In This Issue Outside the Calendar Squares Liza Kolbasov 5
Driver's License
Claire (Yoonsoo) Park 4
The More Loving One
adi thatai 2
Learning to Love Billie Eilish Dorrit Corwin 6
Living Fruitfully Marin Warshay 5
postCover by Elliana Reynolds
MAR 18
VOL 27 —
ISSUE 7
FEATURE
The More Loving One to the moon and back again By Adi Thatai Illustrated by Chloe Chen
The More Loving One By W. H. Auden Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am Of stars that do not give a damn
I cannot, now I see them, say I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. *** first fell in love with the cosmos on the dim shore of a Maine lake when I was 10. My older sister, Shreya, had poked me awake at 2 a.m. “Come outside. The stars are amazing.” The cabin my family and I were staying in stood behind us as we laid on the dock. A lazy July breeze
I
danced over my arms. Tall evergreens climbed into the sky around the lake and loons sang their muted calls in the distance. I wrapped my arms around myself, basking in the empty light of what felt like a billion stars. They glimmered like silver dust in the heavens. I couldn’t move from the solid earth below me; a strange weight had settled into my stomach, a feeling like I was leaning over the edge of a cliff, peering into the pulsing chaos of an infinite abyss. I felt wonder and reverence and fear and veneration as the scope of the universe crashed over me like a wave. I turned to my sister and said the only thing that could begin to describe the ecstasy churning inside of me: “I feel so… small.”
Letter from the Editor
Things We Could’ve Done in the Hour We Lost…
Dear Readers, I realized the other day that we have one month left in the spring semester...and I freaked out. It bewilders me how quickly time passes, and how little can change but so much can also change. In one month, I will be a grade older (senior, ack), some of my friends will leave to go home, I won’t be going to my daily Zoom classes, the weather will be actually pleasant, and things will continue to progress towards normality. Endings are bittersweet and thinking about endings even more so, a future nostalgia so to speak. This week in post-, our writers reflect on the passage of time, on growing up, on feelings. In Feature, the writer discusses his former passion for astrophysics and how he eventually fell out of love with the field. One writer in Narrative uses learning to drive to describe gaining freedom from protective parents, and another writes small vignettes of scenes from
quarantine that bring comfort. A&C features a thoughtful analysis on the perception of women’s bodies through Billie Eilish’s music, as well as one writer’s journey with drawing fruit to cope with a history of perfectionism. Lastly, Lifestyle’s writer gives suggestions for nighttime walks in Providence for you to do your own life pondering. This is the perfect time to reflect on the semester and the year, and to smile at the fond memories, the triumphs over the challenges, and to choose to prioritize joyful experiences for the precious time that remains. I’m not saying forget about finals, but also don’t let them control you. If there is anything that the pandemic has taught me, it’s that time is strange and not real. It’s what you make of it. Don’t overthink it.
2. Cram for that midterm you forgot was happening. 3. Spent the daylight instead of saving it. Screw wise financial decisions. 4. Have a nice sit-down tea party with sandwiches and pretty cups. 5. Not waste an extra hour trying to understand Daylight Savings. 6. Braid train with your hall. 7. Sleep. 8. Answer your emails (just kidding, can you imagine). 9. Live, laugh, love.
With good thoughts and questionable advice,
Caitlin McCartney Lifestyle Managing Editor
2 post–
1. Dorm room dance party!
10. Play “3AM (Pull Up)” by Charli XCX and MØ exactly 15 times.
FEATURE Shreya gave me a warm smile. “I know.” She turned around and went inside, leaving me alone under the pinpricked sky. An hour later, I reluctantly turned my back to the lake and headed in. The moment the stars were out of sight, the breathtaking feeling of smallness melted away in my stomach. Immediately after getting inside, I did the only thing I could think to do. I stole my parents’ computer from their bag, opened up YouTube, and found a crash course on astrophysics. Another hour later, and the reality that the Sun is 1,400,000 million kilometers across and 4,630,000,000 years old and just one of 100,000,000,000 stars in our galaxy and the Milky Way is 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilometers across and just one of 200,000,000,000 galaxies in the observable universe and the universe is 13,000,000,000 years old and 8.8×10^23 kilometers across and only getting bigger and the infinite stars I thought I was seeing were only about the 3000 visible to lucky observers shattered my entire understanding of the world. The same feeling of smallness, the awe at the ancient churning of an apathetic universe unconcerned with my existence, the weight deep in my stomach, returned. I loved it. *** In the following years, this feeling became a fixation for me. I found it where I could—watching Doctor Who with my mom, sitting back in the planetarium at the Museum of Science, or sneaking out onto the roof at night, waiting patiently for a shooting star to paint its silver arc across the sky. Without fail, I only ever found that feeling on the cosmic scale, in the nebulous reaches of the universe where light years are the new miles, and even our sun looks like a speck of dust in comparison to larger stars. My mom would chastise me, telling me I’d hurt my neck if I kept looking up for so long. I graduated from watching YouTube videos and NOVA shows to spending my Saturday afternoons in free physics courses at MIT. I marveled at the young grad students scratching on the blackboard, writing out wave functions and describing quantum systems like it was all intuitive. During the car ride back, I would babble to Shreya about whatever bizarre theory we had learned that day. “Neutron stars are these collapsed stars that used to be massive. They implode under their own gravity. Isn’t that crazy? They get tiny. Only 20 kilometers in diameter. That’s literally the size of a city. And then there is this specific type of neutron star that are called pulsars. The pulsars spin a thousand times per second and are so dense a teaspoon of it weighs a billion tons. Isn’t that just wild?” My sister nodded patiently along, smiling. Every time my imagination wandered to the universe, I felt the weight in my stomach grow. It became an obsession. I wanted to know it all. I
wanted to understand everything, pull on the threads of the universe until it unwound in my hands, its secrets revealing themselves in immutable equations and laws. I wanted to dedicate my life to the stars. Black holes, dark matter, and supernovae constantly floated around my mind. I began to religiously follow the SpaceX launch schedule with my dad and applauded the likes of Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos for funding the next generation of space travel. Once high school rolled around, weekend classes became college courses at local universities. Books by Stephen Hawking and Neil deGrasse Tyson piled high on my bedside table. I looked to college to begin my journey into a life of astrophysics research. The more I learned, the more my universe grew. The more my universe grew, the more I thought of myself on a cosmic scale. Under starry skies and in windowless lecture halls, I began to tremble at the inescapable insignificance of my existence. Constantly placing my short life amongst the colossal heavens, I began to feel like I didn’t matter. *** I let go of the stars on the dim shore of another Maine lake, not too far from where it all started. Shreya sat beside me, legs crossed, on the dock. She had poked me awake as she usually did. It didn’t happen all at once right then. I think it started a couple months earlier, during an English class on a particularly sunny spring afternoon, when my teacher read us The More Loving One by W. H. Auden to start off our poetry unit. For the rest of the day, the poem’s third stanza looped endlessly in my mind: Admirer as I think I am / Of stars that do not give a damn / I cannot, now I see them, say / I missed one terribly all day. On the dock with Shreya, I read the poem out loud. “I love it,” she responded. We sat in silence for some time, lost in the landscape of shimmering starlight and chirping crickets. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Doesn’t this all make you feel so small?” “Of course it does,” she replied. “But we’re nothing in the history of the universe. We’re barely a blip in time, much less space. We’re tiny little beings, dramatic and terrified, running around for our 70-ish years and pretending to do things, but none of it matters. Stars will keep forming and dying and things will keep happening in the billions of galaxies light years away and how can anything I do matter when everything out there is so vast?” She smiled knowingly before she spoke. “How can everything out there happening matter when you and I and everyone on Earth are so alive? I feel small when I look at the stars, but that doesn’t mean that we’re insignificant. You’re alive. What would the stars be if nobody was there to see them? We’re all stuck here on Earth. What you do might not
matter to the stars, but it matters to me. It matters to the people that love you. You should never believe that you’re insignificant—you’re not. You can make such an impact here on our small Earth, on the people and the space around you. Burning stars a billion light years away can’t do that. We’re the lucky ones.” I stayed quiet for a while, listening to the loons calling and the wind rustling the leaves. “I never thought about it like that.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The weight in my stomach melted. For the first time, I looked up at the starry sky and felt peace in smallness, felt power in my little life. Shreya said goodnight and gave me a hug before heading inside. I glanced up at the cosmos again and smiled. I turned around and went inside, mulling over the last verse of The More Loving One as I fell asleep. Were all stars to disappear or die / I should learn to look at an empty sky / And feel its total dark sublime, / Though this may take me a little time. *** These days, when I get lucky enough to find myself outside under a particularly starry sky, I no longer feel the same overwhelming insignificance that characterized my relationship with the cosmos when I was younger. I look at them in wonder and feel grateful I get to live life in such a beautiful universe, on such a beautiful planet with such beautiful people. I still marvel at humanity when I watch live streamed rocket launches or look at images taken from the Hubble telescope, but I stopped following things like SpaceX and Elon Musk. All the money used for space travel that could be used down on our Earth leaves a sour taste in my mouth. And I decided against concentrating in astrophysics. It took me a little time, but I started finding the feeling of awe in other, healthier places—in the unfathomable complexities of a chess game, in the bottomless kindness of my friends’ hearts, in the breathtaking majesty of a tall mountain, in the soul-stirring sentences of a good work of literature, and in the endless possibilities of a blank page. I realized that my obsession with the stars was never just about the stars, but rather about that inimitable feeling of wonder that comes from really paying attention to the beauty of human life and the universe around us. I realized, thanks to Shreya, that the distant stars and their unfathomable majesty don’t make our journey on Earth futile, but rather remind us of how much we do matter. Now, looking up at the stars, I remember how short our lives are and how small our planet really is, but I don’t feel hopeless or scared. Instead, I turn my gaze downward to the friends and family around me, and I feel a quiet power in how much we mean to each other. It never fails to make me smile.
“I cleaned this, I cleaned that. Cinderella is quaking.” *Points at Kraft Dinner* “This is cheese the same way that I’m happy.”
March 19. 2021 3
NARRATIVE
Driver's License protective parents and taking the wheel by Claire (Yoonsoo) Park Illustrated by Naya Lee Chang IG: nayaleechang.art When learning to drive a car for the first time, I practiced in a small, safe space designated for beginners. An instructor took me to a yellow car and demonstrated the basic maneuvers. I slid into the driver’s seat, nervous with anticipation, and started handling unfamiliar dark buttons and gadgets. I slowly got the hang of stepping on the gas pedal with just the right force, turning in different directions at a safe angle, and parking. The instructor sat beside me to prevent any dangerous mistakes. This learning environment reminded me of when I was younger and in school with fellow beginners in life—a place where we practiced exploring our identities in a mini-society, and we learned to develop our values under the guidance of parents and teachers. Once I was able to skillfully drive alone in the practice space, I was let out on the roads with drivers that were more adept and less forgiving than the ones in the safe spot. Another instructor sat by me while I learned to constantly adjust the wheel so as to straighten the car, to cooperate with others in my lane, to keep my eyes far ahead and my next moves in mind. Autonomy—being able to drive my own car, navigate and pursue my own paths—was the ultimate goal. Growing up, I was rarely in the driver’s seat. My instructor (read: my mother) was always “helping” me go exactly where I “should,” without failure. No parent is perfect, and although I am blessed to have received all the love and protection in the world, my mother’s love translated to a sometimes excessive protectiveness, and I did not have many opportunities to take the wheel and drive by myself. Influenced by Confucian beliefs, my mother took on a lot of the responsibility of raising me, even at times when the responsibility should have been my own. She enrolled me in academies outside of school so that I could be successful, without asking whether I felt that I needed it (I didn’t). She made my food and told me what and how to eat to keep myself healthy. All she wanted was for me to 4 post–
thrive in life, and I am thankful for that, but she forgot that being able to make my own decisions was essential to becoming a strong person. She always designated where I should go with clear signs and instructions, such as GET THE BEST GRADES and GET INTO A GOOD SCHOOL, and I followed those successfully. Because of my instructor’s rigid expectations and my own high standards, letting myself or others down became my biggest fear. I was not given many chances to fail and learn my own lessons. When I said I wanted to try driving on my own and going to places that fascinated me, my mother heard me but rarely listened. Even when I was in the driver’s seat, my mother held on to the wheel. Ironically, my mother’s protectiveness was detrimental to my safety. As I saw my friends drive on their own as they liked, I became jealous— although I did not notice at the time that their instructors were sometimes absent, indifferent, or cold. Since I was not allowed to practice driving my life on my own, I started to sneak out recklessly onto the roads with my friends, even though I did not know how to drive. I had sleepovers at my friends’ houses to go to parties I was not allowed to go to, borrowed clothes from friends that my mother would not let me wear, and stayed out until the sun came up. As we all know, driving without a license is dangerous. For me, though, it felt freeing. When my dad offered me some wine, my mom scornfully and quickly said, “No! She’s never had a drink in her life, how is she going to handle this? It’s absolutely unacceptable!” Little did she know, I was taking Smirnoff by the bottle on Saturday night “sleepovers” before going to church on Sunday morning. It broke my heart to lie to their faces, knowing how much love they had for me and the kind of person they thought I was. Still, I couldn’t be the person that my mother wanted me to be, and my desire to explore the world was stronger than anything—even my regret from lying and hiding a big part of myself. Our images of a happy life were very different: my mother’s perception of a good life was painfully dull and miserable to me, whereas my desired lifestyle was too dangerous in her eyes. She took over the driver’s seat so that I would not deviate from her idea of success. Trying to convince her otherwise rarely worked, and this was the biggest source of conflict between me and my mother. There have been many moments when I told her
through letters and conversation that I want to be more independent—that I want to practice driving my own car. She would always dismiss me with, “You will be independent when the time comes. Now is not the time.” But I was eager to start practicing and going out on the road, rather than just watching my instructor demonstrate how to drive. I wanted to make my own mistakes, experience my own failures, and learn my own lessons. Then at least I would be living my own life, handling my own car. When I enrolled in a college in the United States, a place my mom didn’t know much about, I started to navigate the world on my own. My mother began to let me drive, though reluctantly and never leaving my side. Now, I have the courage to pave my own paths. I’m ready to make my own decisions and take responsibility for them. I’d always followed one narrow, straight path, but now I see that, this whole time, there were many other directions I could go if I put my mind to it. Maybe the curvy road to the left, paved by lots of people before me? Or maybe the hill to the right, where the road is harsh and long but is filled with beautiful sights? Or perhaps this diagonal path? The choice was mine, so long as I took responsibility for it. I wanted to start reading more Korean books, so I registered for an ID at the library that I found near our new house in Seoul. I wanted to learn to dance properly, so I started taking classes regularly at a studio in the city. I wanted to learn how to cook, so I searched up recipes, bought my own ingredients, and built up my own go-to recipes. To reduce the burden of my college tuition, I applied for a myriad of scholarships and grants. I wanted to learn to drive, so I found an academy in Seoul and learned, step by step, until I finally got my driver’s license. These little decisions may not seem significant to others, but they’re all special to me. The world is more exciting when I take control and choose my own destinations. Yes, I do make mistakes. I failed my first driver’s license test within seconds, and I spent at least twice the amount of time training only to barely pass the test. On my first day at the dance studio, I enrolled in a class that was way too advanced for me, and now there is a video of me on the studio’s Youtube channel, struggling to keep up with the experienced dancers who moved with relative ease. For the first time in my life, I came home almost blacked out, so drunk I was unable to stand upright. I am yet to hear back from any of the scholarships I spent days and nights applying for. But I feel more alive, happier than when I would simply take directions from my mother. This energy drives me, as I know that I am doing my best and that my clumsy turns will eventually lead to smooth steering. I still have to say “I’ll do that myself” sometimes before my mom will let me. For her, I will always be her young and pure child, who needs to be protected from the rough world. But my mom, too, is starting to trust me at the wheel. I couldn’t believe it, the first time she asked me if I wanted some booze. When I showed her the piercing that I got spontaneously, though I was shaking internally, my mom only commented, “Why would you do that…?” and laughed it off. Now I feel my grip on the wheel becoming tighter and steadier. One thing I learned while driving is that you get better each time, and you start to enjoy exploring the different roads. I can only imagine all the different routes in the world that I will take from here on out.
NARRATIVE
Outside the Calendar Squares finding meaning in little moments by Liza Kolbasov Illustrated by Joanne Han Ever since I got to college, I’ve been making myself coffee every morning. Aside from the fact that I’m not a morning person and I need the caffeine to force my brain to take in the content of my 8:30 a.m. lecture, I’ve grown attached to the daily 10-minute ritual. There’s something grounding to it: waiting for the water to boil, measuring out the coffee grounds, watching the water spiral its way from the pour-over into my navy mug. A splash of cream, a little bit of sugar. Look, Liza, you’ve made something. Even on a busy day, this tradition always holds a moment of peace, a pocket of calm. Sometimes, the promise of coffee is the only thing that can get me out of bed. No matter what else I have to do or who I need to talk to on any given day, coffee comes first. It’s a daily gift I give to myself: something small just for me, sharing the fragile morning stillness with the chirping birds perched on the branches outside my window. *** The first time it snows, I rush outside, abandoning my readings for the flurries of bouncing snowflakes calling my name. I walk down the quicklywhitening streets with a sense of wonder, a child-like amazement at witnessing the world transform itself. The sky paints the rooftops with its expert hand, lines tree branches with icing, paves sidewalks that crunch like popcorn under my feet, and turns College Hill into a slippery obstacle course. Despite the thick clouds hiding the shy morning light, everything seems to brighten, as if lit up by winter’s smile. It feels like a pre-packaged miracle, a secret world I’ve been lucky enough to stumble upon. My footsteps leave marks along the street, but they’re filled in immediately. I draw a line with my finger along the sidewalk, then watch it fade away. When I try to snap some photos, my phone shuts down, unable to resist the cold. This is a world not meant to be captured. Later, I’ll text my friends from home, tell them how fascinating snow is, how it bounces through the air instead of falling straight down, how it feels cool and dry, how it doesn’t soak through your clothes the way rain does. “Are you jealous?” I’ll ask them. “You should be jealous.”
But for now, I’m left alone with the frosty air: winter breathing me in, painting me with its icy touch, lining my eyelashes with glittering snowflakes, laughing as it melts away my mascara. Like the branches and rooftops, I’m another figure in this snowy scene. *** Outside the OMAC, children are attacking each other with snowballs, engulfed in a full-on, ruthless war during their lunch break. I look on with concern as one kid falls over and just lies in the snow until, a few minutes later, she jumps back up and joins the fray again, unscathed by her recent downfall. As I walk down the block, I pack some of the snow together and throw it into a bush. I smile to myself, feeling five years old again. Further down the street, a kid, barely two feet tall, packaged from head to toe in puffy winter gear, builds a snowman. The creation is exactly his height, and it’s clearly taking a lot of concentration to assemble. As he attaches the finishing touch—a carrot nose (clearly, he’s come prepared)—his father lines the pair up to take a photo. The kid and the snowman look strangely alike, both round and wobbly on the snowy landscape, both looking well-pleased with themselves. The next day, when I walk past the yard, the child is nowhere to be found, but the mini snowman beams at me—a cheerful mark the child is already learning to leave on the world. “Us California kids missed out on a childhood,” I joke. I make a mental note to go build a snowman the next time I get the chance. *** On sunny afternoons, I join what seems like the entire school in piling onto the main green. It feels like we’re waking up from a long stretch of hibernation, emerging from our dorm rooms into spring’s welcoming arms. Studying there, lying on the cheerful green grass with wind-tossed trees shaking their branches overhead, people around me laughing and playing frisbee and spike ball, I feel like a college student for the first time. (Apparently, the heads I see floating in Zoom squares actually have bodies attached?) For a minute, I let myself get distracted from my work, people-watching and listening in on the snippets of conversation bubbling around me. I laugh at the fact that we look like an image out of a college admissions brochure, if those photos had been taken in the middle of a pandemic. *** I’ve fallen in love with the Providence River. It’s become my favorite weekend pastime to walk along its length—turning right from the bridge and tracing a footpath down by the water, over a fallen-down fence, through a park, and past abandoned docks
until I’m reluctantly convinced to turn back by the receding sun. Cup of coffee in hand, I watch the ducks paddle along and the reflections of buildings bob up and down. The river slices a sense of calm through the city, whether glittering with the late-afternoon almost-springtime sun or frozen over by the winter chill. This path is far enough away from campus that the people I run into, for the most part, aren’t students. I walk past an elderly couple holding hands, a child tossing rocks into the water, a man huddled in his sweatshirt, walking a dog that keeps slipping in the snow. It’s a good reminder that there’s a world beyond college—beyond classes and assignments and students and the pressure to pack a lifetime into four years. The people around me have their own lives, their own thoughts and dreams and worries, far different from my own at 19. And the river, flowing on day after day past these people and their bustling thoughts, has no concerns at all. *** The sun sets like a flaming orange plate rolling down the hill. I’ve always assumed West Coast sunsets must be prettier (doesn’t the sun set in the West?), but the first time I walk to Andrews for dinner, I’m confronted with a vibrant pink sky that tells me otherwise. I turn down the hill for a while, away from my destination, trying to catch the sun. It escapes me and my phone camera, rolls away behind the skyline, and leaves watercolor clouds to remind me of its brightness. All around me, people are going about their business—driving home from work, walking their dogs, getting their dinners— as I stand, frozen in my tracks, watching the stain left behind where the sun used to be. A few years ago, I started texting my friends’ group chat every time there was a pretty sunset. They probably found it vaguely annoying, but I wanted to share this simple beauty, a reminder of the magic of the world. This sunset, though, I kept to myself—a little scrapbook moment to keep filed away in the corner of my mind. No matter how stressed out I get or how many papers I have due, there will always be sunsets. Day after day, the sky will explode in bright pinks and oranges, waving a cheery goodbye before the soft cover of darkness lures the world to sleep.
Living Fruitfully when life imitates art by Marin Warshay Illustrated by Emma Noel I used to find the phrase “practice makes perfect” reassuring. It made me feel like I could accomplish anything as long as I spent all my energy on it, never relenting or losing focus. Simple, right? Of course everyone would want perfection. But it turns out that there are many reasons to revel in imperfection, and my newfound passion for drawing fruits and vegetables is one of them. Like many of my fellow classmates, I decided to take the fall semester off. Feeling like I was wandering aimlessly through life and becoming emotionally fatigued from so much self-reflection, my feet eventually led me to the basement of my house where all of our miscellaneous art supplies live. I needed to occupy myself. My eyes wandered over to the colored sharpies and durable blank paper. I mindlessly grabbed a few pens and the stack of white sheets and trailed back upstairs where I plopped myself down at the kitchen table. I doodled a bit until I simply didn’t March 19. 2021 5
ARTS&CULTURE control, and while this is a challenge for those like me who struggle with a need for perfection, it could quite possibly be the exact thing you need to feel happy. Because of my practice of art, appreciation for the beauty in nature’s imperfections, and love for myself and others, the world has become more beautiful.
Learning to Love Billie Eilish her body and mine by Dorrit Corwin Illustrated by Solveig Asplund TW: self-harm, depression, and body dysmorphia
want to anymore. Yes, I wrote that correctly. Until I simply didn’t want to anymore. Something so straightforward, yet so important. For the first time in a long time, while drawing, I listened to myself. This felt different from my notebooks and planners, which show symptoms of doodle addiction. It was no longer a way to stay awake in classes where I felt inadequate, or a coping mechanism for when I couldn’t bring myself to complete an assignment out of fear. The art I created was no longer full of ulterior motives. It was an outlet for my true feelings, ones that I had recently become able to identify and name. Since that moment at my kitchen table, I have kept drawing and added painting and pencil sketches to my repertoire. I now proudly consider art a hobby of mine. Not to be dramatic and pull the whole “my semester abroad changed me” thing, but my semester off DID. I have opened my eyes to my artistic ability and creative capacity because of what my time off taught me about self-compassion, self-love, and happiness. I now practice art for me, not to perfect the process for anyone else. I initially thought this was just another decision made for me by COVID-19, but I slowly realized that my body was the one that told me to take a break. Instead of the conventional conveyor belt of college, I took on another huge project—myself. It wasn’t until my perfectionistic tendencies brought me and my health to a breaking point that I realized they were an issue. People would compliment me on my organization and drive, but little did they know—my actions were less the result of my passion and values and more a necessity for a mistakeless life. A recent series of little colored-pencil fruits and vegetables is a testament to my newfound freedom from the binding perfectionism that used to suffocate me. A favorite of mine is the beet, the first of the series. What was meant to be a radish was seen as a beet by all my friends, even after the Instagram story that said “rad!”. And so I gladly accepted the compliments I received on my “beet” without correcting people. I now see the drawing as a beet, too. I didn’t overthink why it didn’t look how I intended, or get mad that I’m not “artistic,” or could never go to RISD. While these criticisms all sound comical now, they are actual thoughts that have pierced my mind at least once, if not many times, before. I love my beet/radish even more because it is a reminder of the authentic joy I felt when shading the sphericalshaped veggie with its beautiful magenta color (I swear radishes can be magenta too) and thinking about how much I appreciate nature and its beauty. Nature, while beautiful, isn’t perfect either. If I can value nature’s gifts, then why shouldn’t I find beauty in my imperfections and celebrate them as well? After the beet/radish fiasco, I’ve since drawn a clementine, a green bell pepper, and a lemon. 6 post–
There’s no profound reason for why I chose these particular pieces of produce other than what my heart felt at the time. My routine of intentionally doing something creative each day has begun to fade since the beginning of classes; I will admit that after being back at school for about two months now, I picked up the habit of doodling in class again. Not as a means of emotional avoidance, but because, well, online school is difficult. There were no due dates or rubrics when it came to my semester off, and it has been a considerable adjustment to get back into the repetitive routine of school, but this time I am tackling the semester differently than my first two. I am kinder to myself, more excited about the class material, and simply living more fruitfully! I am currently in the process of updating the syllabus to my life. A lot of it is still blank, and some assignments say “TBD” on them, but everyday, I make an active choice to see this as a good thing. There are so many opportunities that I have opened my eyes to, and even more that I am excited to discover. Every time I shade in a new art piece, adding depth to the paper, I think about the depth that every stroke of the pencil also adds to my life. Every risk I take by adding color to my designs challenges my need for order and perfection. Each time I flip through my sketchbook, I am reminded of how proud of myself I am for creating something out of sheer pleasure and pushing through one of the most challenging but valuable semesters I’ve experienced. I could sit here and ramble on about how my self-revelations and amazing soul-searching helped me uncover the true silver-lining in being forced to leave college after barely having a second semester of my first year. But I don’t believe that; I am here to talk about what quarantine-delusional me learned from nine months of relative isolation from the life I knew, or thought I knew. First, it was a matter of acknowledging that there was room for bettering myself, and that began with admitting that I was unhappy, confused, and simply not okay. Through deep emotional work, which is one of the most difficult things I have ever done, I learned how to take care of myself in the most basic ways. I learned that productivity does not equal self-worth. I learned that school is only a part of my life and not its entirety. And finally, I learned more about myself and how to be okay with what I found out. To this day, I still grapple with past struggles as well as new ones. I am still trying to uncover the new me, the me that was simply dormant. But most importantly, I have suspended judgement. My internal battles make me stronger. For those of you who are reading this and relate at all, creativity is not a set character trait. Be whoever you know you truly are and don’t be afraid of presenting yourself to the world. Change often happens outside of our
“I don’t get it,” I yelled into my sister’s ear through throngs of people and piercing screams. “Me neither,” she said, as the crowd suffocating us sang along to the instrumental theme song from The Office, the cue for the shadow of a 17-year-old girl in an oversized sweatsuit to float onstage. Jaded and weary, at the end of my second day at the Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival in 2018, I was unimpressed by Billie Eilish’s shtick. I was even less amused by it five months later, when she was an hour late to perform her set at Coachella. She appeared over the top while trying to be casual, self-aware in a superficial way that felt completely delusional, and I was just old enough to find it weird to idolize a girl a year younger than I am. But three years later, especially after an intimate glimpse into her rise to stardom from the new Apple TV+ documentary, Billie Eilish: The World’s a Little Blurry (2021), I have grown not only to enjoy Eilish’s music, but also to admire and respect her artistry and persona. Idiosyncratic, individual, and outspoken, the ease with which she brings topics such as mental health, body image, and family values to light both within and beyond her discography is admirable and sets a golden standard for Gen Z musicians to embrace and follow. “This is so weird you guys, I’m nobody. I don’t know why you like me,” Eilish says into the microphone to a crowd of people during one of the early scenes in her documentary. I remember her making a very similar remark the first time I saw her perform live. I was initially put-off by it; she was lamenting that she didn’t sound good. It came across like a 12year–old feigning humility at a talent show where they finally show their friends that they can do a headstand for the sake of getting more attention. Looking back, I don’t think I was at all cognizant of the fact that I am only eleven months older than Eilish; we could have been in the same high school class. She likely traveled 15 minutes to Dodger Stadium in her dad’s Mazda from their modest home in the Highland Park neighborhood of Los Angeles to perform at Tyler the Creator’s music festival that day. Despite touring in dozens of countries and headlining festivals across the globe, the bulk of the documentary takes place in the house where she grew up—where she drew on her bedroom walls as a child, recorded her first album with her music producer brother Finneas, and woke up to her mom telling her that she’d been nominated for six Grammys. A famous sweep at the awards show in 2020 plus four more at the 2021 Grammys last week, multiple platinum records, and almost 100 million Instagram followers later, her childhood playset still sits in the backyard, Finneas’s bedroom is still the duo’s preferred recording studio, and as Eilish puts it herself, “our family [is] just one big fucking song.”
The four of them have always been each other’s biggest supporters and best friends, as demonstrated through all of them living through an incredible rise to fame in that same little house together. Eilish even remarks somewhat facetiously at one point in the film, “I’m nominated for six Grammys and we’re still in this same little backyard.” Her mom then takes the opportunity to recognize how special that is. Eilish’s mother, Maggie Baird, wishes that every young artist had the ability to bring their family along with them on tour, because no matter how amazing your manager is, nothing compares to having your mom there by your side. In the documentary she speaks candidly about how right now is a really difficult time to be a teenager, and she’s proud of her daughter for encapsulating those emotions in her music. Baird strongly believes that sentiment to be what resonates most with Eilish’s fans; she says that people give teenagers a hard time for being privileged and “fake depressed,” but Eilish’s music has helped millions of teens realize that their emotions, no matter how dark, are real and valid. Eilish herself shares, “I didn’t think I’d make it to this age,” speaking openly about past experiences inflicting self-harm. She shows drawings from her journal of violent creatures and maniacal scenes that she dreamt up when her depression reached a crescendo several years ago. Ultimately, she didn’t set out to make bold statements in her music—only to write about what she feels—but she is glad that as a result, people are talking more openly about mental health. Eilish has also inadvertently helped normalize Tourette syndrome, by confirming in 2018 on Instagram that the involuntary physical tics she often has while performing are a result of her Tourette’s.
She has struggled with the disorder since she was a child, and while she didn’t plan on formally announcing it to the world, once she did she was able to make light of the situation and become closer with a lot of her fans. Eilish has a unique way of inhabiting both her own body and the world that surrounds it, especially as a performer. From her occasional full-body tics and aggressive bouncing around the stage (sometimes to the point of injury) to the signature oversized sweatsuits and silk pajama sets that she wears to perform, she is a vision. She is beautiful, but not in the typical way we as a society quantify beauty in female pop artists. Eilish is almost never seen in form-fitting or revealing clothing, and that isn’t because she is opposed to performers feeling good in what they wear. In fact—quite the opposite. In May 2020 she released a short film called NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY, which she produced herself. The four-minute video shows her unzipping a black hoodie to reveal her shoulder in a black bikini, while she narrates dialogue that questions bodily perception and being. She says, “We make assumptions about people, based on their size. We decide who they are. We decide what they’re worth. If I wear more, if I wear less… Who decides what that makes me? What that means?” Ultimately, she concludes that it is not her responsibility to manage or care much about other people’s opinions of her. She also shared with Rolling Stone in 2019 that in addition to her struggles with Tourette’s and depression, she has battled body dysmorphia, which began during her twelve years of competitive dance at a company in Los Angeles. She recalls being forced into a room lined with mirrors, full of pretty girls who were all friends, all of them wearing tiny clothes
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe
“College students and adults alike have much to learn from the enthusiasm of these kids, and we need not hide behind the excuse of being fully ‘past our prime.’” —Jasmine Ngai, “Lost and Found in Translation,” 3.13.20
“I can’t count the number of times during my childhood that I heard her say, ‘Nobody loves me.’ And I would cry back, ‘I love you.’ I would cry back, ‘I love you!’”
FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Andrew Lu Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Emma Schneider Section Editors Kyoko Leaman Maddy McGrath
that brought out every physical flaw. After suffering a major injury that forced her to quit dance, she traded in her suffocating tutus and sequined leotards for an androgynous style and didn’t look back. As a girl who grew up in the superficial fairyland that is Los Angeles at the exact same time Eilish did, I can identify with the excruciating imposter syndrome and internal toxicity that came along with living as a teenage girl in my body. Attending an all-girls school from seventh through twelfth grade full of over-achieving, under-nourished students meant constantly examining the width of my thighs where my pleated gray skirt fell. In this age of social media, it also meant searching for validation from my peers in the form of generic compliments on an Instagram photo that had three filters on it and been morphed on Facetune. By the time I discovered Eilish I had college on the horizon and felt comfortable in my skin, but I can imagine how powerful of a role model she must be to young women facing similar (and more serious) battles with their body image and selfconfidence. When I listen to Eilish I place her in a category of her own. Her songs seldom appear on any of my broader playlists, but sometimes I find myself in a very specific mood where I want to listen to her and no one else. I usually have to be not sad, but introspective; not lonely, but alone; and in the mood to sing along softly, but not belt. At her Camp Flog Gnaw performance, it was crazy to see people moshing to soft melodies like “Six Feet Under,” and “Bored” the same way they did an hour later for Brockhampton, but that’s the kind of dichotomous effect her music creates. She is a master of conveying extreme emotions through music; whether that emotion is sadness, anger, confidence, or even boredom, she makes her audience feel it with such force that you want to jump up and down. When I first heard about Eilish’s documentary, I was still skeptical. Having watched (and loved) music documentaries such as Amy (2015), The Last Waltz (1978), and The Bee Gees: How Can You Mend a Broken Heart (2020), my first thought was, “How can you fill a two-hour chunk of time that represents an artist’s entire career with someone who just turned 19?” I stand corrected—R.J. Cutler nails every nuance of Eilish’s being and leaves room for several sequels. Rolling Stone calls Eilish “semi-nihilist and joyously defiant”—in essence, modern adolescence personified. She grew up homeschooled with no real curriculum but passed her high school equivalency test at 15, proving that teenagehood is not synonymous with sweaty locker rooms and standardized tests; it’s a phenomenon intrinsic to our personas, and yes—our bodies. NARRATIVE Managing Editor Minako Ogita
COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan
Section Editor Siena Capone Christina Vasquez
Copy Editors Emily Cigarroa Samuel Nevins Eleanor Peters
LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney
SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe
Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang
Editors Kelsey Cooper Julia Gubner Kyra Haddad Jolie Rolnick Chloe Zhao
HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Joanne Han
—Emerson Tenney, “To Be in the Kitchen,” 3.16.18
WEB MASTER Amy Pu
CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen Layout Designers Lily Chahine Sharlene Deng STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Dorrit Corwin Eashan Das Danielle Emerson Jordan Hartzell Ellie Jurmann Nicole Kim Gus Kmetz Liza Kolbasov Elliana Reynolds Adi Thatai Victoria Yin
Want to be involved? Email: olivia_howe@brown.edu!
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