post- 10/14/2022

In This Issue

Marin Warshay

Joyce Gao

2

Life as Conjunctions

Detaching From Detachment

3

Mack Ford

The Walls and Me 4

7

Sean Toomey

6

Evan Gardner

AJ Wu 5

Of Wind and Fall Layering

Talkin' Tennessee

Long Way Home Nadia Heller 9

Surviving Sick Season

postCover by Ella Buchanan Insta:@nanahcube

OCT 14

VOL 30

— ISSUE 4

FEATURE

Detaching From Detachment and how I learned to enjoy sweet potatoes

By Joyce Gao Illustrated by Lucid Clairvoyant IG: @l.u.cid I’ve always known that if you really try to stare into space long enough, you can pry open the screen of reality and reveal a sliver of what is behind. Growing up, it was like a game, to lie awake during naptime and stare until I could see the frames of the world shifting off-kilter the slightest bit, just enough to let the detachment come through. Since reality was no longer real, I was no longer attached to anything: not the wooden bed frame, the drywall ceiling, my family’s conversation in the next room, or the body I reside in. My mind floated up like a heavy but determined helium balloon, to a distance where the world below looked like a cool Julian Voss Andreae sculpture; if you try a different angle, everything disappears into thin air. Once I was done with the game, I would break my gaze, and reality would readily unfold to occupy my entire field of vision again.

In psychology, this feeling is called depersonalizationderealization: observing oneself outside of one’s own body and perceiving things around oneself as not being real.

Although classified as a disorder at the extreme, most people have experienced this feeling at some point in their lives. For me, naptime during kindergarten was when I most often allowed myself to drift into detachment. I distinctly remember the lines of the ceiling tiles in the nap room, since I have seen them tilt and bend so many times in my mind.

If neither pleasant nor unpleasant things are real, then it

light and sharing our darkest moments until everyone cries.

The teachers would shut the doors and windows to block

makes no sense to get all involved and emotional about

Clichéd, I know, but the intimacy alone was enough to bring

out the sound of traffic, but in my moments of detachment,

them. If I wanted, I could just detach at any moment, so the

me to tears. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember

nothing could stop me from floating out to the city streets

people and events in my life reach me like commotions on

crying and confessing while my chest trembled like aged

and looking through the window at a room full of sleeping

land reach a fish in the water.

machinery. The tears came from a combination of being

children. I saw my friends sleeping in their small wooden

As I grew older and had less time dedicated to stare

so intensely connected to a group of people, talking openly

beds, and I saw myself breathing under a blue blanket, all

at the ceiling, I visited the feeling of detachment less

about myself for the first time in a while, embarrassment,

the while feeling the rise and fall of my chest and that same

frequently. Even so, it was comforting to know that it was

and feeling simultaneously hopeful about the changes I

blanket tucked snugly under my chin.

an option. By the time I was a teenager, I checked my ability

could make and hopeless about the limits of that future. I

It usually took some time to fully return to my

to detach like checking on a homemade fallout shelter. It

was too overwhelmed to process all of these emotions and

body after naptime, and even then the aftertaste of the

became less about the sensation of detachment itself and

possibilities—so I cried instead.

experience tended to linger. Once, we had sweet potatoes

more about the reassurance that, if things got out of hand,

Emotions still brimmed to the edge of my heart when

after the nap. Still dazed from detachment, I suddenly

I would still have this last escape to buffer me from the

we went back to our hotel room. I knew if I let all of the

began to think about how unreal food and taste are. I really

unpredictable world outside.

emotions spill out, I would probably not be able to collect

like sweet potatoes, but during a moment of detachment,

***

myself back up before tomorrow. This is the kind of moment

they were just a pleasant illusion—and pleasant illusions are

Right before I came to the United States for college,

that I reserve detachment for—when I desperately need to

still illusions. What is the point of enjoying something that

I lost my ability to detach. I was in a small hotel room in

press the easy button, run away, dissociate, at least for now.

might not even exist? As I chewed on my sweet potatoes,

Hangzhou that smelled of cigarettes and dampness, sniffling

I climbed into bed, took a deep breath, then gazed into the

I felt like I was just biting down on air. If sweet potatoes

from the cold and a long cry. I went there for a nonprofit

walls like I had so many times before. But this time, their

didn’t matter because they’re an illusion, then neither

training event with a friend, who was sitting in the bed next

sharp lines refused to tilt and let me escape from myself. No

would warm blankets, friends, or earning a prize at school.

to mine. By day, we learned about the organization and

matter how hard I tried, the walls still looked like walls: cold,

The same thought process applied to less pleasant things,

practical skills, and by night, we talked about ourselves. We

tangible, real, sealing me in.

like feeling abandoned by a friend or losing a beloved toy:

did the classic retreat-style activity of sitting around a dim

All the panic, grief, love, and fear that I had been holding

laugh over out-of-context Slack channel musings; And at the end of the day, my all-too-small Harkness desk where I return to a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats from Jo’s and J Kenji Lopez Alt’s new noodle recipe.

Our authors this week appear to be searching far and wide for their own care networks. In Feature, the author peers into the abstract and unpacks the dissociation she has felt at different points of her life, and the acts of love that bring her back to the present. One of our Narrative writers balances caring for herself in the moment, and for herself in the future, while the other one contemplates the comfort she finds inside significant walls. For A&C, our writers discuss the homes they find in unexpected places: whether that be through reading between the lines of Morgan Wallen’s music, or watching their relationship with their parents reflected on the silver screen.

And in Lifestyle, our writers discuss physical wellbeing, be it staying warm (and stylish) as the weather gets nippy, or staying healthy as everyone—me and my choppy cough included—seems to be falling ill.

As the pressures seem to be weighing extra heavy, I hope these stories are able to slide off the page and wrap you in a big ol’ word hug. Hang in, hang on, and a happy semester midpoint to all.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, First off, a virtual—or printed, depending on your preferred post- form of consumption—hug to all of you wonderful people. As we go around our oblong Prod table (over)sharing our responses to this week’s icebreaker (“How are you doing—like, actually doing?”), I’m acutely aware of our mutual desire for care as the semester reaches its midpoint high—or I guess low. For me, these tiny desks have been my support network getting me through the week: Those cute little seat desks where I let myself doze as my professor waxes poetic about strategy patterns, and dependency injections, and such and such that gets explained between my extra long blinks; NPR’s Tiny Desk where I find myself singing and conversing through the screen, as if catching up with Phoebe, Omar, and Lianne over a jam sesh and a cup of tea; The unsettlingly pretty desk in the upper bounds of the CIT where we cry over our code and

2

post–

With care and kindness,

Joe Maffa

A&C Managing Editor

FEATURE back all night spilled out of my heart. Somehow, I knew that I would never be able to detach again. Maybe it was the newness of the environment, the coldness, or my exhaustion that made everything that night felt like the build up to a long farewell. I got ready to clench my jaw through the nausea of disappointment, but the wave passed before I was ready. Instead, I found myself drawing in a long breath, and my body loosened up on its own accord. My emergency exit had crumbled before my eyes, but I was… relieved. Without a way to escape, I could finally stop thinking about escaping.

I could fully commit to work, to bond with people, to live my life in the present, because there wouldn’t be an alternative.

I don’t have to reason with myself that I actually might like sweet potatoes anymore.

So there I was, with the room enclosing me in a perfect square, while a faint, steady rhythm leaked from the faucet like a prelude to a larger symphony. My hands, made out of flesh over flesh, rested limp on the yellowed bed sheet. At this time of the year in South China, you can’t escape the clammy air or the misty rains in the afternoon, which find their ways into the palms of my hand through every damp sheet. I ran my fingers through them. It was cold and damp

Life as Conjunctions finding the and

and real, like the smell of rain when you step out of a small airplane cabin. to talk?”

This world was all I had now. There was nowhere else

kid. I could see the orange glare asking to come in, so I quietly walked over to the window and pushed up the shade. The room was swallowed by the golden hour’s breath.

My pasta-making roommate was encapsulated in the solar glow—visibly luminous heat. Recognizable but

by Marin Warshay Illustrated by Icy Liang

My friend leaned over from the other bed. “Do you want

her feet, reminding me of how my dad used to tickle mine as a

irreplicable. It was then that I realized why our house felt so incomplete and unsettling to me.

It’s roughly 5 p.m. I’m plopped down at our six-seat

It’s insular. It’s easy to get stuck inside. I’m quick to feel

kitchen table and observing my roommates as they begin to

like I have everything at an arm’s length. All my basic needs

trickle in from their days on campus in search of food for their

are a walk away—a walk which does not require putting on my

***

rumbling bellies. A symphony commences: microwave beeps,

shoes. But why would I want to settle at “just enough?”

In the morning, I hugged many people. I hugged

fridge slams, the click of our gas stove that has a laggy ignition.

For me, home means an inside and an outside. I need

my friend, even though we are both terrible at hugging,

This is the homey cacophony I yearned for when I

time spent inside typing away on my couch in pajamas and

especially with each other. I was still lightheaded from the

was in on-campus housing—knowing you are surrounded.

outside warmth from the breeze weaving through grass. I’m

previous night’s emotions, but it was light the way a willow

Doing mundane tasks together. Cleaning together. Existing

energized by cooking with a friend and sitting alone basking

branch is light, knowing it is connected to a trunk and

together. Boiling water together. That’s what I signed up for

in the light hitting Faunce steps. I want to sit on the roof with

roots that claw into the earth, no matter where the wind

in this living arrangement.

my roommates and smile because of the leaves falling on my

to be.

I nodded.

is blowing. I have lost one world, but I have this one, right

On paper.

here, right now. I rarely enjoy hugs, but it didn’t matter that

In theory.

morning, because they were my only way of telling people

Theoretically.

and it’s here—so now what? I have what I wanted. But just

what I couldn’t quite put into words then: I have nowhere

I love it. I do.

because I have an apartment now doesn’t mean it’s the only

else to be now, but there is no place I’d rather be than right

I really do.

place where life exists. I have an odd yearning for my old

here with you.

Right?

bed in Perkins. The chase for off-campus housing was so

Yes!

satisfying because it was nice to complain about dorm life. I

in the cotton wool of daily life: tedious, repetitive, our senses

Some of us come home with fresh news from the seven

am incredibly grateful to be living where I am. I am lucky to

muffled. But for a few unexpected moments, the world

hours we’ve spent apart: sometimes good, sometimes bad.

becomes violently clear and intense. One becomes truly

No matter the chatter, the movement of the scene is what

I miss proximity to green spaces and running into people.

present, truly awake. She calls these moments “moments

I’m enamored with. So why do I still feel unsettled in this new

The 15 minute walk from Fox Point to the green is hard to

of being,” a phrase that perfectly describes the embodiment

home I’ve fostered with some of my closest friends? Why does

motivate myself to do, but the incorporation of both greenery

that I felt that morning. It was as if I was seeing and hearing

a part of me still long for the on-campus world I left?

and home fuels my biophilia. Humans’—and certainly my

Virginia Woolf writes that for most of our lives, we live

head while I perch under a tree writing this.

It was entertaining to fantasize about having a home,

have the chance to do so. And, I miss campus.

people for the first time, and as I put my arms around them,

+

own—intrinsic love for the environment and living things has

we became one solid form with our feet planted into the

At home on the first day of classes, I was struck with an

become obvious in my race to living like an adult. I never

earth. As I held on to the hug, all the colors and words and

intense feeling. Not my senior year angst, not my first-day

want to lose being a kid, playing in the grass, sitting

shapes and sounds of that moment held on to me with a

excitement, but something else entirely. I noticed it when

under trees on the quiet green.

symphony of voices that sounded like “you are here you are

my roommate was swirling her rigatoni around in the saucer

I have to remind myself that the word “and” is

here you are here.” I am here, gladly.

we found on the side of the road. Rays of light bounced onto

a powerful thing. Spending time soaking up Brown

Flats 1. Ass 2. Stanley 3. Rascal

“That’s why we can’t drink. Because we’re so fertile.”

4. Earth 5. Tires 6.

♭

“What if you killed a worm and it’s just somebody’s boyfriend.”

7. Ballet 8. British apartments 9. -ulence 10. Chest

October 14, 2022

3

NARRATIVE and the community that I’ve built for myself here is

spiced scent of recently fallen acorns floats down to rest

which I can observe perfectly well. I want to be held by a

powerful. But taking time to do nothing, be alone, and

around the bench. The right armrest is perpetually sticky—

space. I want the very walls to wrap around me and press

acknowledge the sun’s beauty is brave.

maybe from tree sap or a long-ago spilled chocolate ice

gently inward. Nobody can see me in this place. It closes its eyes and gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead.

+

cream cone. From this bench, I can hear the screeching cry

It’s 5 p.m. and I walk into my kitchen. I say hello to

of a particularly obnoxious crow. He screams like someone

These are the spaces I imagine. Surely such places

my roommate making kale chips from our wilting greens,

has taken his lunch and smacked him on the head with a

reflect the state of my soul. There are hidden places that

pull up our shade, and release a breath.

newspaper and he needs nothing more than for the whole

reach out towards me with tantalizing fingertips, and there

She turns around. “How was your day?”

world to hear his indignation. I have named him Stuart. I am

are places that lurk in solemn silence, waiting for my hand;

“It was nice. Pretty busy, and I was able to rest when

very fond of him.

there are places that nudge, places that prod; there are

I needed to.”

I let the outdoors stream in and feel the comfort of merging my life, bound by “and.”

“How about you?”

The Walls and Me a love letter to hiding places

by Mack Ford Illustrated by Ella Buchanan Insta: @nanahcube

I like to sit on this bench in the late afternoon, because that’s when the oak tree shades the left side of the bench— the side which is just as sticky as all the other public benches in the world. By then, Stuart has exhausted his vocal chords is late afternoon and I am trying to read, only to find myself

places, I’ll admit, feels just a bit more unpleasant than slowly

distracted by the pleasant sun, and by the thought that it is a

peeling off one of my fingernails. For you, though, I will try.

terrible crime that anyone should have to concentrate when

Here is one of my places:

the sun is so bright and wide-armed.

There is a building on the corner of Jefferson Street

Then a man drove by in a gray sedan and yelled at me to give him a smile, you fucking dyke.

(even now I have changed the name so I may keep this place mine for a little while longer) that is in the shape of the

Then he drove away.

letter “L.” It is a sturdy building, with tall windows and great

Nothing moved except my breathing. I stared at the

sweeping ceilings. Most importantly, if you slip a brick in the

There is no greater joy than to find a new place. I collect

hard, somehow tougher than it had been before. Or maybe

places to think and, most of all, places to hide.

As my imagined places are mirrors of my soul, so my real places must contain a bit of my soul made tangible.

I am a private person. Even the thought of sharing my

place where the car had been. The bench beneath me was

while, places to dilly-dally. There are places to watch and

humming gently.

for the day, and the wind has settled in to rest for a while. It

tw: homophobic slur them: places to squirrel away in, places to sit and rest for a

places that hold me by my elbows and rock me to sleep,

it was just the concrete air slowly filling my lungs.

door of this building, it won’t lock for the night.

Walk into this building, then up to the second floor. It will be dark—it has to be, because evening is the only time

I long for these spaces where I might be unwatched, and

the building is free from crowds of students. Now, the only

the longing becomes a question. It asks why I would want

noise is the creaky breath of the building itself. Hear it

My hiding places are often fleeting: I lose them as

a place that can’t be seen. It asks who is always watching.

inhale, then exhale. There is a window on the second floor

quickly as I find them. I lose them to circumstance, to

Space becomes a labor; I have to constantly move in it, move

that opens halfway, the only window in the building that

accident, to memory. One morning, they pulled up the fire

through it, knowing it cannot be mine. I try to claim it, sit

opens even that much.

escape ladder, and now it’s just a bit too high to haul myself

for a moment, and find a brief reprieve. But it only ever lasts

to the top. Last year, I forgot which stairway brought me to

a moment.

My place is just at the corner of the building, in the crook of the “L.” Outside of this window is a roof, slanted on

the little room on the fourth floor of the public library that

To be a female, and particularly a female finder of

both sides like a gingerbread house, and framed by a gutter.

smelled like old books and cigarettes. Two summers ago,

places, is to always be watched. I am a spectacle, with men

If you crawl out of the window and slide down the roof to

I realized I was too heavy to swing myself onto even the

as my unbidden audience. Often, even when I am putting

the gutter, you will be propped between the roof and the wall

lowest branch of the sequoia tree in my childhood backyard.

on my socks in the morning and completely alone, I tuck

of the building. This little place is precarious and sturdy. I

To lose these beloved places causes me near-physical

my hair behind my ears. I am always conscious of the man,

could fall from the roof if it would let me.

pain. I miss them like I miss the jasmine perfume my mother

the watcher, who is ever-present. He is peering through the

wears now that I’m living far from her, or the scratchy fabric

keyhole in my own head.

of my grandmother's sweater against my cheek.

Here I am, with my arms braced against the wall and my feet angled down into the gutter, with my head pressed

These are Mary Oliver’s words, give or take a few:

back onto shingles and the sting of almost-winter wind on

This is one particular way to lose a place:

Whatever a space is to the heart and body of a woman,

my face. I am relieved, unburdened, secure, chilled and

I was sixteen years old and sitting on my very favorite

surely it is as much or more to the spirit. I long for spaces

scratched, delighted. I am on the edge and

bench when a man drove by and yelled a horrible thing.

that speak to my spirit, spaces that hide me. Sometimes

Unobservable.

I will start with the bench. It is a sturdy bench, made

these are warm, quiet spaces best accompanied by a cup of

Beneath my hand I feel bricks. It is almost as if we share

of fourteen wooden planks linked in a satisfying curved

Earl Grey tea, unsweetened and lukewarm from sitting on a

a secret, the walls and I. A drop of water falls on my shoulder

formation, the sort of curve that cradles the shape of your

desk too long. At other times they are cool, dark and mossy,

from the gutter above, then rolls down my arm towards

back. The armrests are metal and always cool, which is

surrounded by toadstools and small wild things. Or they are

the gutter at my feet. To the water, I am nothing different

particularly pleasant in the summertime. Over the bench

bright and bursting with lots of windows I can see out of, but

from these walls that clutch my shoulders, which are brick-

looms an old oak tree. The grooves in this tree run deep,

nobody can see into. I would like there to exist places that

marked and open and clutching back.

like the veins in the hands of my grandfather, who believed

are small and snug and well-tucked in, secret and quiet and

a man should always chop his wood by hand. The sharp

almost intangible; places that are unobservable, yet from

4

post–

(Inspired by Margaret Atwood, Georges Perec, and Mary Oliver)

ARTS & CULTURE

Long Way Home

understanding love with everything everyone all at once

by AJ Wu Illustrated by Connie Liu IG: @the_con_artist “If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you. For you are my little bunny.”

The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown For a long time, I didn’t realize this story was also a love story. It goes like this: My parents grow up in the 1980s in neighboring towns

My father jokes whenever my mother is angry. It’s

friend and couldn’t get through it without breaking down

pathological; I think he’s physically incapable of silence. He

because of the guilt. When I tried suicide, my parents’

is soft-spoken, gentle, and unhurried—everything about Ke

suggestion was a Christian counselor affiliated with our

Huy Quan’s on-screen performance brings to mind images

church who would fix me. My mother lets me know she thinks

of my own father so visceral I have to double-check to make

my haircut is ugly and too short, my clothes aren’t anything

sure he’s not here. He built the world as I knew it, steadily and

like my sister’s (younger and already more agreeable), and

without complaint.

that I should eat less because I’m putting on weight. She and

along the southeastern coast of China. My dad sits behind

Early days blur into nights; my dad rocks me to sleep,

my mom in math class and studies the curve of her head. He

singing a song about airplanes in the rain. I feel safe in those

chases after her all through their time in school.

first years sitting in the back of his car even during heavy

My dad scribbles a poem in my mother’s yearbook at the end of high school. He sends her love letters throughout college, sleeps cold and happy after stealthily giving her his

storms. I play the lullaby on the piano sometimes now, trying to figure it out by ear. I can’t remember fully how it goes.

my aunt text me pictures regularly of when I was in sixth grade and had long hair, look how pretty you are in this one.

“For some reason when I’m with you it just hurts the both of us,” Joy finally tells Evelyn, exhausted.

She tells me a dream she had of how she imagined I would

I flip to another page: the year is new and it’s cold and

be when she was pregnant with me. A little girl in a dress (with

we can’t go home. My dad is gone. (Will return in a few days,

pockets!) sitting on the steps leading into our home, eating

I flip to a picture of my mother in her twenties. She is

apologetic.) My mom takes me and my little sister, then nine

graham crackers out of her pockets and waiting for her mom

young and pretty. My dad poses next to her, squatting down

and four, by the hand and we wander around a Target for

to come home. It’s silly, isn’t it? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t tell her

on a rock and flashing double peace signs.

hours pretending that we’re looking for something.

about the dream I have where I wake up in her body, look in

blankets on a midwinter overnight ferry.

I flip the page and we’re by the edge of a lake on a day out.

I grow away. They do too. We take years from each other.

the mirror, and see my own face growing in.

My dad skips stones with one hand while baby me in a dress

My mother blames my failings on my father more and more.

My mother knows the ins and outs of how to take me

swats at a butterfly as my mother holds me. She laughs at

Maybe that’s where I first started to learn manhood from. She

apart. It’s not a particularly original skill. My mother’s father

someone behind the camera.

wishes I were more like her. I secretly think I am and that’s

wanted a son but had two daughters. He asks us to call him 爷

Like any self-respecting queer ABC (American-born

why we’re stuck pushing against one another in perpetuity.

爷 (paternal grandfather) to pretend he didn’t fail.

Chinese), I watched Everything Everywhere All at Once

I’m stubborn. I lash out too easily and act too impulsively. I

Evelyn’s father disowns her and pushes her out of their

in theaters when it came out. It’s a dazzling sci-fi epic in the

don’t know when to stop pushing. My mother and I fill any

home when she decides to follow Waymond to America, “If you

multiverse about a middle-aged Chinese-American woman,

room we’re in together.

abandon this family for that silly boy, we will abandon you.” I

Evelyn (Michelle Yeoh), struggling to keep her laundromat open

Evelyn is unable to bring herself to introduce Joy’s

while her marriage to her husband, Waymond (Ke Huy Quan),

girlfriend to her father; she settles for introducing her as a good

I always considered myself lucky to have parents that

falls apart. Her emotionally distant father (James Hong) is

friend. She tries to apologize to Joy afterward and convey her

made an effort to read to me. The first book we read together

visiting and she is still grappling to accept that her daughter,

love for her daughter, but what ends up coming out is, “You

is God’s Wisdom for Little Girls. The illustrations are beautiful;

Joy (Stephanie Hsu), is gay.

have to try to eat healthier. You are getting fat.” My friend and

the poems make my head heavy and warm. I love the rhythm

Evelyn is filled with regret because of the unfulfilling life

I giggle through the entire scene. Because it’s such a cliché and

of the words and beg my mom to read me more, but really, it’s

she has led since following Waymond to the United States,

isn’t it such an unfair caricature of Chinese mothers that Evelyn

our time together that I’m putting off parting with.

while Waymond longs for Evelyn to exit the callous solipsism

isn’t capable of speaking emotionally to her daughter without

of her own remorse to notice him for just a few moments and

commenting on her weight?

remember the love they used to have for one another.

I admitted aloud that I was trans for the first time to a

watch and wonder how we let go of each other so easily.

My dad stands at the side of the sanctuary passing out programs for Sunday service. I fetch bottled water for the pastor and station myself beside my dad, mimicking his stance

October 14, 2022

5

ARTS & CULTURE with all my six years of height. I wish more than anything to

back the late-summer dust that gathers in our throats

be an usher too. At home, I try on his ties and Sunday suit;

and the night turns clear and sweet. I’m slowly learning to

they’re ridiculously large.

choose and be chosen in this lifetime; there is no other. I

December now. My trans friend visits me and meets

take my time walking back home, pausing at corner stores

my dad briefly. You can barely even tell, my dad wonders

and apartment complexes I hadn’t realized had always been

out loud before he’s even fully out the door. I hate him for

there. I started to believe this could also be a love story.

Talkin’ Tennessee a radical reading of broadway girls and the country canon

by Evan Gardner Illustrated by Connie Liu

it. I hate myself for hating him but more so for letting my

I am trying to be a decent son. I ask my mother to teach

friend face his scrutiny. Maybe I’m learning. I return home

me how to cook and I methodically write down and take

after school to all my athletic shorts thrown out because my

pictures of every recipe she guides me through. I don’t want

mother was sick of them. I hide my things better. I sneak

to lose any of it. The kitchen grows dark. By the window,

out to homecoming in a suit, change in the parking lot of an

scraps of moon blur with our white reflections. At last, as

Morgan Wallen hails from Tennessee—the home

Uncle Julio’s afterward and reflect on how silly the whole

the stars begin pricking out of the sky, the pork floss rolls are

of the Klu Klux Klan, the former land of lynch mobs,

thing is, go home. Everything is normal.

tucked away into the oven.

and the deathbed of the Civil Rights Movement’s

IG: @the_con_artist

It gets better. Any good love story has to. Evelyn learns

This is not that story. But I hope it ends satisfactorily.

greatest hero—and croons endlessly about its virtues

that her family has chosen her in every universe. She may

My family is one that is messy and full of contradictions, but

and beauty. After he famously said the N-word, his

not have succeeded in the ways she had hoped, but she has

it’s a comfort that so is everything else. In this world out of

fans made him a martyr to cancel culture, saluting

a husband who loves her and a daughter who longs for

infinite others, maybe we still have time.

him as their own Colin Kaepernick. This combination

connection. She breaks the cycle of intergenerational hurt

It’s raining and we huddle under one umbrella. I’m

of racist origins and behavior makes country icon

by introducing Joy’s girlfriend to her own father and telling

standing straighter and taller than her now. She rests her

Morgan Wallen the antithesis of Blackness. After the

him she no longer needs his approval. She’s proud enough of

head tentatively on my shoulder. Somehow it makes sense.

N-word controversy, Wallen attempted to redeem

herself.

Now—hundreds of miles apart from one another—she

himself, not through apology, but through song: he

Even now, when I look at Ke Huy Quan as Waymond, I

asks about my classes, doesn’t ask about the things we agree

released “Broadway Girls,” a collab with Southside

still can’t help but see my father. I’m learning that this can

not to talk about. I am afraid you are doing a lot, have too

Chicago rapper Lil Durk. This move was the classic

coexist with everything else. He was the first to call me. I’m

much pressure. I tell her I’m doing well, she has nothing to

“I Have a Black Friend” Moment: with streams, sales,

trying. Your mom needs more time.

worry about.

and autotune, Wallen attempted to return to the good

I fall in love with a girl. We hold hands during a bad

She texts me pictures of sunsets. This evening, beautiful.

graces of the Black community. On the surface, this

movie and lean into one another. We run our bikes down

Last night I dreamt I jumped into the lake and waited

move was an epic failure. But for me, a Black man

wide roads. I hurtle after her bright back. Light rain beats

6

post–

patiently for a denouement. Two splashes.

from New York City, this placed him on my radar for

ARTS & CULTURE the first time, and ever since I discovered this track, I

for the Black listener to use it as a locus to open up

have not been able to shake my shameful infatuation

their own canon.

with his work. Through love songs about home and

The imagining of a Black homeland is nothing

a romanticization of what is leftover from the urban

new: Negro spirituals and Afro-Futurism are two

elite, Wallen appealed to parts of me I didn’t know were

Black art forms that used this sort of creative process

still healing and gave me poetics that–when analyzed

to bring us closer to freedom. Both mediums were

using aesthetic cognitivism–hold Black revolutionary

created in an oppressive society, yet used a cultural

potential.

Of Wind and Fall Layering

by Sean Toomey Illustrated by Grace Pinsonault

imaginary to produce a supernatural world in which

Fall is really flying by, thanks to the universe

Living as a Black person in the legacy of slavery

Black freedom and homelands could be considered.

deciding to jump from summer breeze to winter gales

means trying to piece together who you are without a

This kind of psychic transformation holds the secret

(with a little help from a hurricane), and I bet some of

homeland. Wallen’s songs are collages of his homeland

to revolutionizing oppressive art like Wallen’s: we can

you are freezing your asses off. The wind is blowing, the

and its glory, built from the forgotten scraps of rural

use Wallen's poetics to construct our own homeland

rain is pelting, and you are caught on 45 degree mornings

existence; titles like “Talkin’ Tennessee” and “More

in the midst of his oppressive one. I am not saying we

wearing sweat shorts and another university’s hoodie

Than My Hometown” proudly communicate his

should ignore Wallen’s problematic ties; instead, I am

(tut-tut). At some point, your streak of rotten luck is not

propensity for declaring his origins. In the lyrics

proposing we actively fight his oppression using his

the weather, it's you. Luckily, here’s a little guide on how

themselves, Wallen tells the story of his land and his

own devices.

to layer, from the bottom-up, inside-out, and with some

people by encapsulating it in small representations

This artistic transformation is powered by

style (not pointing any fingers but many of you need it).

of his culture–the kind overlooked by the gaze of

a weaponization of the leftover. Negro spirituals

mainstream media and “high culture” due to their

imagined a Black future, but they were written as part

apparent triviality. As he tells us in “Still Goin’ Down,”

of a religion created when enslaved people turned the

he is from “a town where the doors don’t lock,” a “scene

slaveowners’ oppressive Christianity into their own

For the uninitiated, underlayers are anything you

a little more Podunk than pop,” and “a small town,

source of community and rebellion. Just as Soul Food

can wear underneath normal, everyday clothes. A flannel

southern drawl crowd.” He further defines this place

took the remains of the masters’ meals and made a

shirt, tights, any thin trousers that fit underneath some

as one in which “we’re sippin clear, drinkin beer on

culture out of it, the Black church took the leftovers of

loose pants might come to mind. For the skiers and

a Friday night,” where “every country girl got on her

oppression and made it revolutionary.

northerners among us, you’ll recognize these as long

Underlayers:

cutoffs,” and where they “circle up big trucks around

Thus, we must engage in a similar transformation

johns. These generally come in polyester and cotton

a fire, still kickin up some dust behind the tires.” By

of the leftover with Wallen to take his work from racist

mixes, with some high quality ones coming in merino

compiling a collection of unlocked doors, weekend

to revolutionary; fortunately, the listener can learn

wool. Underlayers will keep you warm, but depending

beverages, shorts, and cars, Wallen creates a picture

this practice from Wallen’s aesthetics themselves. His

on what else you’re wearing with it, they may have you

and feeling of home that struck me like one of Cupid’s

imagery of the homeland grows out of everything that

sweating out the Narragansett Bay, so save these for

arrows, imbuing me with a surface-level sense of love

has been left behind–by the American elite, or by a

extremely cold days or when you're feeling sweater

and understanding of Southern culture, despite having

woman. My favorite Wallen song, “Sand in My Boots,”

averse.

never ventured below the Mason-Dixon line myself.

illustrates the poetics of the leftover perfectly: it is Shirts:

Through this artistic practice, I have come to see

the story of a summer fling in which Wallen shares

Wallen as someone who is “the same gas station cup

a perfect night by the beach with a woman whom he

of coffee in the morning ” and whose “heart’s stuck in

tries to bring back to Tennessee, hoping to share its

You can basically do anything with shirts as long as

these streets like the train tracks,” as he describes in

beauty. Wallen believes that she will meet him before

you’re not wearing an untucked pirate shirt three sizes

“More Than My Hometown.” While gas station coffee

he departs for Tennessee, but she does not, leaving him

too big (though I suppose…that could be okay too). The

and train tracks may hold little to no significance

to reckon with this heart-wrenching contradiction:

complex part of this freedom is actually making all your

alone, Wallen collects these overlooked items to

for “something about the way she kissed me tells me

wild shirt dreams come true and not look like a costume

create an identity in the shadows of the powerful. His

she’d love eastern Tennessee, but all I brought back

mixing experience gone wrong. Generally, a buttoned

objects are poetically valuable not for their beauty,

with me was some sand in my boots.” Wallen captures

shirt will be your go to base layer for the fall and winter

complexity, or rarity, but instead because of how they

his love, his desire, and his heartbreak, into the image

seasons. These can come in a terrifying variety of styles

come together to build an aesthetic, a home, and an

of sandy boots. This almost-love story is compelling

and patterns, but to start out, I would recommend a

identity out of what remains.

as an example of Wallen’s poetics, but it is even more

solid color or quiet-patterned cotton button up in white,

As Black people, Morgan Wallen is not our home.

powerful when considered as an artistic endeavor:

blue, or checkered (please no gingham, and no, I will not

The backroads he so artfully extols are haunted by the

Wallen is taking the leftover–his unrequited love

elaborate), and a more vibrant color of your choosing. I

spirits of our ancestors who hang from his beloved

represented by the remaining kernels of sand–and

would also recommend a flannel or two in any pattern.

trees. His homeland is the graveyard of Black mothers,

spinning it into an art piece in order to heal. He creates

These shirts are going to be the base layer under your

fathers, sisters, and brothers executed without cause

a narrative that is as much a love story as an ode to

sweaters and sport coats so making sure the colors

or trial, and of the great Reverend Dr. Martin Luther

his home out of the leftover pain, and this creative

match is of prime importance. Color match doesn’t

King Jr. himself. The same land which Wallen’s art is

process is regenerative.

have to mean that they are in the same corner of the

designed to revere and preserve holds years of Black

If Wallen can use an artistic transformation of the

color palette (e.g. light orange with a lighter orange), I

suffering, oppression, and death. Even Wallen himself

leftover to heal from a one-night stand and to charge

personally recommend trying to get a good contrast with

is a continuation of this legacy, as his use of racial

$400 a seat at his show, one can only imagine its

your shirts: Think white shirt and navy blazer/sweater.

slurs demonstrates.

potential when weaponized for the African-American Sweaters:

So, I am not suggesting that we find home in

revolutionary canon. Just as he turned “a parking

Wallen or his people. What I am suggesting, however,

lot into a party” with a reclamation of the small

is that we use his poetic construction of a homeland

forgotten details in “Up Down,” the Black listener

These are your bread and butter. There’s a reason

as a blueprint to visualize our own. The way to

can turn an oppressive country canon into their own

they call this sweater weather. Sweaters are one of the

revolutionarily consume Wallen’s music is not by

revolutionary one via the same aesthetic cognition.

big statement pieces that your outfit can be built around

praising its value as such, but rather by evaluating

Most enjoy Morgan Wallen for the masculine drumline

and, because of this, there are fewer rules and guidelines

it through the lens of aesthetic cognitivism. Wallen

or the gritty guitar, for that is who he is, but someone

about what colors and patterns to follow. Crewnecks,

himself sings, “If I’m ever gonna move on, I’m gonna

who listens to songs like “Sand in My Boots” with the

V-necks, turtlenecks, and polo-necks are all acceptable

need some whiskey glasses, cause I don’t want to see

cultural imagination of Negro spirituals and Afro-

styles to wear out. Shetland crewnecks in dark fall

the truth.” “Whiskey Glasses” is a double entendre;

Futurism can also use his poetics of a homeland built

colors like red and green, and chunky navy sweaters

he needs glasses of whiskey, but he also needs his

from the remains of the powerful as a way to heal.

of all varieties will always look good, just make sure to

whiskey to function as glasses. The second meaning is

While Wallen’s aesthetics of beer, trucks, and whiskey

match the color with your button-ups. When it comes

the relevant one here. Just as whiskey glasses are an

may represent oppression and “low culture,” it gives

to material, a wool sweater will be warmer than a cotton

alternative way to see the world that is instrumental

me a strong emotional response, which is precisely the

sweater, but cotton will still do the job well.

to Wallen’s healing, Wallen’s poetic devices can be

role of the artist and the revolutionary. Emotion spurs

valuable to healing African-Americans as a lens

radical change; thus Wallen’s love of the home—a

through which they can visualize a path forward. I am

radical emotional leftover from a scrawny white boy

not praising the racist country music canon, but rather

hailing from the backroads of racial oppression—is a

speaking of the potential power Wallen’s poetics hold

potential tool for Black revolutionaries.

Blazers and Sport Jackets: Tweed is king here. There is little more to be said.

Blazers of any color are good as long as the patterns mix

October 14, 2022

7

LIFEST YLE correctly (remember: contrast is good) and navy will

the previous layers mentioned, but some explorations

for their classic look and warmth. Good materials

basically go with anything. Tweed blazers, however, are

into fall colors like burnt orange and green can also

to look for are wool, tweed, cashmere wool, cotton

the language of fall and, provided they fit, will flatter

be worthwhile, provided they’re paired with the right

gabardine for rain, and camel hair. Navy coats and tan

your figure and make your sweaters pop underneath.

pieces. Jeans are jeans and to keep up with the theme

coats are good starting options as they can go with

It’s that chic-Ivy-professor look everybody and their

of impressing your parents, try to pair them with more

most of everything but under no circumstances should

mother has been trying to go for since Beau Brummell

casual layers.

you ever be wearing a single-breasted tan overcoat.

went crazy and Tom Wolfe died. Trust me, you want tweed. Grays and browns in herringbone, houndstooth,

Never.

Coats: Accessories:

and glen plaid will be the most common and will look the best with your layers.

The function of a coat in the colder seasons is to (1), keep you warm and (2), make you look cool as

Lastly, it is important to remember all the little

hell. The right coat can make an outfit go from good

accessories you can pair with your outfit to really

to great and consequently the wrong coat can make

make it pop. Bright scarves, socks, and hats are the

Please for the love of Bruno (yes I invoked it), no

an outfit look wrong or in between styles. Generally,

finishing touches that can add some personal style to

skinny fit—that ten-year moment is over. What you’re

it's always a safe option for your coat to be contrasting

your outfits of solid darker colors. They're also good

going to want for the coming seasons are warm and

with the rest of your outfit–a dark coat with a light

for keeping you warm in the Providence winds if, like

dependable pants that won’t stick to your leg like you

outfit, a light coat with a dark outfit–but similar color

me, you sometimes forget you live in the real world

got dipped into Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. Wool

layering is possible if coordinated well. There are

and not a Polo Ralph Lauren ad. Cashmere is always

flannel pants, chinos, and (on occasion) jeans will all

many (headachingly many) different styles of coats

a good option for warmth and comfort as well as

work fine. Wool pants should be your winter staple as

but to keep things simple I’ll differentiate between

providing a luxurious flair that might help more casual

they’ll keep you warm and look good at the same time.

single-breasted and double-breasted coats, which

accessories from slipping into grubbiness.

I recommend varieties in gray and navy blue—they’ll

refers to how many rows of buttons there are on the

Hopefully this guide will help you find the right

go with everything in your wardrobe while adding

closure of the coat. Single-breasted coats will look

way to layer in the coming cold and not freeze half

flair. If you’re adventurous and are trying to go for

sleek and generally slim your figure down at the cost

to death on the way to class. Remember: tweed is

the 1930s struggling author look (like me), try getting

of warmth and dramatic wooshiness. Double-breasted

your friend, contrast is good, look smart on parents'

wool pants with pleats and high waists to go all in on

will keep you warmer, look more formal, and generally

weekend, and always check the wind speed before

classic silhouettes and incomprehensible manuscripts

add a broader edge to your figure as well as giving you

getting dressed in the morning. Good luck out there

about train station platforms. Chinos will always

the ability to layer more underneath. It’s a matter of

everybody, stay warm and stay stylish.

serve you well, khakis being the easiest to pair with

preference but I recommend a double-breasted coat

Pants:

8

post–

LIFEST YLE

Surviving Sick Season

sweating. My head pounded against my pillow and my

better is to sweat it out. Before getting into bed at night,

nose leaked like a broken faucet.

I put on two pairs of pajamas and sleep under multiple

by Nadia Heller Illustrated by Lucid Clairvoyant IG: @l.u.cid NOTICE: The recommendations in this article are NOT from a professional doctor, a pre-med student, or

When I finally found the ability to move, I rolled

heavy blankets. You might overheat and you may wake

out of bed and unfortunately caught my reflection in the

up in your own little swimming pool but trust me the

mirror. My tan from summer’s kind sun had vanished

way to GET it out is to SWEAT it out. I don’t understand

from my face and left me with a ghostly complexion.

the science behind it but I believe it has something to

My eyes were covered in a thin layer of mist and my

do with the perspiration washing out the evil germs. It’s

lips were cracking all over. The bestowed image was a

gross, I know, but winning the big war includes losing

humbling revelation. After being mortified by my new

some smaller battles.

appearance, I had no choice but to get back in bed and hide from the rest of the world.

On day three I noticed that coffee, which I thought would give my body the energy to fight my illness, was

even someone who remotely comprehends biology. The

For five days I laid in bed with a fever that jumped

actually just dehydrating me. Instead of charging my

following “facts” are based on an English concentrator’s

over the hundred degree mark. When day three rolled

immune system with the spark to hop into action, the

own experiences for remedying sicknesses. She is not to

around, I decided it was time to get better.

caffeine chose the side of my sickness and helped it to

be held responsible for worsening conditions OR speedy

I started with chicken broth.

fight against me. So giving caffeine a rest for a few days

recoveries. The reader is advised to “take it or leave it.”

I know what you’re thinking: “Nadia, you’re

when you are sick could really lessen the stress your

For me, Sunday is the day that gracefully dovetails

vegetarian!” While it’s humiliating to admit, desperate

the weekend into the workweek. It’s a day for the soft

times call for desperate measures. When an itchy,

Getting sick in college is as inevitable as the sun

smell of laundry detergent to waft through and linger in

prickly, thick substance shuts your throat and stops

setting. The relationship between sicknesses and

every corner of the house and for the mop to address the

the passage of any food from your mouth to your poor,

colleges is a modern day love story—especially on

wooden floors. It’s my day for inky newspapers and lazy

hungry tummy, chicken broth is the only solution. Not

Brown’s campus. As I write this article, a week and a

2000s songs. The generous hours belong to me, my bed

only is hot soup an affordable massage for the esophagus,

half after my last ailment, I find the familiar stuffiness

and, perhaps, a walk to an expensive latte.

it’s also delicious. I drank the entire carton in one day.

crawling into my nose and the tiredness settle onto my

On this particular Sunday, the last restful day of

I devoured it shamelessly, eating it with a spoon and

eyelids. At this point being sick is almost a comforting

September, I woke up a monster. I usually wake up

drinking it in a cup. Whether it was the chicken (rest in

feeling. And while I will engage in the boring practices of

rejuvenated on the brink of the afternoon to the sun

peace) or the broth, something in that carton magically

drinking water, sleeping tons, and taking my vitamins, I

sifting through the cracks of my blinds—but this gloomy

improved my unnamed illness.

will also chug chicken broth, sleep in fourteen thousand

Sunday, every bone in my body ached and shivers snaked

A friend of mine gave me a piece of advice that I turn

from my shins to my fingertips. I was freezing but also

to for every illness. When you’re sick, the only way to get

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kyoko Leaman

“So, now, I take books to the pool, let them have a look at the sun, and smell the sunscreen. I hope they will absorb it all, so that when I open them again, I can read myself in the in-betweens.”

—Julia Vaz, “Home”

FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Addie Marin Ananya Mukerji

10.15.2021

“I didn’t want to stay inside, so I laid on the dewy grass, wetness seeping through my sweatshirt, and watched the sky. It opened after a few minutes, offering clusters of stars, patterns of the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, the bluish hues of the Milky Way against a velvetnavy sky.”

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa Section Editors Katheryne Gonzalez Rachel Metzger

body undergoes.

layers, and lay off coffee for a day or two. Hopefully I’ll be better in no time.

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Siena Capone Section Editors Danielle Emerson Sam Nevins LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Kimberly Liu Section Editors Tabitha Lynn Kate Cobey HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Connie Liu COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan

—Grace Layer, “Far From Home” 10.5.2018

Copy Editors Eleanor Peters Klara Davidson-Schmich Indigo Mudhbary SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Chloe Zhao Tabitha Grandolfo Natalie Chang LAYOUT CHIEF Alice Min Layout Designers Alice Min Angela Sha Caroline Zhang Gray Martens

STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Olivia Cohen Danielle Emerson Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Meher Sandhu Ellie Jurmann Andy Luo Sean Toomey Marlena Brown Ariela Rosenzweig Nadia Heller Sarah Frank

Want to be involved?

Email: kyoko_leaman@brown.edu!

October 14, 2022

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