Post- SW Issue 4/26

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APR 26 VOL 21 — ISSUE 11

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contents

yl lifest

eatures

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17 13

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arts & culture

features 4 view from the west bank 8 do it yourself 10 bicycle fever

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narrative 12 the birds and the beats 14 accents that mark 16 diaspora

18 spring weekend music preview 22 fried chicken in the snow 23 hello again 24 let’s get our free lattes!

25 songs of sadness 26 looking back on the ivy film festival

Letter from the Editor

staff Editor-in-Chief Saanya Jain

Dear Readers, This will be my last note as editor-in-chief, and I’ve been dreading it for weeks. I’m going to miss Thursday late night talks when we should be doing final reads. I’m going to miss walking home when Thayer St. is quiet and the bikers have gone home. I will miss knowing that we just put together an entire magazine, which will magically appear across campus the following morning.

This past year, Post- has grown in so many ways, from a podcast to a cover art exhibition, as well as shrunk, literally, by two pages. But the essence of Post- has stayed the same: a community, platform, and publication like no other, thanks to the incredible people who believe in it and support it.

To Lauren, and now Elena, Kasturi, and Julie: Thank you for your bearing my breakdowns and making my problems your own.

To my managing editors, Jennifer, Josh, and Annabelle: Thank you for the late nights and final reads and Taylor Swift and for taking every crazy idea I have in stride. I will always maintain that our biggest accomplishment was pulling off an entire issue devoted to T.S. To Claribel and Sam, thank you for pulling off the impossible time after time; media doesn’t even begin to encapsulate all that you do.

To Miranda and Phoebe, thank you for your endless talents and patience.

To our copy editors: Zander, Alicia, and Amanda—without your attention to detail and love of grammar, where would we be? A special thank you to Alicia, Post-’s longest-serving member! We will miss you and your fervent opinions on the New York Times Style Guide.

Thanks to Anita, for wearing so many hats, Divya, for always having an amazing piece somehow just lying around, and Celina, for being our goto person to copy 4,000-word Features pieces. Thanks to Kathy for being our reluctant Hot Post- Time Machine and to Julian and Marly, for your much-needed meditations on JUUL. To Sarah, Jacob, Nina, and Ro: You came in and immediately got what makes Post- special. We couldn’t do it without you.

And of course, to all our staff writers and staff illustrators: Thank you for giving us an excuse to eat Oreos and goof off every Thursday night.

For our last issue of the year, we’ve got an incredible line up. If Spring Weekend is your thing, Julian Towers has reviewed every artist coming to campus. If it’s not, we can take you far away, from Jerusalem to Berkeley, or answer your pressing questions on New Girl, Shiru, and bicycles.

I’ll haunt the halls of 195 Angell for some time to come. But for the last time from me, happy reading! It’s been good.

Saanya EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Features Managing Editor Jennifer Osborne Section Editors Anita Sheih Kathy Luo

Narrative Managing Editors Annabelle Woodward Pia Mileaf-Patel Section Editors Divya Santhanam

Arts & Culture Managing Editor Josh Wartel Section Editors Celina Sun Marly Toledano Julian Castronovo

Design Sarah Saxe

Copy Chief Alicia DeVos Zander Kim Amanda Ngo

Layout Ro Antia Nina Yuchi Jacob Lee

Media Claribel Wu Samantha Haigood Anita Sheih

Illustration Miranda Villanueva Phoebe Ayres

4

View From the West Bank Faith and Loathing in the Holy Land written and photos By Jack Brook Within the walls of Jerusalem lies a grotto of timelessness, a place where the presence of history beckons in the alleys and every corner contains a scrap of sacredness to covet. Monks cross themselves under sanctified arches as pilgrims shuffle forward on canes, overcome by a silent wonder at their presence in the City of God—a place where Jesus trod and Mohammed flew.

In the labyrinth of the Old City, thin slit doorways recede into rooms of expansive, cave-like hollows, where the casual visitor can salvage their piety through the purchase of a Christ bobblehead, a commodification of holiness. The hardened hands of shopkeepers roll balls of falafel, calling out to entice passers-by. Widows in veils and robes drawn tight squat low with baskets of fruit, hands extended for alms, not budging when flies crawl across their skin.

The gravitational pull of the city draws everything and everyone toward the Western Wall, the scaffolding that sustains the history of the Jewish people. The only remnant of the second Temple, the Wall has endured the Babylonians, the Romans, the Moors, and a host of other occupiers, destroyers, and desecrators in the eyes of the Jewish people. Press your hand to the Wall—carved in the time of Herod the Great two millennia past—and the cool stone invigorates the spirit, quickens the heart. Men died for the opportunity to touch it. Their hands, the hands of an entire people, have smoothed the surface down over the centuries, the current of their spirituality like water across rock. Their prayers are written down and deposited into the cracks, the paper dreams calcified by time into the stone.

The holiness of Jerusalem is seductive, even to the secular. When I first

arrive I think myself, as a fairweather Jew who avoided bar mitzvah, immune to the power of the place. But I am not. No one is.

Still, I find that the vitality of the place is less in the Wall and more in the people. On Friday nights, hundreds of thousands of families and children alike draw close against the Wall, chanting the prayers and blessings embedded in Shabbat tradition.

Secular, reformed, orthodox, ultra-orthodox—all men can join hands as strangers and family and dance with the abandonment of those encompassed by a greater being. Women are forced to pray in a separate section of the wall, another reminder of the power of faith to determine who belongs in a space and who doesn’t.

Peace upon you, ministering angels, messengers of the Most High, of the Supreme King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He. So they whisper, so they shout, so they sing. *** As a reporter for the Jerusalem Post—supposed truth-seeker and

factfinder—I realize I am inherently at odds with the Land, where logic submerges, compassion erodes and only faith remains firm, blinding and potent, ever intoxicating since the time David made his covenant with the Lord. You shall be shepherd of my people Israel, and you shall be prince over Israel. For many here this is the only truth of the Land: that the Lord would build a kingdom for the sons and daughters of David, an everlasting and unconditional promise fulfilled by faith.

Behind the Wall, above and out of reach, lies the Dome of the Rock, the third holiest site in all of Islam. In the Arabic scripture etched beneath the famous golden dome, words proclaim with the deafening power of the prophetic: There is no god but God. He is One. He has no associate. ...Who so disbelieveth the revelations of God will find that Lo! God is swift at reckoning!

When Israel gained control of Jerusalem from Jordan following the 1967 War, contractors were quickly hired to tear down the Moroccan Quarter, an

The mother from Kiryat Arba, Rina Ariel, looking over the body of her 13 year old daughter, Hallel, killed in her bed earlier that morning.

features Arab neighborhood, to make room for the thousands who would come to pray for the first time in centuries. The first time I looked at the plaza in front of the Wall, I didn’t know what had been there before. Most visitors don’t. Like a desert, the geography of the Holy Land is always shifting, morphing and transforming to the needs and reality of those who possess it. Destruction and resurrection are its two endlessly recursive acts.

A few miles away from Jerusalem lies Bethlehem, the Other City with the Other Wall, with another people— the Palestinians—and another history.

The Other Wall is a new construction of brooding concrete, built by the Israeli government. Unlike the Wall in Jerusalem—a giving wall, a purveyor of holiness—the Other Wall is a structure of separation and denial. There are no dreams within this wall; instead, the people paint the silhouettes of the faces of the dead. The Other Wall was constructed in the time of the Second Intifada, explicitly designed to keep out those who seek to do ill. But it also serves to threaten, to impose its own borders.

The graffiti artist Banksy came to the Other Wall, saw it as a canvas on which to paint the themes of resistance and oppression. A dove in a bulletproof suit. The silhouette of a little girl in a dress holding a balloon and rising up above the wall. A keffiyeh-wearing boy holding flowers rather than a rock.

These famous images are found on both the Other Wall and in shops all around, where you can purchase postcards of these sketches for a few dollars. The shopkeepers even lend you graffiti canisters to write your own message on the concrete. Fuck Israel, someone writes. Palestine forever, says another.

Taxis take tourists into the refugee camps that have existed for decades on the outskirts of the Other City. These are the descendants of families that were displaced during the Palestinian Nakbah, or Israel’s independence movement of 1948. Both descriptions are true in their own way, though an-

The separation wall in Bethlehem. tithetical in their implications. When I arrive at Aida, a camera around my neck, a tour bus rolls in and a flock of sunscreened German tourists steps out and begins snapping pictures.

Exiting the camp, visitors pass under an archway with a symbolic key at the top, symbolizing the “right of return” of refugees to their original homes. There is a list of all the children from the camp who have been shot or killed since the camp was created.

The list goes on, and on, and on.

I take a photo and pocket my postcards. *** On Onward Israel, the program subsidized by the Israeli government I participated in that summer, we entered the West Bank to visit the memorial of three Jewish boys kidnapped and killed by Palestinians while hitchhiking. Although Israel has controlled this territory, which might otherwise have been the Palestinian state, since a war in 1967, we were not allowed to enter the West Bank outside the trip for

safety reasons. In order to report for the Jerusalem Post, I obtained a waiver to bypass this rule.

My first time on my own in the West Bank, I visit the settler outpost of Migron. Outposts, the precursors to settlements, are technically illegal under Israeli law (and international law).

But they are still given Israeli Defense Force (IDF) protection and, with it, running water and electricity.

Based on what I’d seen in the media, I expected that as soon as I set foot in the West Bank I would enter into a cross fire between Arab snipers and Jewish zealots. I catch myself feeling somewhat disappointed. At first glance, it feels pretty similar to the rest of what I’d seen so far of the Holy Land.

Entering Migron, I find a nineyear-old girl waiting for me in front of a small caravan. It is the makeshift house of a warm, motherly American Jewish woman named Aviela, who has lived here for several years. She had to relocate her home a few hundred

6 yards down the hill after the Israeli Supreme Court ruled in 2012 that it was illegally built atop Palestinian-owned private land.

There in her home, I finally ask the question that has troubled me ever since I set foot in the West Bank—what compels you to live and die on this barren windswept hillside?

She smiles, and takes me to the top of Migron. She carries a pistol.

The hill of Migron contains the unburied skeletons of her old outpost.

We walk through, past the swing set, her daughter’s grade school, the community center—hollowed out and whittled down, their mark left upon the hilltop nonetheless.

In the first book of Samuel from the Old Testament, Saul and his men once camped “under the pomegranate tree which is in Migron” before they faced the Philistines (1 Sam. 14:2).

An ancient army, that is, once passed through this place for a night. We read the Torah, and then we can walk across the very land we study, she says.

Aviela explains to me that the inviolability of her belief extends far beyond the City and the Western Wall.

For it is not simply enough to worship, to study, to devote oneself to following Hashem; one must tread upon His

soil—every inch, from the river to the sea. One finds this faith embedded within the earth that comprises the Land itself, where every valley and rise represents a footnote or a paragraph in the history of God’s chosen people.

We go back down, and I feel that in attempting to understand her answer I am descending into something impenetrable.

The settlers keep a fence around their part of the hill, barbed and tall, to keep out the unwelcome. Sometimes Palestinian men come to the edge to graze their sheep. Mute. Wary. Observant.

The Jewish people here lock up their caravans at night, beneath the hill they were forced to descend from.

One day, they fear, a ghost will rattle their doors, demand to be let in. *** The Route 60 highway out of Jerusalem parallels the separation wall running under Bethlehem, with a monstrous concrete wall rising up to block out the city entirely, preventing rocks and flaming cocktails from falling on the road below in times of unrest. The horizon is filled with dusted townships spiked with minarets, while atop the bumps of its hills the red roofs of the settlements superimpose themselves upon the horizon. Arab farmers

A Palestinian man from Sussiyah, who was forced to leave his home after an ancient synagogue was discovered beneath it.

graze sheep along the roads and Bedouin communities encamp in gullies with tin roofs and exposed garbage.

There is a willful opaqueness here that blocks out what the Other Wall cannot.

In the valley of one of these hills, in a place called Sussiyah, I meet a Palestinian man living in a tent on the last of his farmland in the shadow of a settlement. He was forced to move from his home after an ancient synagogue was found underneath it. Now, he owns his land, but under the complicated West Bank legal system he cannot build a home on the land he possesses. His home is razed periodically by the IDF. He walks over the hills now, resting on his cane and glancing wearily at the settlement overlooking his tent—this man who has weathered the changes of the Land like a tree atop a stormy hill.

I pass by these people and through these places, around cement blocks alongside roads that prevent cars from going into Palestinian villages. Red signs warn Israeli citizens that it is illegal for them to enter these places and that they risk death and arrest for doing so.

Israeli soldiers, no older than 20, rest with their guns at bus stations.

They wait for something to happen.

The Palestinians in the West Bank cannot break down the Other Wall, cannot remove the settlements or change who has guns and who has stones, but they can prevent the Israelis from ever getting comfortable. And that is what they do. They nurture their anger carefully, use it as a bellows to keep the slowcook fire of resentment full of sparks and red hot flickers. *** On a reporting assignment one morning, I arrive at Kiryat Arba, a settlement within walking distance from Hebron, the first capital of King David.

The day I come, the flame of revenge has once more scorched the village— this time with the killing of a Jewish child. I find her mother hunched and convulsing in the kitchen, surrounded by neighbors. In the early hours of the morning a Palestinian teenager crept

features through the window of the young girl’s room and stabbed her as she slept.

Stabbed her with a rage, with a hatred, the girl’s grandmother told me later.

The room itself remains tainted in the aftermath, with the sheets bundled up and the scrapes on the wall from the struggle blackening the white of the paint. The window is open enough for the light, hot wind that kisses the peaks of the Judean Hills to pass across the landscape punctuated by the small minarette from over there. The other place. Where another mother weeps.

Beneath the flag unfurled and sorrowful against the wind, the settlers summon voices. Young girls in skirts to their ankles wilt at the knees. They are shrill with notes of love as they begin the Mourner’s Kaddish.

My flower, the best of the best, the righteous mother wails. She runs fingers along the top of the box that holds her daughter, over the golden star of David as she whimpers, gestures to the sky. Behind her, the others follow, and even the soldiers close their eyes, beside old men who rock on their heels with foreheads creased, tugging their beards.

They put down rocks in piles to mark a life purloined. I learn that within this plot will lie a girl named Hallel who wanted a puppy, danced in a troupe, had two sisters and a grandmother whom she would call every Saturday to wish a warm Shabbat.

With the vanity of the hopeful, I attempt to make sense of things in this place where everything has two meanings, every event two emotional truths. Generations have been shaped by these encounters, the cumulative history of grievances that solidify into righteousness and mask a pervasive terror of the Other.

I can sense this from the story of the boy who killed Hallel. News reports indicated that after his uncle was shot to death by IDF soldiers after trying to ram a car into a bus station, the boy began to obsessively post memorials on his Facebook page. Who knows exactly what the uncle experienced in his own life, what led him to his death. But the

death of the boy—already claimed as a martyr by his mother, who will receive compensation from the Palestinian Authority—will doubtless provide inspiration for someone else caught up in the misery and frustration of living behind the Other Wall.

I watch Yehuda Glick, a famous politician with bullet scars in his chest, as he speaks over the body, his words enlivening the hundreds—Hallel...Yaffa...

Hallel, a pure soul, a child, a princess in white. This beautiful girl who they took from us. They will never have this land, they will be punished for their evil.

In the cemetery, as the settlers murmur death prayers, a guttural cry from a Palestinian muezzin’s call to prayer breaks through. Mournful and resonant, the voice contains the same longing and yearning for the land as those who occupy it. The righteous mother lifts her head, shields her face from the desecration of her daughter’s death.

Not even then can she escape the terrible intimacy of the land. *** After a murder or a stabbing, the army blockades the small outlying Palestinian villages that connect to the West Bank’s singular highway, forcing the non-Jewish residents to use the dirt roads of the backcountry.

The blockade is part collective punishment, part attempt to limit the movement of would-be assassins between sympathetic villages. A week later, I visit one: Sair, known as The Capital of the Martyrs.

There I discover a small, closedoff town where dirt, tires, and cement blocks asphyxiate the single entrance.

A guard tower on the outskirts peers down, like a gun rammed to the town’s head. The pharmacy and grocery store are closed. The kids have been out of school for a week. No one leaves. No one enters.

The soldiers come at dusk, knocking on doors, breaking windows searching for the gunmen suspected of slaying a local rabbi—shot down as he drove along the highway—but the gunmen have disappeared into the night.

In the center of the town, a grim man lets us into a gated courtyard.

Leads us to the exhibit where the graves of Sair’s dead citizens are displayed. The town knows what it means to absorb losses, saturated as it is with absence: the dead bodies of its cousins and sisters and sons. Flowers rest on cement-encased bones, the petals dried on the graves as if withered and pressed into the soul of the town itself.

I stare at the concrete marked with the names of the deceased sons and daughters of this town, observe how the residents of Sair seem to horde their dead, using each grave as irrevocable proof of their resentment, their suffering. *** A few days later, the settlers of the West Bank take to the streets—the oppressors protesting the oppressed.

Olive trees bear witness to the parade flags waved in defiance. Soldiers hustle through the trees, scanning for figures that they assume itch to snipe or stab. The deep bass of Israeli nationalism emanates from the speakers the settlers carry aboard a flatbed truck. The parade is not one of joy, but triumph, meant to show who controls this place, occupies this road, writes the narrative. At that moment, I find myself silently condemning the profound arrogance, the dehumanizing entitlement of the marchers.

The settlers of Kiryat Arba march down the heart of the West Bank, the two sons of the slain rabbi among them, walking across cement formerly awash with his blood. They stop, and a satisfied silence comes over the crowd.

Not even the mosques make noise. It is the hour of reclamation that deems them the righteous ones—they recite the death of the good father and the young girl, the flower of Kiryat Arba.

Pressing forward, the settlers maintain their unwillingness to ever yield.

The settlers on Route 60 will remain, will persist, will endure. I cannot help but feel the Land must despair at the sight of them, sensing they are doomed to succeed in their own self-destruction.

8

Do It Yourself

Independent Study Options at Brown

By Andrew Liu — illustrated by Molly Young Like most students here at Brown, I was drawn to this school for its Open Curriculum, excited by the prospect of being in control of crafting an education fueled by my passions. Now well into my second semester, though I’ve sampled some unforgettable courses, it seems I’ve committed to blindly plowing forward in the course sequence of my intended concentration. Curious about what I might be missing, I had the opportunity this week to talk with Nicole Martinez ’18 and Sierra Edd ’18, the Independent Study Co-Coordinators at Brown’s Curricular Resource Center (CRC), who opened my eyes to what the Open Curriculum could truly offer.

Sierra and Nicole specialize in advising students about Group Independent Study Projects as well as Independent Study Projects, or (G)ISPs. These are courses that are designed by a student or group of students on any academic topic. Every aspect of the course, including the syllabus and evaluation, is designed by the students themselves, resulting in innovative course topics such as furniture construction or sitcom creation. All (G)ISPs require a faculty sponsor whose role is to help suggest resources and grade the progress of the work.

A (G)ISP proceeds just as any other course through the semester, but the process harbors many additional discoveries and rewards.

(G)ISPs are a way for students to immerse themselves in a topic they love in the way they see fit. The topics they pursue are many times not originally part of the university’s curriculum, which often does not offer the freedom or depth of exploration these students would like. In a sense, a (G)ISP is the most daring way a stu-

dent can showcase their individual interests.

“The Open Curriculum is very novel, you can explore anything, but sometimes in a class something is a bit off, or it won’t go in depth or in a specific context you want,” says Nicole.

For those interested in diverse topics, (G)ISPs are the perfect way to draw a connection between fields: “A lot of the (G)ISPs are interdisciplinary; students are concentrating in two departments and want to connect them,” says Sierra. Sierra’s own past GISP, “Indigenous Women’s Politics and Resistance,” reflected not only her interests but also current political events. “There was the #NODAPL movement going on at the time, and we actually went to North Dakota to study it.” This semester, Sierra is involved in a GISP on the Navajo language, just one of the many examples of an area of study that is not offered through a regular Brown course.

Recent (G)ISPs have embodied personal and expressive ways for students to immerse themselves in a topic. “This semester, there’s currently one called ‘Afro-Futurism,’ which is about African American identity in Sci-Fi and Fantasy/Speculative literature and how literature can heal, and there was even a field trip to see Black Panther,” says Nicole. Another course that especially stood out to her was “[an ISP] this student last semester did, which involved photography through an Electron Microscope. It was the definition of interdisciplinary.

It used science tools to create and analyze art. I especially like seeing the project-centered ones, because that’s where you see the passion come out.”

Given the academic freedom (G)ISPs provide, why do more stu-

dents not take advantage of these projects? Nicole recounts an excerpt of an old BDH article she once read at the CRC, which could not be more relevant today: “It was about this problem about students at the school not taking advantage enough of the open curriculum and going for more pre-professional paths. This was during the ’70s and ’80s, and it was the national mindset. I think we are still in that mindset now.”

For Nicole and many other students, especially for those on financial aid, there can be a sense of expectations that they need to live up to. “For me initially, I was planning to major in both Literary Arts and [Political Science] because I was very scared of being just Literary Arts.”

Another factor limiting (G)ISP participation could be the added pressure and work needed to design an entire course. (G)ISPs are rigorous, with the designed course expected to deliver 150-200 pages of reading a week and two exams.

In order to create an Independent Concentration (IC), the amount of work and revision needed is even higher. At the beginning of the process, the student must articulate the “Why,” “How,” or “What” of the planned concentration. Its academic potential, trajectory, and difference from existing concentrations must be thoroughly fleshed out in order to give the IC legitimacy for existing outside the Open Curriculum. Even after this thorough planning process, the workload of an IC is no less than a standard concentration and culminates in a required capstone project.

Nevertheless, the hard work and passion of previous generations of students have left their mark. Ni-

features cole emphasized how these projects are not just for the students creating them but also for those who come across similar paths and interests in later years: “It’s interesting to see how many ICs 20 years ago became mainstream concentrations like Literary Arts or Neuroscience. I think it really validates ICs more.” Looking at the IC database, which contains all past ICs for students to reference, is almost a pastime in itself. Concentrations like “Medical Humanities,” “Neuroeconomics,” “Happiness,” and “Deaf Studies,” to name just a fraction, proudly take their place as academic pursuits for students to come.

For incoming students interested in pursuing a (G)ISP, the CRC is the

perfect launching point. “Definitely come to the CRC. I actually spoke to two prospective students yesterday who were planning to major in STEM but [are] also interested in (G)ISPs, which there’s tons of potential for.

Definitely don’t hesitate to come and ask a lot of questions. We’re super happy to help.”

“Our purpose is to talk with students about their path and to demystify the Open Curriculum,” says Sierra.

After speaking with Sierra and Nicole, I had a better appreciation for the feeling that draws so many students to Brown that I could previously only articulate with buzz words. I think it is the same excitement that an artist or architect has before they un-

dertake some grand new design. Perhaps one of the fullest ways to embody the spirit of the Open Curriculum is to go outside it. After all, to truly take your education into your own hands is a testament to the original purpose of the Open Curriculum. For students like Sierra and Nicole who pursue a (G)ISP, the reward lies not only in the topic they investigate, but in the very process itself: “Whatever your final product ends up being, even after a stressful experience, at the end of the day you have a final product that came together after a unique journey…You put your time and energy into something you intrinsically find fulfilling.”

10

Bicycle Fever

Cycling in 19th Century Culture and Our Modern World

By Caroline Ribet — illustrated by Colin Kent-Daggett My hometown of Berkeley, California enjoys moderate temperatures and the infrastructure to accommodate bicycles, so cycling for sport and for transportation is ubiquitous year-round. Though bicycles are lauded for their utility, one of the main benefits of the bike is often overlooked: its ability to connect people to the world around them. When bicycles first became popular, they also emerged as a cultural symbol, epitomizing modernity’s promises of technology and liberation. Today, this symbol persists. The bicycle is a broadly accessible, efficient, and useful technology that also provides us with the possibility to explore the world around us.

Although the idea of two-wheeled transportation dates to the 1860s, the bicycle as we know it emerged in the United States at the end of the 19th century.

The 1880s and 1890s might be characterized by bicycle fever: two years after the introduction of the modern bicycle, the number of cyclists in the United States doubled, reaching 150,000. As Sporting Life reported at the turn of the century, “the bachelor rides, the old maid rides, the lover rides and sighs and the sweetheart is beside him sighing and riding too. Young and old, rich and poor, big and little, all ride. The city seems all awheel.”

Lower bicycle prices in the 1890s also

meant the sport was no longer reserved for the elite. Albert Pope, a prominent American bicycle businessman, wrote in 1895, “bicycles are practically within reach of even the most moderate means.”

The bicycle was more than a trendy gadget: It became an integral part of women’s suffrage at the end of the 19th century. Arguably, the first step toward freedom was the invention of the bloomer, a loose pair of pants that gathers at the knee—a radical break from the restrictive clothing of the Victorian era. The bloomer was invented so that women could engage in athletics, particularly cycling. The bicycle also allowed women to leave the house, giving them mobility and independence from their husbands.

As suffragist Susan B. Anthony famously said in 1896, cycling “has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance.”

Though the bicycle was eclipsed by the automobile in the early 20th century, it has become culturally relevant again.

Much of this resurgence is due to growing concerns about fossil fuels. With the help of cycling advocates and new legislation, society is changing to accommodate this surge in popularity. For instance, drivers are becoming more used to “sharing the road.” In some cities, urban planning

and public transportation systems have made cycling safer and more practical with the installment of bike lanes, bicycle-friendly train cars, and bicycle racks on the fronts of buses. Bike-share programs have emerged in cities like Portland, Boston, New York, San Francisco, Washington D.C., Austin, and Minneapolis, to name a few. These relatively inexpensive subscription-based services allow casual cyclists to enjoy the benefits of a bicycle without investing in one of their own. Though these urban planning programs have been responsive to the needs of cyclists, infrastructure still has a long way to go to accommodate growing demand.

As it did in the 19th century, the bicycle allows cyclists to explore the world around them. Cycling allows me to confront some of the Bay Area’s complex socio-political issues. For long-distance sport cyclists or dedicated commuters, diverse Bay Area landscapes will serve as a reminder of Berkeley’s paradoxes. In one or two hours of cycling, I can reach the neighboring industrial city of Richmond. I can pass strip-malls and housing developments in Walnut Creek and Danville, where the commercialization Berkeley riotously rejects is ever-present. In three or four hours, I can bike through a dozen different impoverished

features neighborhoods in Oakland and Hayward and Castro Valley and make it back to Berkeley to enjoy coffee at a shop staffed by hipsters.

While Berkeley is a community that rejects big-box commercialization and corporations like Walmart, the city also engages in political and social behavior that violates its liberal principles. Berkeley prides itself on its diversity of race, religion, identity, class, and educational background, and yet the city’s housing prices are so high that the most affluent neighborhoods of the city are tended to by people who cannot afford to live nearby. Due to the financial success of Silicon Valley and San Francisco, the Bay Area’s high cost of living has resulted in suburban sprawl, overrun public transportation systems and terrible traffic. Low-income individuals tend to suffer the most from these problems. Even though Berkeley is thought to be one of the most liberal bubbles in the United States, the city votes against zoning policies that would support the building of affordable

housing to help mitigate some of the Bay Area’s growing cost-of-living and transportation issues. Race, as well as class prejudice, has played a role in this problem. As one opinion piece in Berkeleyside magazine pointed out in 2017, “zoning laws in Berkeley have been used historically to exclude African Americans and other populations from certain parts of the city.”

As it did in the 19th century, the bicycle reflects the complexities of our culture. There are cyclists in Berkeley who congratulate themselves for their environmentalism while voting against policies that would make the city more accessible and affordable. At the same time, the road is full of cyclists who ride to work because they cannot afford cars, and highways are overrun because high housing prices force people to work far from where they live. Indeed, there is no clear rule for why any individual chooses to bicycle or to drive, but cycling is a lens through which to discuss the dynamics that complicate Berkeley’s lib-

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eral identity.

A casual survey of Brown suggests to me that bicycles are less ubiquitous on College Hill than they are in Berkeley.

Perhaps due to a combination of winter weather, the steep hill separating campus from downtown, bicycle-unfriendly infrastructure, and aggressive driving, Brown lacks the kind of bicycle community that I belonged to in Berkeley.

Should you ignore the challenges and bike three miles north of Brown in Pawtucket or along the East Bay Bike path, however, you will find yourself in communities that differ from College Hill’s university-dominated cultural sensibilities. Rhode Island is a diverse state, home to individuals of many backgrounds, income levels, identities, and lifestyles. As it does in Berkeley, cycling has given me the opportunity to explore these unique communities that are close by but easy to ignore. The sport has taught me about the complexity and the diversity of the place where I live, and my bicycle is my partner in this exploration.

12

The Birds and the Beats Muskrats, Metallica, Miscellany

By Charlie Stewart — illustrated by Shelby Nicholas “I’m so educated and I’m so civilized ‘Cause I’m a strict vegetarian.

But with the over-population and inflation and starvation And the crazy politicians I don’t feel safe in this world no more.

I don’t want to die in a nuclear war.

I want to sail away to a distant shore And make like an Apeman.”

-‘Apeman’, The Kinks, 1970 “Woof woof.”

-‘X Gon Give it To Ya’, DMX, 2003 How many bands can you count that are named after animals? You’ve got your occasionally misspelled and increasingly specific primates, like Hairy Apes BMX, The Monkees, The Arctic Monkeys, or Gorillaz. You’ve got your occasionally misspelled winged animals, like the Beatles, The Eagles, Counting Crows, Owl City, or The Byrd.

You’ve got your misnamed solo musicians, like the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens, who isn’t a cat or even a man-cat (let alone a cat-man), and whose birth name isn’t Cat, or even Stevens, but Steven. You’ve got Seal, who’s actually a human man but probably still feels uneasy performing for the Greenlandic clubbing scene.

We like to think that appreciating music is one of the things that makes us human. We often distinguish ourselves from animals through our rationality—our ability to subvert our instincts to reason. Humans alone enjoy music, we might think, because only we can appreciate it as more than noise.

But animals seem to enjoy music too.

Studies at the University of Leicester in the UK found that dairy cows produce more milk when listening to music, especially R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts.”

The music relaxes the cows just as it relaxes humans, even if most of us aren’t brought to lactation by Michael Stipe’s

voice in polite company. Psychologists at the University of Wisconsin-Madison found that monkeys relax when they are played rhythmic recordings of the calls they make to signal the all clear on danger. They also like Metallica.

In 1956, composer-philosopher Leonard Meyer concluded that humans find music satisfying because it sets up patterns for us to follow and usually fulfills our expectations. Finding patterns and feeling the satisfaction in being right might also sound particularly human, but it’s actually very animal.

In the prehistoric savannah where humankind first evolved, the ability to predict the likely cause and effect of a sound could be the difference between life or death. When you hear a snarl in the jungle, you need to be able to pre-

dict and prepare for a lion attack, and if your suspicion is confirmed, evolution generously grants you the satisfaction of an “I told you so” before you’re eaten.

Like the people who name sports teams or the weird girl in your grade school class who always smelled of horses, musicians have a history of interest in animals. This sometimes means creating instruments out of them; horse hair is famously used to string violin bows, many drums use animal hides, and bagpipes make the same noise as the disemboweled sheep they’re made from. Classical pieces like “Flight of the Bumblebee” emulate animal sounds, and in 1953 French composer Olivier Messiaen began recreating birdsong in his work, creating “Réveil des Oiseaux” (“Awakening of

narrative the Birds”). Pink Floyd’s song “Seamus” on their 1971 album Meddle had its lead vocals howled by a dog named Seamus over a harmonica backing. By 2005, the deathgrind band Caninus was fronted by Budgie and Basil, two pit bull terriers, until their deaths (presumably from confusion) in 2011 and 2016 respectively. They collaborated with Hatebeak, the only death metal band fronted by an African grey parrot, to create sounds described as resembling “a jackhammer being ground in a compactor” by one listener, and which The San Francisco Chronicle dubbed “in the tradition of Steely Dan except with unintelligible lyrics and no melody at three times the volume.”

What does it mean to be human then? Smarter people than I have tried and failed to answer that question. Benjamin Franklin called humans “tool-making animals,” but the observation that great apes often use sticks to fish ants from their nests has proven that tool-making is not unique to our species. Plato defined humanity as a “featherless biped,” and presumably felt very confused every time he plucked a chicken. In any case, the more we understand about animals and the origins of the traits we once believed to distinguish us from them, the more we are made to confront our own immersion in the animal kingdom.

This Spring Weekend, you might find yourself engaging in some “wild” behaviors—drinking like a fish, screeching like a kookaburra, and smelling like the unfortunate offspring of a dung beetle and a weedy sea dragon. More than that, however, music will connect you to the natural world in ways people rarely realize. When we hear a song, we’re reliving our primal fears and instinctive desires. We’re enacting the echoes of our survival mechanisms— what it means to be alive. So when you wake up on Sunday and remember how awfully you were dancing to Anderson .Paak the night before, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re only animal.

Illustrated by Adelaide Dahl

14

Accents that Mark The Implications of Intonations

By emily yang — illustrated by Pia Mileaf-Patel When my Taiwanese parents say my English name, each syllable lands with an abrupt thud, punched out like three decisive raps on a door: EH-muh-lee.

My brother’s name, “Vincent,” slides off their tongues as “VING-sun!”, invariably punctuated by an exclamation mark and a high-pitched lilt.

At the summer camp where my brother and I taught English for three years, Taiwanese children would nickname Vincent Bing-suen, or “cold bamboo shoot.” On top of recurring mnemonic devices, the kids would give themselves English names ranging from “Kobe” to “Handsome,” sometimes after a famous NBA player, sometimes after a word scavenged online, always one they could not properly pronounce.

When my Taiwanese parents say my English name, I think about what it means to call your child by a name you can never quite get right. *** Think about the French accent and think elegant classy high-class and think tall dude in a wool cardigan with the perfect amount of intellect, manners, and facial hair. Think about the Chinese accent and think fresh off the boat and think this restaurant has terrible service and you’re getting two stars from me on Yelp. Think about how French and Chinese accents are just two types of accents. How they should sit on equal playing fields and how they most definitely don’t. *** As someone who attended an American school in Taiwan, I have a strange relationship with accents. On one hand, I feel vaguely offended when someone says that my English is at all accented.

On the other, I detest being told—as is usually the case—that I have a “perfect American accent,” and I’m even more repulsed by the way I feel immediate-

ly superior when someone opens their mouth and broken English tumbles out, even when the mouth belongs to my parents or relatives or fellow students whom I respect deeply.

I want to be proud of my heritage, but I also want to be taken seriously. I want to transcend my heritage without giving way to racism that I’ve internalized. I’m struggling to do both, and my biggest fault probably lies in my assumption that they’re nearly mutually exclusive in the world we live in.

The matter becomes further muddled once we exit the English-speaking realm. My own Mandarin invites remarks from locals about how “ABC” (American-Born Chinese) I sound—of course, the acronym always inflected with a cheery Taiwanese tone. When my Chinese (American) friends at Brown call what I consider to be the “standard” Mandarin dialect my “Taiwanese accent,” I jab back unimaginatively by calling their curled intonations “the Chinese accent.”

When we call the mode in which entire peoples speak an accent or dialect, we often reduce their way of speaking into a minor key of the mainstream mode of speech, writing, being. A variant, a derivative, cast into the margins—whether we like it or not, noting someone’s foreign accent is almost always a process of simultaneous differentiation and hierarchization. It’s easy to let yourself indulge in this tendency when the language and manner of speech your mother braided into you put you right at the top of that hierarchy, right from the start. *** Last spring, I pronounced the word “paradigm” as para-dig-um in a comparative literature class. I jammed it into some phrase like “his positionality in the Oedipal paradigm,” freshly harvested out of my ass. I had seen the

word thrown around in books and recent readings and SAT vocab lists for months and maybe even a year by then, but I had never heard it spoken aloud.

Moments after I confidently recited my token line of participation, a pit began to form at the bottom of my throat.

Later, the YouTube video “How to pronounce paradigm” confirmed my deepest fears.

My embarrassment stemmed not only from a chronic distaste for doing anything wrong, but also from a strange awareness of how mispronounced words sit amidst my otherwise “perfect American accent” like a fully-clothed person might at a Nudity in the Upspace event.

Whereas having a thoroughly foreign accent might have excused any mistake in pronunciation, a “perfect” native accent demanded perfect delivery. Without the full-time wrongness associated with foreign accents to vindicate me, I was left chipping away at my Americanized ego, one unsilenced silent letter at a time. *** Upon closer inspection, however, American colloquialisms are equally laced with mistakes. The word “mischievous” somehow acquires an i, perhaps by means of a famous collective narcissism, and becomes “mischievious”. The Massachusetts town Worcester usurps the original British pronunciation (Woo-stuh) and makes Wuss-ter (or, commonly, Worse-ter) law. The prominence of a certain basketball team prevents people from properly referring to the Celtic languages and cultures as kell-tick—not to throw the state of Massachusetts under the bus or anything.

Shade-throwing aside, I’m only trying to say that speakers of all languages are guilty of the same thing. Some are just equipped with the sway to make

narrative their mistakes—or what might be considered mistakes—the very parameters by which we measure our correctness. *** According to Shiri Lev-Ari’s 2010 study, people judge statements uttered by native speakers of English as more credible than those uttered by non-native speakers. She reasoned that the “processing difficulty” involved in listening to accented English somehow causes people to perceive trivial statements delivered by non-native speakers as less credible. The effect didn’t result from stereotypes and prejudice, she argued, as it occurred even in a condition where an accented messenger simply recited the statements from a native-speaking source.

Putting aside the prevalence of stereotypes outside of the study, it seems linguistic inequalities stem from some innate aversion we have to difficulty. If something proves hard to understand, we shy away from it at best and think less of it at worst. Non-native speakers are constantly disbelieved, disadvantaged, and disregarded because it’s easy to do that to things or people or thick accents that we find difficult. *** A few weeks ago, in a fiction workshop, I shared a story of the generally and culturally ambiguous variety (in other words, I wrote about Taiwan).

In the story, a couple’s relationship is ruptured gradually by a series of past letters from one party’s ex. Assuming my predominantly white class wouldn’t object to Googling and learning a Chinese character, I signed off the letters with a single Chinese character, which explicitly revealed the sender’s identity.

Come time for the workshop, I discovered that the pointedly unambiguous detail probably confused the most.

Some found it unnecessarily puzzling and suggested I specify the sender’s identity. Meanwhile, several others thought the Chinese character was a witty conceit on my part to reinforce the sameness of two characters and further steep the story in ambiguity. “[The] use of the character for the name in the sign-off was an absolutely

brilliant way to engage with multilingualism and the lack of understanding of your classroom audience,” one classmate wrote in his comments.

When I wrote the piece, I wasn’t trying to take advantage of my classmates’ “lack of understanding”—I just thought they’d make the effort to understand. People go to crazy lengths to decode David Foster Wallace’s obscure, fragmentary references, but when it comes to copying and pasting a Chinese character into the Google search bar, they hit a wall. *** Think about how the most authentic Chinese restaurants in the States have the tackiest graphic design, how What would you like to order barrels out under the weight of a heavy accent. Think about how the slightly elongated pauses, occupied by the spaces between each word, kindle your culinary trust rather than intellectual distrust.

Think about how we expect immigrants to assume a certain us-ness in some settings but demand absolute authenticity, or them-ness, in others. Why don’t you hold on to your culture, says the foot stomping it out. Think about how this isn’t exactly news. *** In fourth grade, my friend stopped spelling her name as “Eri” and began going by “Eli” instead, frustrated at our American teachers and pseudo-American students’ inability to roll out the Japanese consonant situated somewhere between r and l. This move somewhat backfired, as unsuspecting teachers began instead to render her not just foreign but also a boy—almost always Ee-lie upon the first roll call of the school year.

For a while, slumped comfortably in the throne of Anglo-American nomenclature, I couldn’t understand why Eli felt the need to type an extra three letters under “Preferred Name” whenever asked. Similarly, I wondered why people never seem to grow desensitized to others butchering their names.

As I turned my own name around, examining its shape on my lips and the way breaths and vibrations collapsed

into four syllables, I realized that I had been butchering my own last name for the past nineteen years. When coupled with my first name, the surname Yang comes out like bang or dang, rather than Aang or pong, as it should. In fact, it almost makes me uncomfortable when people pronounce my name right—there’s something about the way the harsh Yang supplants the whitey-tightie Emily for space in my mouth, silent g hanging in the air like an afterthought, leaving something to be desired. I don’t know what it is I desire. *** Think about language as battleground. Think about language as the site of revolution. Think about pidgin languages, the Cockney accent, International Sign Language, Turku, Tok Pisin. Think about revolution. Think about revolution in Chinese. Think about how “[revolutionary] movement” in Chinese also means sport or exercise. Think about how every foreign sound your mother your father the oba-san at the marketplace lets out is an exercise in revolution. Think about how the more I listen to the Korean girl in my section speak in her accent, the more I begin to understand, quicker, more accurately, more easily. Think about how an exercise in vocal cords or a few neural pathways or revolution is no different from aerobic exercise.

Think about how you haul yourself to the gym three times a week and try and you try and it gets easier.

16

Diaspora

By Divya Santhanam

Ram could barely see the gate on his ticket. He attempted to read the words but could not. A tightness in his chest began to spread all over his body, slowly stiffening his muscles, collapsing the walls of his chest. He stumbled through the Pearson Airport, past the families that surrounded him, oblivious to the disgruntled man whose suitcase he had knocked over.

At last he found himself outside of Gate D, the neon lights on the sign above spelling “Chennai, India.” From a distance he heard the nasally voice of the airhostess announce that boarding would take place in 20 minutes. He collapsed on the cushioned chair in the waiting area, feeling the air in his body slowly leak out, as if he were one of the deflated helium balloons that used to float around at his daughter’s birthday parties. He had brought nothing but a backpack and his passport. And so Ram sat, with his eyes cast downwards, unable to swallow.

Nineteen years ago, he had walked out of this very terminal, newly married with his wife, ready to start a new life in Toronto. He remembered the cold wind mercilessly slapping his face the moment he stepped out of the airport, a sharp contrast to the mix of warm air tinged with jasmine and petrol that had embraced him in Chennai as he waved goodbye to his mother and father, Krishnan, who had gripped him tightly. As he leaned forward for a rare hug, Ram caught a whiff of his father’s familiar scent of tobacco and paan. His mother Janaki wiped tears from her eyes, smudging her carefully outlined kajal.

She handed him a box of soft cloudy idlies smeared with hand ground chilis to add just the right amount of spice to her dish. Her tired eyes hinted that she had not slept much to ensure that her son and her daughter-in-law were well fed during their long journey.

He had no such food with him now, nor did he feel like he could eat at all. As the passengers began to board, he absentmindedly held out his boarding pass

for the air hostess to scan. He was too immersed in his own thoughts to notice the look of concern she gave him, too preoccupied to wipe away the viscous snot that had now reached his lips. His phone vibrated in his back pocket, and he trembled as he pressed the home screen, unsure of the news he would hear.

“On the flight? He’s still critical. Will text you more news. Amma is there.”

He felt the invisible hand pressing upon his chest again.

He boarded the plane, blindly walking down the aisle until he mechanically pulled himself into the window seat, gazing at the runway before him. As the plane took off, he watched as skyscrapers became figurines in the distance. The cars on the 401 resembled the small beetles he used to pull out of his daughter’s hair during their picnics at Hyde Park.

When he had first arrived in the late ‘80s, there had been fewer cars, less traffic, larger expanses of empty land. His apartment was much smaller than it had been in India. There was no watchman, no help around the house, and the kitchen smelt stale. Gone were the delectable scents wafting from the hot tomato rasam his mother made, garnished with cilantro and cumin. There was no sound in the apartment, no clattering of dishes, no shouting matches between neighbors, no guests arriving unannounced at the doorstep. It was clean, sanitized, silent—this land of ice and snow.

And he had been aware of himself in a way he had not been before; he had never felt his skin suffocating him in this way. He could feel the gaze of his neighbors on him when he walked out of the building each day. It was a feeling that clung to him, damp and unspoken.

On some days he scrubbed his skin extra hard, hoping that the intensity of its color would fade. That somehow, the water would turn a soapy brown and trickle down the drain, out of sight.

Even now it was painful to recall the past. He felt his face contort as he remembered the day his wife had come home, her cheeks sunken, eyes empty.

Shree had earned a degree in mathematics from the Indian Institute of Technology, one of the most rigorous schools in the world. Yet at dinner, she did not touch the rice she had carefully boiled.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

She turned away and began to shake.

“A man from work, followed me out of the parking lot and spit on me. He spit–” Her strong, warm voice broke off, revealing a fragility he had never before heard. Her cries had seeped under his skin, making him shiver and wonder if it had all been a mistake. For the first time in 23 years, he was unsure.

“Any juice or water?” the air hostess asked, interrupting his thoughts. He could barely speak in response, managing to shake his head. She looked at him in concern. He could not meet her eyes.

She briefly left and came back down the aisle with a box of tissues.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said.

The tears fell down more freely, now that he had given up pretense. They were flying over the Atlantic now, had almost reached England. And yet, there were still thousands of miles left. His leg had been tapping the floor of the plane like clockwork, and with a jolt, Ram realized he had not gone to the washroom in hours. He slowly got up from his seat and made his way down the aisle. The plane was immensely long and wide, seating over 300 people. He reached the left wing where there was a long line for the bathroom. In front him was a small and slender woman carrying a tiny baby.

“Kutti kanna,” crooned her husband, as he attempted to cajole the same baby.

Ram smiled to himself. It was a Tamil term of endearment that his mother used to call him and then his daughter.

It was the birth of Ananya, two years after they had arrived in Toronto, that had begun to make the city feel more like home. Perhaps it was the firmness with which she claimed being Canadian. This land, and no other land, was her home. Every morning he would leave his apartment at Queen’s Quay,

narrative with Ananya and Krishnan, who would visit every summer. They would walk her along the narrow shores of the Harbourfront, staring at the boats in the distance. He would watch as his father and Ananya threw bread crumbs to the geese, her gleeful smile revealing the only two teeth she had. His father had loved these morning walks, their grocery shopping escapades at the Rabba.

Every weekend, his family would head to Gerrard Street to enjoy Indian food, admiring the row of shops that reminded them of home. They became friends with Gurmeet, a man who had just immigrated from Punjab and made naans that melted in their mouths. Today, he owned one of the largest restaurants in the city and would never let them pay.

He heard the clatter of a trolley coming down the aisle. “Vegetarian meal?” the air hostess asked. He nodded, as a hot steaming tray of dosas and chutney were presented in front of him. In a few hours, they landed in Europe—a brief layover.

Ram leapt out of his seat, impatiently watching the people in front of him slowly file out of the flight. The minute he stepped into the airport, his phone buzzed, with a new text from Shree.

“Picked up Ananya from tennis practice. We are doing okay. It doesn’t look too good for Appa. Waiting for more news. I will text you.”

There was salt everywhere. It stung his face, prickled his tongue, burned until he could not keep his eyes open any longer. He thought of his father, his sharp, large spectacles and throaty laugh. The graceful and proud way in which he walked. His extraordinarily large ears and long slender legs. The thought of him alone, in a sterile hospital bed. Away from his grandchildren, his sons, his daughter.

A few hours later, back in the plane, he sat strapped within his seat. They had crossed Yemen and Oman, then Afghanistan. He felt a pulsing pain from the seat cover digging into his knee and realized he had been immobile for the past three hours. He was in limbo—caught between continents and cities, oceans and land, while his father lay on a hospital bed caught between life and death.

“Good evening, everyone, we are making our descent into Chennai, India.

We hope you had a pleasant journey.”

The plane landed, its wheels colliding with Chennai soil.

As he sprinted out of Chennai International Airport, he felt the warm breeze envelop him, the familiar flowery scent intermingled with gasoline, the noise and the chatter. And deep within him, a large knot that had grown tighter as the years had gone by, untangled. His lungs expanded, breathing the salty air blowing from the Bay of Bengal.

“Auto!” he yelled.

A rickshaw driver pulled up in front of him.

“Where?” the driver asked.

“Apollo Hospital,” he said, then hesitated.

Eight hours had passed since he had last checked his phone. Ram took a deep breath. The screen lit up, and there was a text from his wife.

A soft voice could be heard from the back of the Auto, so soft that the Rickshaw driver almost missed it.

“Go home.”

I changed my mind. Luz, Mylapore.

Take me home.

Illustrated by Colin Kent-Daggett

18

Spring Weekend Preview A Breakdown of the Artists’ Most Recent Work

By Julian Towers — illustrated by Miranda Villanueva

Whitney

Light Upon The Lake True facts: Whatever cultural waves are left to be made by rock music, they’re all shooting straight out the lake the next time Lil Pump wants to swerve his jet ski. Pretty inhospitable gig to be the one band playing a trap-heavy Spring Weekend then, right? But if anyone is equipped to ride out the wake left by hip-hop hedonism, it’d probably be Whitney. These laid-back hipster bros (and boy do they want you to know—you’ll strain your eyes counting all the PBR cans art-directed into their videos) take the sounds of Harvest-era Neil Young, twist out the heroin despair, and add on a horn section for some pretty great substance-comedown music. Album opener “No Woman” sums up the nostalgia this band is after: ideal for when I stumble grinning back to my room thinking dumbass thoughts about “my beautiful youth.”

But, ultimately, Friday night melancholy is a pretty limited tonal groove to fill with five songs. Some songs retain clarity into the hangover—jaunty “Golden Days” gets some lovely mileage out of a wah-wah guitar riff that feels like it’s always existed, and the anthemic “Polly” stacks up so much sound that it can’t help but be cathartic. But in the light of day, the record annoyed me, Julian Ehrlich’s Tickle-Me-Elmo-sings-Lindsey-Buckingham voice—which carries all of the dynamic range that diss implies—doing no favors for its wearying sweetness.

Though Whitney is filled out with chops otherwise (Max Kakacek is an especially talented dude; underneath the band’s honeyed glaze, his guitar playing is surprisingly nerdish and intricate), any attempt to stray sonically is limited by the album’s weird, wimpy sexlessness: “Dave’s Song,” attempting a brassy R&B homecoming sound, is torpedoed by its lyrics—some pretty punchable self-pity bullshit (“I don’t want to be saved/Take me in your heart again”). “You’d think the album’s one instrumental cut would therefore be a nice balls-out morning stretch for their sound, but “Red Moon” is inexplicably frigid—nothing more than a single mournful horn solo limply reinforced by an awkward drum and keyboard lockstep. What a rip-off. But hey, I’ve heard some rumors that these dudes play funk now, so ladies watch out.

Track picks: “No Woman,” “Golden Days,” “Polly” Score: 2/5

Nao

For All We Know NAO has the sort of elusive, totally idiosyncratic singing voice that always brings out my inner hack writer. But when an artist is this hard to describe, reductive comparison is really all that’s available. So imagine, if you will, Lily Allen sped up to 78 RPM or perhaps a babyfied Deniece Williams, and that’ll get you started. Over standard R&B instrumentation, her near inhuman sweetness would probably be pretty terrifying, or at least scan as consumerist parody.

Luckily, For All We Know surrounds NAO with Funktronic grooves as eccentric as she is—the gift of a small army of producers hailing from the oh-so-British wonky scene. Spotify top track “Fool to Love” is the genre’s epitome: fat, buzzy bass licks, snappy synth percussion, the occasional wacky, overcompressed future-comput-

arts & culture er sound, and NAO happily vogueing over it all, having a pretty swag time. This would probably be the song to check out if you’re curious about this sound.

It is the sound, though, so your first couple listens will likely have you lost in the swamp, with not a lot of tracks sticking out.

But few are less than pleasant, so sorting out the different hooks and atmospheres gets addictive, fast. Michael Jackson freaks (er, healthy Michael Jackson freaks) should love “We Don’t Give A,” NAO’s colorful twist on his classic foot-stomping (I HAVE BEEN ROMANTICALLY MISTREATED) protest anthems. Gentle creeper “Adore You” is the album’s smoothest cut, with the skinniest bass line and the lightest percussion, sounding how I imagine a rainy day in cyberspace would. Then there’s “Inhale Exhale,” which brings a biblical amount of taunting, schoolyard attitude, and NAO just meets it effortlessly. All the swagger of great Boom-Bap, without any of the struggle bars.

That being said, she has her limitations. Unlike her Alt-R&B peers, artists like FKA Twigs and Kelela who sing about unhealthy sex over abrasive IDM beats, darkness doesn’t come naturally to NAO. Though her producers are up to the task— “In The Morning” alternates spooky synthesized ghost screams with menacing, gear-rattling drum patterns—when forced to lower her pitch, NAO sounds overwhelmed. The album’s interludes are a minor misstep as well—lo-fi “voice memos” of NAO and her collaborators that subtract from the mystery of her voice. Full disclosure though: I’ve seen her live, and whatever she loses in intimacy, she regains in adorability. It’s a bop.

Track Picks: “Get to Know Ya,” “Inhale Exhale,” “Happy,” Score: 3.5/5

Anderson .Paak Malibu

If all goes as planned, this is the dude you’ll brag to your kids about seeing.

Packing a water-deprived voice more textured than all the high-end, designer item sandpaper you might care to name, Anderson.Paak puts a stupid amount of charisma toward a singular sound: androgenizing the vocal stylings of hiphop and R&B so thoroughly that it’s frequently unclear whether he’s rapping or crooning, and you finally just have to call it showmanship. Motown warm and blessed with copious record hiss, Paak is easily pegged as the trendy, NPR Tiny Desk version of Bruno Mars—nothing more than a nostalgia act. Though his songs often begin with a real drum beat and James Brown guitar lick, they pack in enough weirdo sonic detail to reward close listening (check out the terrifying little electronic gasp right before the first chorus of “Put Me Through” and the random, millisecond-long guitar solo right after!). He’s maybe the most perfect crossover artist of our era, so it’s kinda weird that household-name-status continues to elude him. Maybe obscurity is what he wants, “Fuck fame, that killed all my favorite entertainers,” he raps on “The Seasons | Carry Me.” Well…here’s your chance to get him there anyway.

Malibu is probably the most fully-formed album by any of these artists. It is, at least, the only one confident enough to open with its quietest song, the devastatingly wistful autobiography of “The Bird.” From there, Paak alternates tight, muscular pockets of groove like “Am I Wrong” and “Come Down” with patient, languorous speak/sing suites that revel in their runtimes. While some of the latter are superficially repetitive—“The Waters” takes us on the same long, sighing journey as “Room in Here,” simply switching the instrumental vehicle from piano chords to bass guitar pulses—the force and variety of Paak’s insights carry listeners through.

Save some space for “Silicon Valley,” one of the most beautiful and daring songs in the English language. It’s a frustrated lament, a true soul stomper, dedicated to a girl hiding behind her towering breast implants, begging her to reveal the beating soul “under that tender titty meat.” Unabashedly mixing the vulgar with the empathetic, the song ultimately argues they’re one and the same—different forms of the intimacy that Paak craves. “Silicon Valley” tends to repulse, often drawing accusations of sexism from Paak’s haters and well-wishing cringes from his fans. But couched within Malibu’s generous package, it comes into view as the ultimate expression of honesty from a genuine pop searcher. Open your heart.

Track Picks: “Come Down,” “Heart Don’t Stand a Chance,” “Silicon Valley” Score: 4.5/5

20 D.R.A.M.

Big Baby D.R.A.M In 2016, no pop star was more fun to root for than D.R.A.M. Blessed with the deep vocal range of a gospel singer, he did the world a favor and trained his prodigious talent toward the creation of bomb-ass turn up music. The singles dropped like manna; over cheap hi-hats and rinky-tink piano, D.R.A.M racked up enough iconic goofball moments to cement his legend. First came “Broccoli,” which made a Mickey Mouse whistle the centerpiece of a song about how D.R.A.M’s weed is hotter than your girl. “Cash Machine” wielded similar thematics, sampling a bill-counter to punctuate its argument that money is all a man needs for romantic fulfillment. Swooping in to satisfy the suddenly burning question, “is D.R.A.M, like, not into sex?” came “Cute,” which answered—“yes, but only after a couple dates.”

K-Mart air-horns fill the air as we learn from D.R.A.M’s e-harmony profile that “the first thing we need to know about him is that he is a foodie,” before he private messages to say he’s chosen us “like a Pokemon.” The hype for this album was nuts.

But all was not well. If listening to D.R.A.M’s singles was like cheering on the class-nerd for entering the Bar Mitzvah dance circle, buying his album was like watching him grow into a toxic internet misogynist. “Monticello Avenue” is all about the indignity of having to sleep with groupies who aren’t “big fans.” “In a Minute/In House” reveals the meaningless sex was just to keep him warm while on tour away from his true girl. “100%” is supposed to ease her mind when D.R.A.M. says “she’s got way more to provide for [him] than those whores.” So much for being “beyond all that fuck shit.”

Obviously all of that would be tolerable, even “sleazily” enjoyable if the deep cuts were as strong as the singles. But while they certainly sound more expensive—“Misunderstood” brings bombastic guitar and an actual rapper (Young Thug) and “Sweet Va Breeze” has actual instruments—it’s all empty weight, and nothing comes close to “Broccoli”s addictive simplicity.

However, perhaps humbled by the crummy Spotify numbers, D.R.A.M’s 2017 tracks (available on the album’s deluxe edition) cut down on the runtimes, stock up on meme rappers, and represent a return to form. Hopefully, he plays some of those.

Track Picks: “Broccoli,” “Ill Nana,” “Cute.”

Score: 2.5/5

Rico Nasty

Sugar Trap 2 and new singles In a Soundcloud era dominated by rainbow-grilled pedophiles and raging, spikyhaired domestic-abusers, 20-year-old trap rapper Rico Nasty gets a lot of attention for being, uh-oh, a well-adjusted and intelligent woman. That’s cool and all, but I think it’s more interesting that a year after becoming a mother, Rico popped a gasket, picked up an auction barker level of vocal strain, and started going hard.

Admittedly, early juvenilia like the “Hey Arnold” single and the Tales of Tacobella tape had a somewhat wearying sweetness about them, featuring nearly as much singing as rapping. Not so with Sugar Trap 2. The first three tracks see Rico introducing a throated bark that’s relatively tame to the full-mouthed yelp of Denzel Curry. Led by Japanese woodwind and gentle drumstick hits, album opener “Key Lime OG” sets the right tone, giving Rico plenty of tranquility to disrupt with bars like “Mike Tyson/ I’m a fucking bite her.” Her vocals do,

arts & culture eventually, take a xan with the “welcome to my treehouse” title cut (“We got OG, we got powder/We got choppers and flowers), and by the time we reach the hilariously named “La La Land Outro” we’re in club trance mode.

Sugar Trap 2’s loss of energy was troubling, but Rico opened her first 2018 single screaming “Don’t worry ‘bout a bitch,” and all was right in the world. Furthering my theory that gentle maternal bliss was what set her off, Rico sounds positively irate that she didn’t get “to smack a bitch today,” and I hope her life remains quiet if pure rage is what it’s gonna get us. Follow-up “Party Goin Dumb,” likely aware of this capacity for fire and fury, is a deranged, ego-mad hype cut for Rico’s own power to turn up a room. If your attendance at this concert remains unsecured, her newest track contains the bar “I make mo’ money than my old teachers and I’m proud of that/ You thought you was teachin’ me, well, bitch, I shoulda taught yo ass.” Isn’t that exactly what you want to be screaming before finals?

Sugar Trap 2: Fairly Lit/5 New Singles: Lit/5

Rina Sawayama Rina EP

Dirty secret: the commercial pop of today will be the trendy indie music of tomorrow. Careerist 60s surf bands gave birth to 70s Punk, vapory 80s mall rock became the second Bon Iver album, and now Britney Spears is Rina Sawayama. Japanese born, London raised, a political science concentrator—the differences don’t register: Sawayma has the vocal tics of early-aughts, made-in-the-USA superdivas. With the help of genius producer Clarence Clarity, she rides chaotic, shifting sonic tapestries that require the listener to fight their way through sheets of falling glitter to find her hooks. This task can be forbiddingly dense, but trust me, the tunes are there.

“Ordinary Superstar” synthesizes a garage-y Avril Lavigne soundscape out of light guitar, whirring buzz-beaters, and middle-school bells for Rina’s ace Mandy Moore impression. Ceiling-burster “10-20-40” is a classic Christina vocal given sparkling showers of cathartic synth in the choruses and fun Gaga futurisms.

For those choking on sugary sweetness, “Alterlife” offers more hard-edged guitar lines in four minutes than the last Arctic Monkeys album did in its entirety.

Badass moment after badass moment is all well and good, but Rina goes an extra mile, conceiving her debut EP as an intricate song cycle about internet loneliness and social anxiety. “Tunnel Vision” creates such a nightmare scenario of phone-addiction and “relationships going down the drain” that it relies on Shamir’s angelic vocal feature to keep it from utter despair. With “Take Me As I Am,” Rina rewrites “Till the World Ends” as an anxious self-destruction anthem, switching out Britney’s extinction-via-orgy for one girl’s apocalyptically low self-esteem. “Cyber Stockholm Syndrome” brings both threads together, telling the story of a teen so lost in online romance that she’s finally lifted “across the distant galaxy”. It’s a genius project: Body-snatching the pop-stars of our childhoods, Rina invests their cold corporate husks with new warmth, crafting tender and honest character portraits. That down-to-earth empathy has earned her a dedicated fanbase. When she plays the one that goes “don’t you wanna be ordinary with me,” I know I’ll be singing along.

Track Picks: “Ordinary Superstar,” “Cyber Stockholm Syndrome,” “Tunnel Vision” Score: 4/5

22

Fried Chicken in the Snow A Tasty Delivery Option For the End of Winter

By Pia Mileaf-Patel — illustrated by Miranda Villanueva

Where else but Providence does it snow in April? And then hail in April.

And then rain all week. And then snow again. But where else can you get food from one of Bon Appetit’s Best New Restaurants of 2017 delivered right to your door? And at a reasonable price, too. Providence, it turns out, can be pretty lit. This might even mitigate the prolonged seasonal depression fogging the entire city. Or maybe we’re just all eating our feelings. Bucktown is slinging some excellent New Orleans style meals in Federal Hill, and is worth the trip for the $1 oyster special on Monday afternoons alone, but when having a fried feast delivered to your door (dorm), going all in is the only way, and delivery oysters are not something I’m willing to try.

For $15, or $13 in house, you get a heck of a lot of fried chicken—about half a bird—and two sides wrapped up in a greasy, fragrant box of “this will make me feel better about the hail storm, and all the work I didn’t do today.” Those

sides span from the baked, gooey, good kind of mac and cheese to pickled cucumber salad—a vegetable that can stand up to piles of fried chicken crust.

There’s collard greens, potato salad, and waffle fries too, which come doused in some heavenly red spice that’s not quite Old Bay, but hotter, and a secret recipe.

These sides are all $3 a piece in case you want to try more than the two that come with. Bucktown also offers the requisite coleslaw if you’re into that (I once tried to start a meme called “slaw or nah,” emphasis on “nah,” so I don’t know if I’m the right person to talk to about what distinguishes the good stuff from the bad. It’s all mayo salad to me.

This meme did not take off ).

Other platter options follow the same side dish format. You can opt for a fried shrimp situation or the catchof-the-day fish fry rather than chicken.

Aside from these platter options, Bucktown’s got sandwiches galore. There’s a classic fish or chicken thigh sandwich, honey butter chicken biscuit, and

shrimp or oyster po’boy. There’s even a fried bologna sandwich clocking in at $5 and bound to leave you full through the next two meals.

Speaking of good value, there’s also a burger that you can make a double and add bacon to. In other words, Bucktown is not here to leave you hungry… your body might recommend a salad the next day, but who wants to eat a salad in the snow? On the bright side, it’ll probably be 80 degrees and sunny the day after an April Providence storm.

Your sauce options are extensive: remoulade, tartar, comeback, aioli, cocktail sauce. I recommend either the black pepper ranch (and I’m not even into ranch re: the mayo-y texture—see above “slaw or nah”) or the creole mustard sauce, which are both excellent.

Bon Appetit suggests you “order the largest quantity of fried food that your crew can handle.” I couldn’t second that more, but please leave room for banana pudding.

A final word, my 16-year-old brother who subsists on plain pasta and avocado rolls with the seaweed ON THE OUTSIDE ONLY approved of the Bucktown spread. He was visiting for the weekend. “It’s lit,” he said after one bite of mac and cheese, and then asked us what parts of a chicken wing you’re supposed to eat. “Umm, the meat part?” Ultimately, you should not go outside when it’s dumping snow if you can avoid it, although who can avoid it when there’s things to see, things to do! And Bucktown is great—you should go there. Except it’s extra great for bringing their food to you and saving you one trip outside.

Hello Again

arts & culture

Watching Season Seven of New Girl

By James Feinberg — illustrated by Phoebe Ayres Writer/creator Elizabeth Meriwether’s brilliant, shockingly long-lasting sitcom New Girl started its seventh and final season April 10 on Fox, and if you want to see how far it has come, look no further than Schmidt (Max Greenfield), its breakout character and the source of the Krameresque typecasting that will surely follow Greenfield for the rest of his career. In the show’s pilot, Schmidt was a self-assured, sexually aggressive bro/marketing executive whose idea of flirting was pleading the vapors and pulling off his V-neck t-shirt. Now, seven years later (ten in the show’s timeline), Schmidt is a fussy stay-at-home dad with a Super Troopers mustache, and the role of the hyperspecific, out-there weirdo has gradually fallen to his former roommate, Winston (the inimitable Lamorne Morris). Winston, initially the ostensible straight man of the central group of unlikely loftmates, started the series off playing Latvian basketball, then became a sports radio producer, and is now a color-blind cop obsessed with puzzles and his exotic shorthair cat, Furguson.

If there’s a succinct way to endorse this show, it’s that all of the above feels totally earned.

The first two seasons of New Girl, notable at the time for Zooey Deschanel’s seemingly inexplicable decision to leave the movies to star as middle school teacher Jess Day (and launch the unfortunate adjective “adorkable”), were flawless hangout television—the humor wasn’t slapstick or situation-oriented like most of its network brethren. Instead, the laughs (and there have always been a great many laughs) were behavioral.

Winston, left alone with Jess’s friend Cece (Hannah Simone), persisted in referring to their time together as a “Winston-Cece mess-around,” a moniker that inexplicably stuck. The loftmates feigned their disgust when “Takin’ Care of Business” came on a bar’s jukebox, only to

slowly segue into an almost frighteningly enthusiastic group sing-along. Schmidt pronounced chutney “chut-a-ney.” It was in many ways the twenty-first century’s Seinfeld, more interested in social mores and foibles than hugging and learning, only set in Los Angeles, heavy on jokes about drinking games, and featuring 100 percent more guest appearances by Prince.

The only narrative that came to fruition in any of this was the prolonged willthey-won’t-they between Jess and oafish bartender turned hugely successful writer, Nick Miller (Jake Johnson). Thus the inevitable issues when it turned out that they would—after an almost painfully gradual transition from friendship, in season three, Nick and Jess became a couple, and the show lost creative steam fast and hard. Meriwether’s strengths as a writer have always been comedic tension and lack of resolution (note how the panicked Nick’s eyes widen, and stay that way, when faced with even the slightest social discomfort). No surprise, then, that Nick and Jess were quickly separated, and the show set about digging itself out of its hole over the following three seasons. New Girl, as a rule, isn’t the best at dealing with endings.

How then, to consider this seventh season, eight episodes squeezed into Fox’s schedule at Meriwether’s behest to wrap up the story? The story didn’t need wrapping up, not really—by the end of the workmanlike but effective sixth-season finale, written by Meriwether, Nick and Jess are safely in each other’s arms, Schmidt and Cece, now married, are expecting, and Winston is engaged to Aly (guest star Nasim Pedrad). There’s never really any doubt, in the seventh season’s first episodes, that Nick and Jess will end up engaged, too, though the show tries to convince us that it’s not a done deal. The end of the whole rigamarole has been relatively easy to predict for the past season

and a half, which is probably the reason the really chokingly hilarious episodes of yesteryear have been relatively few and far between. Everyone on the show is financially successful and in a happy, stable relationship. What’s funny about that?

New Girl seems to be back just because its audience wasn’t yet finished with the characters. In the second episode of the season, the show manages to work Winston, Nick and Schmidt back into the loft (only Nick and Jess still live there), and the environment seems to reinvigorate the characters and resurrect the digressive ping-pong dialogue that’s become the show’s trademark. (Nick, as to why he owns Mao’s Little Red Book: “You see a red book, you buy a red book.” Schmidt: “What do you do with blue books?” Nick: “Don’t buy.” Schmidt: “Yellow books?”

Nick: “Wait on it.” Winston, who’s on the couch watching Three Men and a Baby, chimes in: “That’s true.”) If the contrivances that drive these interactions have become more noticeably sitcommy since the show’s inception, it’s largely forgivable. Story doesn’t matter—all it takes is these five characters in a room (especially the men, whose bizarre inner lives have always been better-developed), and the sparks inevitably fly.

Finding the right way to end a series is a tricky thing, but New Girl may have stumbled on a solid solution in the ending of Tuesday’s episode, six weeks before the real thing: As Schmidt and Cece, done in by their three-year-old, Ruth, collapse onto their bed in exhaustion, Jess sings a lullaby, Winston does barbershop backing vocals, and Nick tells sordid stories about his childhood in Chicago all at the same time, creating a beautiful cacophony of comic nonsense. To cap it off, Ruth marches into the bedroom, screams “I’m awake!” and smashes a pair of cymbals together. Just another day in L.A.

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Let’s Get Our Free Lattes!

Reporting from Shiru Cafe By divya santhanam

My mother always told me not to give my personal information to strangers.

Especially strangers that offer me food.

Who knew that after sixteen years of carefully following her advice, I’d give it all up for a latte.

The latest in a chain of Shiru Café’s opened in Providence last month. Their mission statement is simple: “To create a place where students can learn about the professional world and envision their future careers.” With nearly 28 stores, Shiru Café went global when they expanded from their home in Japan to India. They boast great success at India’s IITs (Indian Institutes of Technology) and are described by students there as the “coolest and best place...to chill out with friends.”

Curious to discover what was inside the new store that had replaced Growler’s Wing Bar, I found myself entering the brightly lit, spacious store filled with smiling students. The process was simple: I had to create an account on the website, select my drink, scan my QR code and voila, my free drink would arrive, prepared by fellow Brown students.

“I feel like I’m in a parallel universe,” my friend whispered. We slowly filled out the questionnaire listed on the website, providing a plethora of personal information, including our names, ages, class years, ID numbers, and concentra-

tion. “Hurry up,” my friend said, “Let’s “No one knows what Shiru Café is or get our free lattes!” I couldn’t shake the why it’s here, but let’s enjoy it while we uneasiness I felt as everyone around can, because when life hands you free me nonchalantly filled out the survey. drinks, you drink them.”—Zander Kim “I feel like I’m selling my soul by telling “Wow, they have a lot of outlets but them everything about me,” I confessed their hot chocolate is not very good.”— to my friend. What corporation in the Alicia DeVos world offers free drinks, connects stuIt is interesting to note that no one dents with companies both in person to my knowledge has been the recipient and via email and asks for nothing in of any company outreach since the cafe return? Shiru Café is a business and we opened a month ago. While Microsoft, are its products; our information is the Accenture and PricewaterhouseCoocurrency we use to pay for a free latte pers are listed as sponsors, we have yet every two hours. to see company logos on the cups, meet As intrusive as that sounds, the dark- individuals from sponsor companies, er reality is that I probably sold my soul or receive information on potential job long before I entered Shiru Café. To- opportunities. How then, is Shiru Café day, our personal information is often making profit and what are they doing used as currency. Our right to priva- with our information if we haven’t recy, although referenced by the Fourth ceived the services promised?

Amendment of the Constitution, is no In the coming months, Shiru Café longer inalienable, but a commodity will continue to expand across North to be bartered and sold. Facebook, Mi- America to other elite colleges, Amcrosoft, and Apple use our data to gen- herst, Yale, Harvard and Princeton erate revenue of up to $40 billion each among them. I have no doubt they will year. By attracting individuals with the gain access to data that most students promise of social networking, technolo- wouldn’t readily disclose to strangers.

Vintage and Antique Furniture, Art, Rugs, gy, or services, corporations gain access But if my conversations with my best Home Decor, Fine Collectibles, Jewelry, to their greatest asset—you. friend, the links I click on, and the phoAnything You Can Imagine I was curious to gather the thoughts tos I like are all floating somewhere on WWW.NOSTALGIAPROVIDENCE.COM of Post- staffers on Shiru Cafe and re- the interweb, why not get a free latte?

401-400-5810 corded the following opinions: Sorry mom.

236 Wickenden Street “I think unlimited coffee is dangerProvidence RI ous on many levels”—Katherine Luo

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19 SOUTH ANGELL ST

Songs of Sadness

arts & culture

The Communal Loneliness of Julien Baker

By Nicole Fegan I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow / I hope it bleeds all day long I discovered Julien Baker’s 2015 album Sprained Ankle last summer in a sticky hot, sun-ridden dorm room in Durham, North Carolina—not exactly the perfect setting for an album containing the lyric “Wish I could write songs about anything other than death.” Despite the moment’s oxymoronic atmosphere, I felt instantly attached to Julien. She was everything I had been for years: young, female, queer, depressed (post-depressed?), a recovering addict, a human being struggling with her sheer capacity to cause pain in the universe. Julien Baker had faced hardship with her life and was doing something productive and creative with it. I, on the other hand, have yet to cross that threshold.

Our friends say it’s darkest before the sun rises / We’re pretty sure they’re all wrong That day, I smiled for the first time at around 6:20 p.m. after multiple rounds of listening to the album. I remember crouching into a ball on a couch, motionless, wondering how a girl and guitar was able to conjure up so much distress. Song after song, I could hear the honesty in her acoustic guitar, the slight reverb of an electric, and the near complete lack of harmony. She was in the room with me, baring her soul in lyrics like “You’re gonna run, it’s alright, everybody does” and “I know I shouldn’t make my friends all worry when I go out at night.” I remember, how after all those hours of slow indie folk, you made me laugh over Skype.

That’s what finally did it.

I hope it stays dark forever / I hope the worst isn’t over I cannot adequately describe how it felt to see her live with you in October, one day after her new album’s release, and witness how her stickered guitar swallowed her whole body as if she was not there—as if only the music was.

Sprained Ankle had so quickly become an integral part of my being and there in that concert hall, as she invited the audience to sing along to the encore, I knew that concert had entered the same emotional space in my life.

And I hope you blink before I do / I hope I never get sober Every so often, someone points out to me that I look like her. Someone once messaged me on Instagram just to say, “dude u look so much like julien baker,” a compliment I never take lightly. The cashier at the Newbury Comics we went to this January took one look at the record I was purchasing— Sprained Ankle, whose cover features a picture of Julien herself—and told me I kinda looked like her, you know? You’ve been telling me for months that we look alike, so yeah. I do know.

And I hope when you think of me years down the line / You can’t find one good thing to say Julien Baker once said in an interview, “My reason to stay alive is to show people that there is a reason to stay alive. How about that?” Yeah, Julien.

How about that?

And I’d hope that if I found the strength to walk out / You’d stay the hell out of my way At this point, if you know Julien Baker or you know this song, you will know that these lyrics are not from one of her songs. They are from the emotionally destructive second verse of “No Children”, an upbeat meditation by The Mountain Goats on the failing love between two unlovables. The relationship has not worked out. The only thing left is hopelessness and a twang of anger. As the singer of that band, John Darnielle, says, “when that time comes, there won’t be much to do besides sing.”

When that time came, I screamed every single lyric to this song in your car.

I am drowning / There is no sign of land / You are coming down with me /

Hand in unlovable hand It’s April and we are seeing Julien Baker together for the second time, this time in Providence. I start crying as soon as the first song begins because how else am I supposed to react to being in the same room as the musician who somehow intimately knows every destructive thought I have ever had? The tears go in waves, a fight breaks loose between a drunk guy and a security guard, one solitary man yells “YEAH!” after each song is performed—all in all, it’s a standard seated concert for a depressing artist. That is, until halfway through the set, when it happens. My friend to my left lets out an audible gasp and holds his head in his hands. It is important to note that I have a distressingly bad musical memory, so I don’t realize anything unusual immediately.

That is until the third line, and it dawns on me. In the midst of her emotionally destructive concert, Julien Baker has somehow managed to reach into the musical canon and handpick the second verse from “No Children” to cover; I start shaking. My eyes are fixated on her because I don’t dare look at you; my unlovable hand is twitching. She glides seamlessly into her song “Blacktop” so we do not have time to clap right after.

That’s okay, though. I don’t think I have it in me to clap; I am motionless.

And I hope you die / I hope we both die “No Children” ends with the hope, the plea that we die. Destruction is all that is left of us, right? It hasn’t worked out so we may as well reach for the worst case scenario. In the same interview as before, Julien Baker said, “It’s like a mathematical balance, as much as we’re able to have the experience ‘bad’ or ‘ugliness’ or ‘pain,’ we can experience that amount of joy. And it’s worth sticking around.” The final song on her most recent album ends with the line, “I take it all back. I changed my mind. I wanted to stay.” How about that?

26

Looking Back on the Ivy Film Fesitval

Post- Recaps the Six Feature Film Premieres

By A&C Staff, Zander Kim and Saanya Jain — illustrated by Rémy Poisson #TAKEMEANYWHERE Directed by Shia LaBeouf, Nastja Säde Rönkkö, and Luke Turner, available to watch on Vimeo Shia LaBeouf just wants to make friends. His 2016 piece, #TAKEMEANYWHERE, is a 44-minute documentary made with Nastja Säde Rönkkö and Luke Turner that follows the trio as they spend a month “hitchhiking the internet”—tweeting out their location and letting random people pick them up and drop them off. As they criss-cross their way across the country, they meet a motley crew of white people that share their dreams, fears, and histories with the camera.

The result is a fragmented testament to the power of human connection that sways between genuine sentimentality and incoherence.

The ultimate failure of the film is that its driving force is A Famous Person Doing Funny Shit rather than the

very humanism it posits as the cure to the woes of celebrity and technology.

Not that I’m complaining. Shia’s onscreen magnetism and physical presence in the theater (Salomon 101) were amazing and hilarious. Seeing Shia at some kid’s baseball game or dancing in the backseat of a Camry made for some pretty good cinema. This type of cinema is not the point of the movie. The film works against itself, for in the end, Shia’s at-times beautiful, human work only serves to put him back on display, this time in front of a bunch of Brown students who would just “love to talk more after the screening.” - Julian Castronovo RBG Directed by Betsy West ’73 and Julie Cohen, will be released May 4 on HBO In their crisp and flattering film, Cohen and West move beyond the meme

to educate audiences about Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Among the surprises of the film is its substantial focus on RBG’s loving marriage with Martin Ginsburg, who died in 2010. It was Martin who helped raise their two kids and took over the domestic duties so that RBG could spend long nights working away on law briefs and cases. This egalitarian marriage did more than a fair share to inspire RBGs role in second-wave feminism. Before she was appointed to the Supreme Court by President Bill Clinton, RBG co-founded the Women’s Rights Project at the ACLU and argued two Supreme Court cases, Frontiero v. Richardson (1973) and Weinberger v. Wiesenfeld (1975), that helped establish precedents against gender discrimination under the U.S. Constitution. Whenever a male Supreme Court Justice made a sexist remark, she told herself “never to [reply in] anger” and to keep calm by “thinking about daughters and granddaughters.”

If, as RBG said in her 1993 confirmation hearing, “real change happens one step at a time,” RBG might have been better served by asking why efforts to secure reproductive rights, increase female representation, and fight pay discrimination seem to have made so little progress in the last 50 years. RBG’s friendship with the late conservative Justice Antonin Scalia emerges as a particularly anarchistic tendency of liberals to forget what they are fighting for. Cohen and West’s film also brushes aside criticism that RBG should have retired when President Obama could have replaced her. If RBG dies in the next few years with Trump in office, RBG will be a far different watch. As

arts & culture monumental as RBG’s contribution to U.S. law may be, her legacy is anything but secure. - Josh Wartel

On Chesil Beach Directed by Dominic Cooke, will be released May 18 The opening scene of Dominic Cooke’s film On Chesil Beach, based on Ian McEwan’s novel of the same name, features newlyweds Edward (Billy Howle) and Florence (Saoirse Ronan) walking down a stretch of the titular beach conversing happily amidst the sound of crashing waves. The scene is idyllic. The backdrop picturesque. But I couldn’t help but fixate on how uncomfortable it probably was for Ronan to walk on the pebble beach in her flats. I could almost feel the individual stones digging painfully into the soles of her shoes—the secondhand discomfort preventing me from being fully taken by the beauty of the moment.

However, I didn’t realize how apt my awareness of both the beauty and the painful reality of the scene was until Cooke discussed his views of the movie in the Q&A session that preceded the

IFF screening.

Describing On Chesil Beach as an anti-nostalgia film, Cooke said that the movie breaks the contract established by a history of British period films that depict the past as lovely—instead challenging the general notion some people have that the past is better than the present by illustrating how such a judgment depends on the perspective from which the past is considered.

The film’s plot further compliments this theme of subverting preconceived notions of the ideal.

Set in 1962, the movie follows Edward and Florence as they navigate the first night of their honeymoon: a time in one’s life that’s typically idealized. The film, however, quickly makes clear that Edward and Florence’s night will be far from perfect as the two characters—both sexually inexperienced— are ridden with anxiety over their upcoming consummation.

Both Howle and Ronan give compelling performances. Edward’s eagerness and insecurity translates into a series of fumbling advances that the hesitant and subtly terrified Florence tries to avoid. This makes for a mix of comical and excruciating scenes that ultimately suggest there’s more to Florence’s evasions than her inexperience. Although those who have read the book will find that the film’s ending is not as open-ended, Cooke’s adaptation provides a cathartic conclusion and raises important issues of class, sexuality, and societal expectations that are worth considering. - Celina Sun

We The Animals Directed by Jeremiah Zagar, will be released in 2018 This past Friday, a superstitious Friday the 13th, the Ivy Film Festival started off its weekend events with an advanced screening of We the Animals, a mesmerizing queer coming-of-age story focused on Jonah (Evan Rosado), the youngest of three brothers, and his family. Based on the book of the same name by author Justin Torres, the film has been a hit with critics and audiences, receiving the 2018 Sundance NEXT Innovator Award. Powerful, efficient, and raw, We the Animals garners many comparisons to Barry Jenkins’s Moonlight. Jonah and his brothers are close as can be when the film begins, spending most of the day together as their parents sleep in sunlight after working night shifts. They share an unbreakable bond but also come to cherish simple moments with their mother (Sheila Vand) and father (Raul Castillo).

The telling of the family dynamics is particularly impressive. As Jonah’s brothers, Manny (Isaiah Kristian) and Joel (Josiah Gabriel), slowly become more like their father, we begin to see how Jonah is different from them, a little more sensitive and introspective.

The film also introduces a way of storytelling rarely seen. The film is structured around voiceover narration from Jonah, as well as animations, which we later learn are drawings of Jonah’s own

28

ugs, ry,

OM

imagination.

These drawings, scribbles, and storybook-tellings serve as magnificent scene transitions and allow room to show the ruminations and questions going through Jonah’s mind.

As Jonah grows older with his brothers, as they shoplift or horse around, the disconnect between the ways Jonah and his brothers see the world expands, and alienation grows. One of the most sentimental moments for Jonah is when he and his brothers huddle under a blanket and chant, “body heat” repeatedly. It is the world under this blanket, Jonah’s life, that We the Animals explores and the one Jonah can’t escape. Add this to your watch list for 2018—few films are as universal, meditative, and focused as We the Animals.

- Zander Kim

Eighth Grade Directed by Bo Burnham, will be released July 13

Only a decade ago, Mason, the protagonist of Richard Linklater’s Oscar-nominated Boyhood (2014), complained that girls weren’t interested in seeing any of the top three movies of the summer, The Dark Knight, Tropic Thunder, and Pineapple Express. In Eighth Grade, the story of the last few weeks of 13-year-old Kayla Day (Elise Fisher)’s middle school experience, there isn’t a movie to be found. Kayle spends much of her time on Instagram, Snapchat, and, especially, YouTube, where she has a channel of advice videos. Eighth Grade is Burnham’s first feature; he is best known as a comedian on YouTube and Netflix. What new ground Eighth Grade breaks is entirely in contemporary pop culture; comic relief comes from an off-screen boy who can’t stop saying:: “Lebronnnnn James.”

While Eighth Grade will garner comparisons to last year’s breakout hit Lady Bird, Burnham’s protagonist is 174 Ives Street more vulnerable and scared than Providence, RI 02906 Lady Bird. Kayla 401-272-5911 is dealing with all the typical problems of middle-school, only Mon-Sat worse; she has few close friends, 10:00AM-10:00PM little confidence, and pines after a cool boy, Aiden, in a Steph Curry jersey. A Sp Wine arkling high school girl, s for r u e v r Olivia (Emily o ery taste e Y t be rs & f a Robinson), takes r budg c te uar et q Kayla under her d hea wing, but her best friend, Riley (Daniel Zolghadri), tries to coerce her past her

Madeira Liquors

comfort zone. In a vein that recalls Call Me By Your Name, Eighth Grade climaxes with a father-daughter conversation. It may be hard for Kayla to see now, but one day, middle school will be just a distant memory. - Josh Wartel Blindspotting Directed by Daveed Diggs ’04, will be released July 27th Daveed Diggs talked to me for 98 seconds last Saturday, but that’s not the only reason I’m going to remember Blindspotting for a long time. Its deft navigation of tone and a hilarious scene involving mesmerizing salesmanship, hair straighteners, and the words “Fuck Alfred Hitchcock” continue to stand out. Blindspotting follows Collin (Diggs), a man coming out of his probation period, during his (mis)adventures with Miles (Casal), over the course of a week in Oakland.

Diggs and Rafael Casal, played by Diggs’s real life best friend, produced, wrote, and starred in the movie they first conceived together ten years ago.

The original inspiration was twofold.

The first was verse: both Casal and Diggs have musical backgrounds, and you can tell. Sound is the heartbeat of the movie, popping, gliding and pulsing, taking center stage when one of them breaks out into rap or during a dizzying dream sequence. The other half of the equation is Oakland, as both Diggs and Casal wanted to represent the town they grew up in, and they don’t let you forget it: Oakland is front and center in any given scene, even emblazoned on Collins’ T-shirts.

Blindspotting addresses big issues— gentrification, police brutality, incarceration—with both humor and specificity (a $10 all organic brand of green juice “go jus” makes recurring appearances) in a way that hits home. But the movie is ultimately about identity. I was amazed to learn that the name of the movie was chosen during the editing process and not before, because it fits so perfectly. I won’t spoil how— you’ll have to watch and find out for yourself. - Saanya Jain

Illustrated by Rémy Poisson

30 Literary References to Spring 1. “April is the cruelest month...” (T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland) 2. Silent Spring (Rachel Carson) 3. “Spring and All” (William Carlos Williams) 4. “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” (George Orwell, 1984) 5. “Nature’s first green is gold...” (Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay) 6. “What a strange thing! to be alive beneath cherry blossoms.” (Kobayashi Issa, haiku) 7. “From you have I been absent in the spring...” (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 98) 8. “Spring comes on the World” (Emily Dickinson) 9. “Yet, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring.”

(Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray) 10. “Well, you know the ducks that swim around in it? In the springtime and all? Do you happen to know where they go in the wintertime, by any chance?” (J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye) “Every one of us has an anarchist and a totalitarian within us.”

(Looking at pre-frosh) “Do not come here, you will be sucked into a neoliberal achievement rat race.”

“The original content was the Ten Commandments. God knew if you put it into a list, it would get clicks.”

“I’m not saying that I make good decisions, but economics is the study of evil.”

“Zionism was a mistake.”

“I look like a murderous daisy.”

—Anna Harvey, A Half-Formed Thing 4.27.17

“Wander through your body, like a loving groundskeeper.”

—Claribel Wu, How to Quiet Your Mind 4.27.17

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