post- 09/27/19

In This Issue

Shadow Girl

KAHINA MEHTA 4

Football and Feelings Abroad

COLLEEN CRONIN 2 MOE SATTAR 4

Throwback to '09

NICOLE FEGAN 5

A Last Ripple of the Wave AJ DAVIS 6

The Necessary Death of the Superhero Genre

postCover by Gaby Treviño

SEPT 27

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VOL 24 —

ISSUE 3

FEATURE

Football and Feelings Abroad Voices of Brown from Granada

BY COLLEEN CRONIN ILLUSTRATED BY ELLA HARRIS

W

hile I sit more than 3,000 miles away from Brown’s football stadium, in Granada, Spain (where “football” means something very different than it does across the pond), I’m surprised to say I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the very American game.

It’s strange, but I think I really miss football, especially as the Brown-Harvard game approaches.

Football is big in my family—my great-grandfather played pro football for the Providence Steamrollers in the 1920s. Despite this, watching college and high school football has never really been my thing. Most fall weekends when I was at Brown, my dad would ask me if I was going to the game, only to be disappointed to hear I had an article or essay due or wanted to go to Newport. Why, then, if I had voluntarily missed so many games, do I feel I am missing out on the experience now?

When I was a sophomore with a fear of missing out on an “epic” tailgate, I decided to attend the Brown-Harvard game—the one and only collegiate sports game I have ever attended, if you don’t count my boyfriend’s intramural softball games.

I only stayed until the end of the first quarter.

My new white Adidas got muddy. I didn’t get any of the free food. On my way out (I was late for a cappella rehearsal), I ended up helping a drunk firstyear I didn’t know walk home after they had literally stumbled into me while exiting the stadium.

The game wasn’t what I had expected, but it was, oddly, something I enjoyed. I loved the weird camaraderie that came with wearing the same colors, cheering for the same people, and yelling “Grade Inflation” at Harvard—despite the fact that we have that at Brown, too. I would have liked to go to more games last fall, but the season and the semester flew by.

As the “big game” approaches this year, I again find myself feeling like I’m missing out on something.

Of all the things I'm missing back at Brown, an away football game that my team will probably lose (sorry Brown Bears, no hard feelings) seems like a very strange thing to single out. Of course, it’s not really the football I’m missing so much as the tradition and the jokes about not going. It’s the fear of missing out, knowing that this year my friends will probably go without me.

And it’s not just the football game. I miss Brown, Providence, and the United States in general. I miss burrito bowls and late-night talks with friends. I miss my parents and their weekend visits to eat out on Federal Hill. Although college football isn’t my jam, I do miss watching the Patriots and would love to just once find a tapas bar that plays a Sunday night Pat’s game.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Time has been moving slower lately. Schedules have settled, routines have developed, and the late nights have begun again. Settling into the semester can be rather comforting—peppered with moments of excitement. Club application season is over, meaning we’ve added lovely new additions to our little post- team!

A warm welcome to our new editorial members: Feature Section Editor, Erin Walden; Narrative Section Editor, Michelle Liu; Lifestyle Section Editor, Caitlin McCartney; and Copy Editor, Maddy McGrath. We also look forward to bonding with the new members of the other teams so essential to the post- process: Social Media Editor, Paola Solano, and Designers Joanne Han and Iris Xie. Of course,

how could we not mention the stars of the show, the creators of our content—all of our new writers and illustrators! We are so happy to have you and look forward to working with you this semester.

In this issue, we feature Brown traditions in the eyes of those newly studying abroad. We muse about how silly things can provide a sense of home and reflect on a writer’s journey with social anxiety in our Narrative section. Last but not least, we meet famous figures who have shaped our Arts & Culture writers this week on a personal level. As you flip through these pages and settle into your semester, we hope that reading post- will become part of your Friday routine too!

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Happy reading!

Anita

Editor-in-Chief 2 post–

People to Share a Coke With Professor Kuzner Any post- staffer Andy van Dam Nicole & Griffin Ms. PAC-MAN Blueno The personification of your existential crisis, cheers Andrew Yang That guy who comes once a semester to tell us we have sinned Your enemy’s laptop

It’s the small things that I miss most, and it was the fear of missing these moments that made me think, for one small moment before I flew across the ocean, “Why am I going? Why should I pause my comfortable life to go to a place I have never been, where most of the people speak a language I don’t understand?”

Lots of people go abroad—I’m not doing a oneperson program. So, I set out to ask other study-abroad students here in Granada how they were doing, what they were missing, and why this experience is worth the “missing.”

For some, study abroad programs are as quintessential to the college experience as football games, if not more so.

“I always knew that I wanted to study abroad,” said all the students in my program whom I spoke to, in some variation, when I interviewed them for this piece.

I'd answer the same. This is something I have always wanted to do.

“This was pretty much my only opportunity to come abroad,” Skylar Iosepovici ’22 told me as we walked through Granada’s busy and narrow streets after class. As a mid-year transfer student who will start her first semester on Brown’s campus next spring, her options for this fall were to stay at the school she transferred from, take a semester off, or do a Brown program abroad. She chose the last option.

Because she’s only spent time at Brown during a summer program and two quick visits, Iosepovici isn’t missing much from campus. But there are a lot of things she misses from home. Specifically her mom, she said, but her family in general, and, as a Bon Appetit fanatic, some of her favorite foods, especially sweet potatoes, which she has yet to come across in Spain. Still, she feels grateful for the opportunity to be here, to put herself out there in a way she may never get to do again.

Adam Stein ’21 is also in the Granada program, currently enrolled directly at the University of Granada. He, too, has always known that going abroad was a part of his plan, and is even considering another abroad program next spring.

“I came in to Brown as an IR concentrator, so having an international focus to my education has always been a priority to me, and studying abroad was definitely a natural part of that,” he said.

Stein’s prior travel experiences have made life here in Spain easier for him. He’s spent summers in Spanish-speaking countries before, but he’s still facing difficulties adjusting to a new place.

“I feel like I have seen so many of the same people for such a long time, it’s weird not being there when things are happening and there’s always kinda that feeling of being out of the loop,” he told me.

Academically, things are different here, too.

The University of Granada (UGR) is a large public institution (like most of Spain’s prestigious schools).

It’s an old school (founded in 1531 by Holy Roman Emperor Charles V) and a big school, with over 47,000 undergraduates. Brown, in comparison, has 7,000 undergraduates, and, while old for an American school, was founded more than 200 years later.

“I’m realizing a lot of things at Brown I took for granted academically: how easy it was to register for classes and to figure out what I could use as concentration credit,” Stein said. “Whereas here, it’s a free-for-all.”

Other students studying directly at the University (something I had neither the guts nor the skills to do, as I have only taken two semesters of Spanish at Brown, and UGR studies are notoriously difficult) agreed that Brown is easier to navigate academically, especially because shopping period doesn’t exist here.

Where Granada has a one-up on College Hill is the actual hill part. Sitting at the base of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the city is etched partially into the mountainside.“The hill here is much longer and much more painful,” said Rachel Souza ’21. I fully agree. If I don’t return to campus with great calves, I’ll be shocked.

Natalie Fredman ’21 lives in the same building as Souza, and farther away from the University buildings where she goes to class. UGR, much more so than Brown, is spread throughout the city, with buildings nestled in every corner and on almost every hilltop.

language because it’s a bit off the beaten path. Smaller than Spain’s largest cities, Madrid and Barcelona, and even smaller than Andalucia’s biggest city (Seville), Granada feels different from the rest of the country. “I choose Granada over Barcelona because I wanted to be in an immersive environment in which people would mostly speak to me in Spanish,” Souza said, explaining that in other, larger cities, if someone assumes you are American, they will speak to you in English.

Beyond the general motivation to try something new or learn a new language, I still wonder if it is the small things that will most impact our lives here. A new favorite flavor of gelado (strawberry), the street art brightening my walk to school, and the view from the top of the Albaicin are some of the small joys I have experienced since I got here. These memories are what I want to bring back home with me in December, to share with the people I love.

Maybe I will enjoy the “football” (i.e. soccer) games here, maybe I’ll accumulate stories of them to look back on and carry with me. Granada’s professional team was just promoted to the premier league, after

Of course, it’s not really the football I’m missing so much as the tradition and the jokes about not going. It’s the fear of missing out, knowing that this year my friends will probably go without me.

“What I miss about Brown is just being close to the people I care about, my classes, my clubs, and activities. It was really easy to meet up with friends, impromptu. Even though I complained about living in Perkins, it isn’t that far at all,” Fredman told me.

Current sophomores, take note.

Despite the spread out campus (and who are we kidding, with all the tapas we’re eating, we could all probably use the exercise) and the academic differences, Spain and UGR offer an amazing study abroad experience.

Spain is the most popular study destination for other European students studying “abroad” in other parts of the continent, as part of a program called Eramus. It was also the most popular study abroad destination for Brown students in 2017, tied with the United Kingdom.

The University of Granada, specifically, is well respected, drawing students from around Andalucia. It is home to a medical school, law school, and the Center for Modern Languages, where I am taking classes this semester. Granada’s program was the only one that I could qualify for in a Spanish-speaking country, given my limited Spanish knowledge.

Part of my “why”—and the reason many other students choose Spain, and Granada specifically—is the language itself. As someone pursuing journalism, learning to communicate clearly with many different people is vitally important to me. More generally, after four years of studying Latin in high school, I've learned that I like studying languages for their own sake. I just like how languages work.

Granada is a particularly good place to learn a

all. Earlier this month, they beat Barcelona (one of the best teams in the world) in an upset that is still featured on the news. I haven’t gone to any games yet, but I am planning on attending a few times before the semester is over. Around this time next year, I could be missing Spanish “football” games the way I’m missing the Brown-Harvard game today.

Chris Wiggins ’21, a friend of mine since our first year, also felt that studying abroad was always in the cards for him. “As it got closer to junior year, I thought a semester away from campus would be really nice.

Something a little less stressful, and [I could] have a little more fun,” he explained.

As for what he misses most about Brown: “The single table that I sit at, at the Ratty, every time I go. It’s at the back corner of the Ratty, near the panini maker, and it has an outlet behind it, and it’s where I’m the most productive out of anywhere else on campus,” he reflects, adding that he misses his friends, “very casual hangouts,” and Bajas...in that order.

Wiggins admits, however, that he doesn’t miss the stress of campus. Brown is a great place, but it also makes him feel like he’s never doing enough, stuck in a perpetual “rat race.” And the weather—well, the Providence weather isn’t great.

Sitting across the table from him over a drink and a large plate of churros, I asked what he liked most about Spain so far.

“Am I allowed to say the cheap alcoholic beverages and tapas?” he asked as he dipped a churro in chocolate and the sun set behind the plaza.

It really is the small things. I think I’m okay with missing the game now.

“Moral of the story is that I can't drink and wear clogs.

That's a no-no.”

“The career fair is misleading. … They don’t give you a career, and I don’t think that’s fair.”

september 27, 2019 3

NARRATIVE

Shadow Girl

A Tryst with Social Anxiety

BY KAHINI MEHTA ILLUSTRATED BY BRENDA RODRIGUEZ

content warning: Anxiety

Before I left for college, my mother told me, “Be careful of the company you keep,” and she couldn’t have been more prescient. Of course, I didn't take heed of her statement; I became far too comfortable with the company of my own shadow, which quickly became my closest confidante. I wouldn’t go anywhere without the shadow-girl’s permission—so when she dragged me down to the depths of hell, I didn’t question it.

It turned out that hell was a place inside my head. The first time I found myself there was during freshman year. That was when I first understood how Tantalus felt: I was surrounded by people laughing, talking, becoming fast friends...but the fruit of friendship seemed unbearably out of my reach. Still, I nourished myself with the irony that rolled off my tongue when anyone asked me what my major was.

“Psychology,” I said. At its essence, the study of the mind, the study of people. It was a natural decision given that I’d spent most of my life doing just that. Studying others’ reactions to everything I said and did—even how loudly I breathed. It had been a while since I’d noticed that every little action had a hidden meaning. If someone sighed too loudly while I was speaking, that meant they wished I would shut up. Prolonged eye contact meant someone wanted to approach me (so I’d have to immediately exit the room), and God forbid anyone ever rolled their eyes at me because that was basically an invitation to war.

At the time, I felt so alone that I was almost grateful for the shadow-girl. When I walked, I looked at the ground to avoid making eye contact with anyone; shadow-girl was the only company I needed, I told myself. If I did accidentally meet someone’s eyes, I wouldn’t know how to react. So I stuffed my earphones in, harshly enough that their vibrations might have penetrated my skull and counterbalanced my brain, which shook anxiously, on an axis of its own. I played music only at maximum volume, listening solely to songs with words like “gray” and “black” and “hole” in them. They described everything going on in my head and chest.

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And when I spoke—convinced that my accent would immediately make me an outcast—mostly monosyllables came out. And when my laconic speech paired with my accent and mumbling went unheard, I’d give up. All my life, I’d been the type of girl who was too afraid to go after what she wanted, and it looked as though college would be no different. I’d fallen in love with a monster called Hesitation, and he had whisked me away from the rest of the world so that I could be his until the end of eternity.

Most days, I’d just stay home, lying in my bed for hours at a time with the shadow-girl serving as my only company. I can still remember the number of ceiling tiles in EmWool 314. When my best friend came to visit, she tried to conceal them with motivational posters that read “Keep Calm” and “You got this!”

At first, those words did nothing but infuriate me.

But eventually, I started believing them. It took weeks, maybe even months.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when, but somewhere along the line, things had gotten so bad that I let the shadow-girl consume me whole. Then something shifted, and when she spat me back out, it was for the better.

I won’t say I understand much of how this happened, because I don’t. But what I do know is this: I have friends now—the type who live outside of my head and don’t care if I occasionally say something stupid. I have a roommate who laughs at all my jokes, and I think it’s safe to say that’s the truest form of friendship there is.

I still study psychology, but now with the intention of helping adolescents struggling with mood disorders. Or teenagers struggling with social anxiety who haven’t figured out how to be happy yet.

I walk with my head held high, and when I blast my music—those same songs about gray and black and holes—it’s only because their rhythm lines up with the newfound bounce in my step.

And I love my accent now. It sounds like home, the place that shaped me into the person I am today.

I’m still not the most loquacious person around, but when I have something to say, I let it free. All the unspoken thoughts and words in my head have finally been set afloat, a hundred million little messages in glass bottles, bobbing patiently in the oceans of my mind, just waiting to be revealed.

Occasionally, I’ll glance down at my shadow with a smile of reminiscence. She stretches far behind me, and miles ahead of me. Sometimes she’s taller than I am, longer and more slender. Once upon a time, that used to bother me. Now I know that there’s no point in being jealous of somebody who’s always been a part of me. Perfection is a fickle mistress. But now that I no longer lust fruitlessly after her, satisfaction is so much easier to achieve.

Most importantly, though, I’m not afraid to look anyone in the eye anymore. Especially not my own reflection, who stares back at me with understanding and the offer of unconditional friendship in her eyes.

Throwback to '09 Conversations That Built My New Home

BY MOE SATTAR ILLUSTRATED BY IRIS XIE

When you first get to college, you’re flooded with a deluge of new conversations. You meet new people everywhere, and you’re just trying to figure out how to exist in this new environment: to find a place to belong and people to belong with. By now, I’ve had my fair share of “No way, you’re from New York too?!” conversations; so many, in fact, that the “No way” no longer makes sense (point being, there are a lot of us, and we all take immense pride in being New Yorkers).

Still, I find a very particular delight in discovering seemingly insignificant, highly random (yet very specific) details in common with another person. At Brown, I’ve met people from across the country, across the world…people of innumerable backgrounds and histories with various perspectives, but the one point that links most of us, dare I say, is that we were kind of weirdos when we were kids.

I was reminded of just how strange I was during a random conversation I had with a friend freshman year.

We were reminiscing about old childhood cartoons when she uttered: “Do you remember Silly Bandz?”

At first, the term didn’t even register.

Silly Bandz?

Then, a deep, deep memory began to emerge...of a pink rubber bracelet in the shape of a giraffe.

Silly Bandz: 2009 AOTY (Accessory of the Year)— various colored animal- and what-have-you-shaped rubber bracelets that lined the wrists of every fourth and fifth grader I knew.

I felt as though I were sucked through a time portal, suddenly nine years old again. I found myself at Table 4, sitting next to Albert. He was my math partner on most days but also the Don of the fourth grade’s underground Silly Bandz trade.

Albert’s hair was always gelled back (and I truly cannot express how much gel was actually on this kid’s head). If any 10-year-old could pass for a Mafia boss, it would be him. He looked as though he could be walking around with a cigar hanging off his bottom lip, a fedora tipped on his head to veil what would have been the scar (accompanied by a tragic backstory, of course) above his right eyebrow. Crossing him would come at the risk of waking up to a horse’s head in your bed the next morning. If there were a Five Families of the Silly Bandz industry, I’d like to think that he’d be the head of one.

Popularity, politics—Albert was the puppeteer. At one point, there was a rumor going around about getting bad luck if you touched a broken Silly Band. However, if you obtained a glow-in-the-dark Silly Band, your curse would be instantly reversed. I later found out that it was he who started this elaborate, nonsensical rumor—just for shits and giggles. He did it because he could, and

ARTS & CULTURE

people bought into it completely. I wholeheartedly believe that this little icon was single-handedly responsible for making Silly Bandz a currency at my school. He somehow established which Bandz were worth more and which less. We weren’t allowed to make actual cash transactions in class, so instead, we traded Silly Bandz for the stuff we wanted—namely, more Silly Bandz. They became a symbol of power, and those with Bandz up their arms became the “cool kids.”

Emerging from this time portal, I gasped, exclaiming, “Oh my GOD, that was SUCH a thing! You had that too?” I didn’t know what words to use in that moment; I was absolutely flabbergasted. I had always regarded Silly Bandz as something very specific to my elementary school, a reference that no one in my college life would understand. But, somehow, my freshman friend got it—she understood the charge behind those typically meaningless words.

The fact that she, someone from the opposite coast, shared such a specific memory of an item so deeply buried in my past astounded me. It’s even more stunning that this kind of reach existed at a time without the help of Instagram virality; somehow, we kids (call us Albert & Associates) managed to make something as strange as Silly Bandz—which some may argue resemble glorified hair ties you couldn’t actually use—culturally significant to a specific generation. Never in my lifetime have I seen a trend so intense, a phenomenon that so completely embodied a fad. Yet, funnily enough, I had completely forgotten about this era for years.

Connections like this—links between random objects, memories, and the feelings they evoke—put into perspective how small the world can be sometimes; they go beyond just sharing the same distant acquaintance or being from a similar area and never running into each other. While more everyday commonalities do help create camaraderie and stronger ties, sometimes uncovering silly, unexpected common ground can also give rise to unparalleled feeling of connection.

College is where we first get a chance to independently furnish our little worlds, to develop and construct a home that extends beyond a house and a neighborhood. There are some furnishings on the foundational end of the spectrum that most people typically have—akin to having a sink or a toilet in an actual house. And then there are the things that you stumble upon while walking past an antique shop— the seemingly asinine conversations you may have about Silly Bandz that make you laugh and shock you to your very core when you find out they’re shared.

These are the things that make your home more than a stock photo from a real estate website, that make it profoundly yours.

A Last Ripple of the Wave Caught in the Pull of Virginia Woolf

BY NICOLE FEGAN ILLUSTRATED BY HANNA RASHIDI

“The sun has not yet risen.”

High school has just ended. Hoping to fill my final summer before college with some kind of intellectual stimulation, I find myself on a Google hunt for “most poetic novels.” There’s not much to do on Long Island, you see, so my “fun time” for the past four years has been mostly confined to reading books. I settle on Inferno by Eileen Myles (which still sits on my bookshelf at home, only partially read) and The Waves by Virginia Woolf. What they don’t tell you about Virginia Woolf when you’re eighteen and you think you’re some kind of prodigal hot shot is that her books are difficult, and The Waves may just be her most mystifying book of all. I set out on my journey, Barnes & Noble behind me as I merge onto the Meadowbrook Parkway.

I spend this summer frustrated, working at a day camp where my superiors undervalue me and a co-worker wastes twelve futile weeks attempting to court me. Worse than anything else, it’s Virginia Woolf who disheartens me. Wholly baffled by what to make of her elegiac and elusive style, I find myself thrust into the impenetrable worlds of narrators Bernard, Jinny, Neville, Rhoda, Susan, and Louis, who begin the novel as children and grow older as it progresses.

Reading has lost its calming power; every time I invite The Waves into my evenings, I’m tasked with solving a thousand-piece puzzle without knowing what the final image is supposed to look like. I only read about five pages per week, but in spite of this, the meditative way Woolf captures the world begins to seep into my daily thoughts. I catch myself wondering in the quiet moments of the day how Woolf would novelize my

daily drive to work with my best friend, the sunsets over Jones Beach, and the quiet ways I will miss this place when I’m gone.

“The sun rose higher.”

I devote the month of January to finishing The Waves, reading it on the Amtrak ride back to my hometown, in the soft blue light of my bedroom, and from the comfort of my best friend’s couch while we watch Chopped. When Bernard exhales his final breath at the end of the novel, I sigh of relief, excited to pick up a new book for class and finally set Virginia to rest.

I had followed the beats of the novel but could not get the atmosphere to cohere—the puzzle pieces never came together. Percival dies halfway through, Neville is heartbroken, Bernard is engaged to be married, Jinny is a socialite, Susan is a mother, Rhoda is depressed and eventually commits suicide, Louis is Australian, and I am left with nothing but vague impressions of the whole thing. I award it a three on the book-ranking site Goodreads and wash my hands of it. My memories of the rest of winter break are fuzzy; I celebrate New Year’s Eve at a friend’s house and fall asleep dreaming of Providence.

“The sun had risen to its full height...The waves fell; withdrew and fell again...”

The second summer I pick up The Waves, I have two years of college under my belt, I have read and enjoyed the slightly more accessible To the Lighthouse, and I have spent much of my time wondering why this book I disliked has still not left my mind. Two years before, the six characters had not felt quite real to me; finding myself trying to piece together the plot and failing, I had not left any room to enjoy the elegance of Woolf’s words or the purity of the emotions displayed through the characters. Now, knowing the basics of the plot, I can simply enjoy the process of putting the picture together, and I begin to see myself on every page. Neville’s ruminations about the hope of lasting love sing to me in my boyfriend’s eyes, Rhoda’s inward anxieties become mine as I navigate Brown’s social web, and Bernard’s story-telling aspirations feel, for the first time ever, tangible. Freshman year, Woolf had invited me to discover the beauty in the banalities of my own life, and I had ignored her. I would not make the same mistake again.

This summer, I am back in New York, back in the world I have known my whole life, but the air feels different. I tiptoe around my house, suffocated by the alarm system that goes off every time I open a door or a window. I take the train into the city every morning and slowly fall asleep to the rumble of the tracks. On lunch breaks I sink into a Diet Coke and The Waves, finally understanding Woolf’s words of love and loss. I weep for Percival. I call Rhoda back to life in my mind.

As I read the final section, I want Bernard’s soliloquy to continue forever. The Waves feels more like home than falling asleep in my childhood twin mattress every night, yearning for the northern city where I learned to love the small things.

“Now the sun had sunk. Sky and sea were indistinguishable.”

When I picture myself graduating in May, I see myself in cap and gown, The Waves tucked under my arm. Perhaps it is my penchant for tradition, but after I graduate I want to spend the summer revisiting the characters I now carry with me as friends. With luck, this will be the first summer I experience Percival’s death from somewhere other than Long Island; I have outgrown its shorelines and different highways call my name these days. Woolf will have to follow me wherever the wind takes me. Until then, in Virginia’s words, I will “abolish the ticking of time’s clock with one blow” as I fall in love again and again with the Providence skyline.

“The waves broke on the shore.” september 27, 2019 5

ARTS&CULTURE

The Necessary Death of the Superhero Genre A Fan's Perspective

BY AJ DAVIS ILLUSTRATED BY AYA ALGHANMEH

Joker is coming out next weekend. Aren’t you excited to see the Clown Prince of Crime’s origin story as directed by the guy who made the The Hangover movies? I am. Not because of the praise, the acting, or what I’ve heard about the story. No—when I go into that theater on October 3, only one question will matter: Is this the bullet in the head that will finally put superhero movies out of their misery? Or will the genre go to new and substantial places? I’m hoping for the latter. *** I’m in my elementary school library, flipping through the glossy, laminated pages of a comic book: Specifically, the fourth volume in Garth Ennis’s historic Punisher MAX series Up is Down as Black is White.

My eight-year-old legs kick around excitedly, missing the ground as a grin spreads across my face. Suddenly, I feel a tap on my left shoulder. Turning around, I’m faced with our librarian, the towering Ms. Tucker. She peels off her glasses and peers at my reading material. I try to play it cool, but the open page happens to show some nudity. Okay, a lot of nudity. Alas, I’m not yet the smooth operator I’ll become in my teens, and I’m sent home for two days. As I lie grounded in my bedroom, my parents rummage through my literature for more abhorrent material, but it’s too late. I already love comics. I already love superheroes.

Little did anyone suspect, these stories of heroism would help me grow into the person I am today. They were my own, personal mythologies; I took the tall tales and applied them to real life. Today, I’m a film student, which means I should hate mainstream cinema, love A24 indie movies sight unseen, and analyze the Marvel Cinematic Universe for its political centrism if I have to engage with it at all. But I can’t

help myself. Being a nerd is simply in my blood. When the projector turns on and shows someone donning a cape, cowl, or uniform, I’m not AJ Davis, a 22 year old senior. I am eight years old, hoping to find community with cheering strangers.

Even so, as a true comic book nerd, I’ve always been a ruthless critic of their silver-screen adaptations.

Michael Keaton was too stiff to be my Batman. Tobey Maguire was too old to be my Spider-Man. Heck, growing up, many of my favorite characters simply didn’t make it to the screen at all. Everything changed with director Christopher Nolan and The Dark Knight trilogy. Finally, someone nailed Batman. Finally, someone understood his madness, his addiction to violence, and that the PTSD brought on by his parents’ death is foundational to these qualities. Put simply, Nolan knew that Bruce Wayne was the mask that Batman wore, not the other way around. Batman Begins was the first superhero movie that dealt with themes I could apply to my own life: overcoming fear, understanding legacy, and embracing responsibility.

I’m not AJ Davis, a 22 year old senior. I am eight years old, hoping to find community with cheering strangers.

Three years later saw the arrival of an opposite force: the Marvel Cinematic Universe. People forget that Iron Man was a true sleeper hit; based on a little known character, it starred one of Hollywood's most infamous junkies and was directed by the guy who made Elf. Much to everyone’s surprise, it turned out to be a solid movie that had a lot to say about personal redemption, greed, and accountability, while also managing to be quite funny. That said, its storytelling pushed no boundaries, challenged no expectations. It was the beginning of a marketing machine that used the superhero genre to appeal to an audience wider than comic book nerds. But it came at a time in my life when I could have fun without thinking, when I was as innocent and giddy as the masses these films were made for. I didn’t recognize the significance of the shift.

That summer also brought the undisputed climax of cinematic superhero storytelling: Nolan’s second Batman film, The Dark Knight. Upon release, talk of the film’s grit and violence was so widespread that my parents initially forbade me from seeing it. Following much protest, I went on my laptop and torrented a shaky bootleg. After two and a half hours under my covers, I knew nothing would be the same again. But I didn’t know it was the beginning of the end. Yes, for all the good The Dark Knight did, it also set some pretty terrible standards. After, in order to gross a billion, everything had to be DARK, MANLY, SERIOUS. Heroes were no longer required to, y’know, be heroes.

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Gone were the days of my mythology, of heroes representing ideals applicable to the real world, and Batman wasn’t the only one. The X-Men didn’t really showcase racial and immigration politics on screen anymore. Spiderman was more emo than nerd. My high school years were defined by that same sort of emptiness, as I fell into a mindless spiral of drugs and alcohol. Their lack of meaning seemed to engulf my home, friends, and movies. Netflix boomed, theaters got better chairs to entice people to show up, and my childhood idols became as vapid and numb as I had.

I remember getting drunk to watch Avengers: Age of Ultron by myself in a packed theater. The crowd around me laughed, but I didn’t get it. In many ways, I still don’t. What was loved by everyone else seemed to me like hollow captures of the stories I’d read on the page.

The machine was in full effect, and it might have been the drugs, but I was tired.

Then something happened. I got clean and my perspective changed. A year later, a shift in the superhero genre was released: the Oscar-Nominated

Logan. With sober eyes, I gazed at a film that represented my struggle and satisfied my desire for mature storytelling. This was a movie that used its small scale to zone in on big issues—alcoholism, suicidal ideation, immigration politics, and so much more. It had something to say about violence, questioning our need to escape through superheroes instead of seeing the death their actions promote. It directly confronted the genre. I sat stunned, weaping throughout the movie.

When it was over, I turned to a friend and told him, “I can die happy now.” As I sat in that theater my eightyear-old and present-day selves merged. He could enjoy a faithful adaptation and I could appreciate the political and personal messaging. In an ideal world, Logan would have concluded the superhero genre in a perfect way.

It took comic-book ideas and characters but brought them down to our world. But despite the impact of what I consider to be James Mangold’s masterpiece, nothing really changed over the last two and a half years. Over twenty films were released, and none of them meant anything. There is seemingly no end in sight.

Now, we have Joker. A $50 million, understated character study focusing on the mentally ill and authoritarian politics. It might suck. It might be amazing. No matter what, I’ll be there. The boy who was suspended for reading Punisher and the college film student will be sitting side by side, hoping to agree on this one. Both of us want—and need—these stories to matter.

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