screaming. But, because I’m trying to do this new throw-caution-to-the-wind thing, I hazarded a yes, and we arranged to get bubble tea in K-Town. My parents definitely think that meeting someone from online will end badly, so I scheduled the meetup for a day I was already going into the city for lunch with someone I had worked with during a previous internship. (Networking, wow. I can make good decisions too.) I told my parents that I was going to a nearby Barnes & Noble after the meal to read a graphic novel that I was very eager to finish but too cheap to buy—not technically a lie because I’d hoped to do so anyway after I’d hopefully survived this bubble tea experience—so I had the whole afternoon before me.
ARTS&CULTURE The Gong Cha where we agreed to meet was standing room only, with a capacity that maxed out after we entered. It was too warm and too crowded, and I could feel myself start to sweat as I tried to decide which of the many drink options I wanted, but conversation flowed surprisingly well as we waited for our orders. We talked about break and school, NYC and Singapore. He gallantly paid for my drink, and by then, I had decided that he was just a guy with slightly dubious social networking practices. Our small talk continued as we left the confines of the tea shop to walk aimlessly around the neighborhood. I learned that he’d only recently started college because he’d served two years of mandatory military service, and he was both concerned for as well as somewhat appalled by the freshmen. I supposedly impressed him by correctly guessing what his dad did as a hydrographer (#BrownClassof2020), and he made me laugh with the line “I left my axe at home, actually.” He had mentioned over Messenger in an earlier conversation that he enjoyed reading and was down to go to a bookstore—which may have (definitely) influenced my final decision to meet him. A boy who likes books? What a concept. So when he asked if we should head somewhere in particular, I divulged my initial plan of going to Barnes & Noble and reading my graphic novel. (The day was going well, but I had my priorities.) We ended up sitting in a corner on the second floor of the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, each reading our respective books. On our way there, we talked about our favorite genres and recent reads. He had picked up a lot of nonfiction lately (you can’t win ‘em all I guess) and preferred sci-fi over fantasy. “The only fantasy series I really liked was Lord of the Rings,” he said, which, of course, prompted me to give him my hot take that LOTR really isn’t that great— it’s even, dare I say, quite boring. “I laughed maybe once while reading the whole thing.” (I know the world building is extremely complex, but like, does anything interesting actually happen? Debatable.) The whole experience was surreal. We read for maybe an hour—the graphic novel was great by the way, 10/10 would recommend—and then we just started talking about random topics: food, family, summer plans. “I know this sounds fake,” he said, “but I’m going to my cousin Colin’s wedding this summer” in an accent exactly like Henry Golding’s from Crazy Rich Asians. My laughter was probably too loud considering our surroundings. If anyone had told my younger self that one day she’d be sitting on the floor of a bookstore laughing with a cute boy, she would’ve been downright giddy that her life was turning out like the stories she’d always read. Now, I’m a bit more realistic and a bit more skeptical. Though this experience may sound like an elaborate meet-cute, I didn’t and still don’t expect it to amount to much. We’ve returned to our respective coasts and may never see each other again. We message or snap only occasionally, and even then it’s mostly just exchanging memes. Rather than entertain swooping romantic notions, I’ve come away with the unexpected realization that some risks—granted, somewhat-well-thought-out ones that minimize the likelihood of axe murder—may result in bizarrely positive experiences. I don’t consider myself a very daring person, but I think I can count this day as a thrilling and memorable adventure: I got to meet someone from another corner of the world, learn about a different set of life experiences, and gain a new friend. Also, he claimed he would mail me one of his favorite books, and that’s definitely a plus, too. I’ll let you know if I ever get it.
Nothing Feels Good
Make '90s Emo Music a Quick Cure for Valentine's Day Loneliness By Griffin PLaag Illustrated by Ashley Hernandez
Oxford English Dictionary to understand what they’re singing about (sample 2014 emo lyric: “I searched for a way out, don’t we all? / An existentialist recall: turn in all dichotomies and truths”). What stalwart defenders of the genre and pretentious jerks like myself might call “real” emo grew out of the post-hardcore scene—bands whose innovations married instrumental complexity to punkish intensity. Likewise, early emo was more interested in depth of sound than it was with clever wordplay or straightforward radio-stable chord
It’s Valentine’s Day—that unique yearly moment
progressions. The introspective lyrics were there, of
when we gather together, buy each other cheap
course, and distinguished the genre. Some of you have
Hallmark cards (or maybe a heart-shaped box of those
probably heard “Never Meant” by American Football,
plastic-tasting Russell Stover chocolates), and declare
the most obvious single to bandy about as evidence of
our undying love for whomever we happen to be
the wistful beauty of early emo, and it’s hard to deny that
dating/hooking up with/crushing on at this particular
“I just think it’s best / because you can’t miss what you
run through the calendar. But, for a moment, let’s
forget / so let’s just pretend / everything and anything
forget that Valentine’s Day is an expertly conceived
/ between you and me / was never meant” hits like a
corporate racket designed to sell teddy bears and roses.
kick in the teeth. But often the lyrics weren’t the focus
Let’s pretend the date February 14 signifies anything
at all—bands were more interested in exploring topics
at all. And let’s remember (if you haven’t already been
like How To Make Our Guitars Sound Really Loud and
forced to by the numbing recognition that “we’re all
How To Do That Thing Where My Strat Sounds Like A
alone,” or however you’ve decided to justify this year’s
Streak Of Iridium Light Across A Darkening Violet Sky.
romantic malaise) that for a lot of people, Valentine’s
The other thing that people who once saw a picture
Day isn’t about cute-if-overpriced love grams—it’s the
of All Time Low and thought “ew” are missing about
reminder that they’ve failed to conform to an age-old
early emo is that it’s actually an incredibly multifaceted
(inexplicably privileged) social standard: that everyone
genre of music despite adhering to similar lyrical
should have a love life.
premises. The difference in sound between two genre-
It is for this dilemma—spending Valentine’s Day
defining classics, Sunny Day Real Estate’s Diary (1994)
alone—that I’d like to propose a musical solution: emo.
and Mineral’s EndSerenading (1998), is drastic—the
And no, I don’t mean that you should tune into your
former much hookier and post-hardcore-influenced
local alt radio station and try to catch “The Middle” and
and the latter more slowcore-adjacent and melancholy,
“I Write Sins Not Tragedies” as many times as possible.
with drawn-out vocal performances abound. And both
I’m talking about a deep dive: a well-researched foray
bands are distinctly opposed to the sweeter sounds of
into the weird and wonderful world of white guys
contemporaries like American Football and The Get
singing about how sad they are over twinkly waterfalls
Up Kids, who were more liable to, say, toss in a trumpet
of electric guitar and the occasional trumpet.
melody from time to time. Hell, talk about sonic
Emo gets a bad rap, and there are good reasons for
diversity—SDRE’s How It Feels to Be Something On has
that. I mean, it’s hard to name your band The World
got to be one of the weirdest albums I’ve ever heard,
Is a Beautiful Place and I Am No Longer Afraid to Die
combining their emo roots with eastern influences
without coming off like a bit of an asshole. And with
to create music evoking a six-week spiritual march
blink-182 dominating the genre’s radio representation,
through the desert into the mouth of a flaming sun (no,
despite blurring the line between emo and the oft-
that’s not gratuitous—it’s just true).
dreaded pop punk (as well as what words have “o”
The artists involved in this early scene were
sounds vs. “oi” sounds), it’s not hard to see why people
brimming with creativity and musicality. I’d hazard
today dismiss emo music wholesale: It appears kind
to guess that if 20 years ago you’d told the dudes from
of puerile and, well, morbidly embarrassing. But emo
The Promise Ring that their musical legacy was going
music wasn’t always humiliatingly prolix or produced
to be influencing Sleeping With Sirens, they’d have
by the same people who wrote “I Wanna F*** a Dog in
been pretty pissed off. And the kicker is that not all
the ss.” There’s an entire era of alternative music—what
emo is even sad! The Appleseed Cast’s Mare Vitalis,
we’ll call “emo proper”—from the late ’90s and very early
which I’m pretty sure means something approximating
’00s that has faded from popular memory. These bands
“sea of life,” features some of the most vital music I’ve
were created for and by lonely people everywhere, and
ever come across, rife with rollicking guitar riffs and
unlike their modern successors, you don’t need your
wistful references to the mysteries of the ocean. Buried
Febryary 8, 2018 7
ARTS&CULTURE beneath the loneliness of good emo is a kind of joie de vivre (for interested parties, there’s an early 2010s emo band that’s actually called Joie de Vivre—how apt!), an unquenchable vivacity that only the sorts of people who look at the sun setting on the cold hairline of the trees and think “I’m gonna write a song about this” could musically communicate. Is emo self-indulgent? Yep. Is it ultimately a genre dominated by a bunch of white dudes singing about mostly invented problems? Most definitely. But on a holiday that’s all about indulgence and is, by all accounts, concerned with mostly invented traditions, I’d recommend letting go and checking out music from any of the artists mentioned here, especially if you’re in need of an upper while your friends are out buying those chalky heart candies for their S.O.’s. Emo’s full of artistry and complexity, but it’s also all about catharsis—mostly romantic—the kind needed by the lonely hearts of the world. If you’re a solo Casanova tonight, don’t despair—sad white dudes from the ’90s have your back. And besides, this holiday is pretty students by eating a banana weirdly (his prefered damn stupid anyway.
The Least Romantic Date in Providence
La Poblanita, a Taco Restaurant in the Back of a Supermarket By Pia Mileaf-Patel illustrated by Owen Rival Photograph by Jasper Davies On the one hand, we in Generation Z are often thought of as activists—the outspoken salvation for millennials, who ruined the planet with avocado toast and Instagram “hog dogs or legs” photos. Yet our elders still pity us for our supposed ineptitude when it comes to relationships, platonic or otherwise; apparently, we’re too busy scrolling through Twitter to converse with one another. I recently partook in a survey about dating among Generation Z. One question gave me pause: “What is dating?” That’s a big question, one I’m still not sure how to answer. However, I can offer you places to go on a date, whatever you think a date is. Me, I’ve gone on some dates. Recently, I’ve been made a bagel sandwich by someone I was dating. I’ve had a platonic dinner with a friend to celebrate the end of finals. I’ve been asked several times on Tinder to go on a date at a dining hall. I’ve never followed through. Instead, I deleted my Tinder account. As one of my friends said, the Ratty is for sitting alone in a corner and freaking out other
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method is to peel the whole thing and then chomp a bite right out of the side; other times, he’ll split it into segments by shoving his finger into the core until it unfurls like some sort of flower. Fruit Satan). So it’s only natural that, given the chance to recommend restaurants for dating around Valentine’s Day, I would seek out the least romantic date in Rhode Island. I can offer a lot of suggestions— our state is lovably weird. Consider walking around an abandoned fairy-tale-themed amusement park in the cold. But despite my winding preambles, postambles, and general tangents, my role at this magazine is to write about dining, so I went on a date at a restaurant. La Poblanita, an inconspicuous taco stand in the back of a Mexican grocery shop and bakery, was as good as my date and I could do for “least romantic” while still eating great food. Also, my roommate loves and raves about this place; he generally provides fun and trustworthy eating recommendations, despite being encumbered by his hatred of all fish. In the back of La Poblanita, past a refrigerator of produce, a few aisles of dry goods, an entire, wonderful aisle of hot sauce, several stacked boxes of cowboy boots, and beside a meat counter displaying packages of chorizo and flank steak to marinate, there are three tables: a four-top and a couple of two-tops. Rounding out the room, there is a door with a bell that’s been marked in red Sharpie with a huge arrow and a big, orange photo menu on the wall with a tiny cartoon girl pointing at each of the dishes. She pops up in the border of every photo, suggesting each dish with a mischievous glance, and her shirt always blends into the background in a different way. Sometimes, she’s lost in the
dark orange color of the menu. In others, her shirt becomes the white of the plate, and once, the red of some refried beans as she smiles and points to a plate of carne asada. The restaurant features at least twenty of her cartoons, popping up in different sizes all over the menu poster. When we arrived, the four-top was fully occupied by a family; the little kids played computer games while their parents finished eating. After we sat down at one of the two-top tables, an older couple sat at the other, ordered immediately, and were finished in ten minutes. That was a date. There is a lot to consume at La Poblanita; a wall-sized drinks refrigerator contains every flavor of Jarritos and a handful of vintage or unusual sodas, along with all of the usual stuff. We drank kids bottles of Sunny D—which, if you forgot, come with blue nipple caps that you actually have to kind of suck on to get the drink out. The menu includes tacos, tortas (including a Torta Hawaiana, outfitted with pork chops, pineapples, pickles, and cheese, which, though we did not order it, I found… intriguing), taquitos, guacamole, green pozole, and almost as many types of meat as soda flavors to choose from. The eating area is tiny, smells amazing, and has a casual warmth to it. Most things we ate tasted amazing. Chorizo tacos topped with shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, crema, and crumbly cheese were piled with meat. The guacamole and the tamales were especially scrumptious. Spice in the guacamole came mostly from the crunchy bites of onion that made it uniquely delicious. The taquitos were mostly a vehicle for consuming as much salsa as possible, which squeezed out in red and green varieties from ketchup and mustard squirt bottles. Eating as much salsa as possible is never really a bad thing, especially at La Poblanita, though I suppose you should refrain from simply drinking it. The red one was hot, smoky, and complete with an afterthe-fact nose sting. The green was garlicky, herby— perfect to drench the chicken inside of the rolled up and fried tortilla. Since this is a Valentine’s Day publication, I suppose I must suggest you bring a date. But you can also go here on not a date, because the food will still be fantastic. I can highly recommend at least four things from the menu, and am willing to gamble that everything else is great as well. I want to go back. You could also go somewhere else on a date. Ask someone out: a friend-crush date, a real-crush date, a mom-and-daughter date, a two-dudes-broing-out-over-breakfast-sandwiches date. Or, take yourself on one—but maybe that misses the point.