post- 10/28/2022

In This Issue

Hari Dandapani

Friends, Not Food

2

Nélari Figueroa Torres 5

Danielle Emerson

3

Raising Monarchs

Uncertain Certainties 8

Sean Toomey

7

Kathy Gonzalez

Leanna Bai 6

Halloween costumes for the sartorially challenged

Seeking warmth in jazz

On fragmentation and my disappearance Andy Luo 9

Not a Normal Dog

postCover by Kianna Pan

OCT 28

VOL 30

— ISSUE 6

FEATURE

Friends, Not Food caring for and about aquatic creatures

By Hari Dandapani Illustrated by Ella Buchanan IG: @nanahcube My oldest sister, Nikila, brought Radish home as a party

Radish’s bowl, he leapt into the sink full of soap. Though she

up to their bowl and peered inside to see what was going

favor when I was in the third grade. He was a purple betta fish,

put him back into the bowl as soon as she could, later that

on. They looked back at me sometimes, but they mostly just

our family’s first pet, and the first animal I would ever form

day, he sank to the bottom of his bowl, and I heard my sister

floated disinterestedly in the water. Their bowl was barren.

a bond with. I would crawl into my sister’s room every day

sobbing. The soap had poisoned him. I wanted to cry but

It was just two fish and the filth that they produced. They

after school to catch a glimpse of Radish swimming in circles

couldn't find the tears. It was my first experience with death.

seemed bored, so I begged my mom to buy new accessories

in his fishbowl and, on occasion, attacking his reflection on

My family wouldn’t have fish again for another two

for their bowl. I asked her if she would want to live in our

the glass. For nine-year-old me, peering into his bowl and

years, until my middle sister, Abi, brought home two goldfish

fish bowl—in a barren wasteland of water and feces. After

watching him wiggle around brought me boundless joy; I

from the county fair as a prize for throwing darts at balloons.

much discussion, we finally agreed to get some blue rocks to

would stare at him and imagine myself in his position, gliding

Though my sister affectionately named them Rupert and

decorate the bottom of the bowl and a rock arch to add some

through the water.

Gregory, my mom immediately Indianized their names to

topological diversity.

As my sister nurtured Radish, I learned from the

Rishi and Ganga. Excited by the prospect of having more fish,

Rishi and Ganga seemed happier. Now, when I came

sidelines what it takes to keep someone alive: You have to

I quickly moved them from their plastic bags into Radish’s old

home, they would swim through the arch and bite at the

feed them, entertain them, and make sure that they have a

bowl and watched them grow.

rocks. From then on, I began to ask my mom for more and

clean environment. One day, as my sister and I were washing

When I came home from school each day, I waddled

more accessories for them. We upgraded their bowl to a 10

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, “If it feels like a trap, you’re already in one.” I couldn’t resist… No traps here, though. Just an exhausted editor quoting Taylor Swift and wishing for the weekend to arrive just a little bit faster. And what a weekend to wish for! Spooks, haunts, horror movies, parties with themed drinks & sticky floors, costumes ranging from silly to sexy: it’s Halloweekend, baby.

If you’re in the market for some last minute costume ideas, one of our Lifestyle writers has you covered with an assortment of Halloween possibilities. Our other Lifestyle writer provides the first installment of our new series on the dogs of Brown’s campus! In A&C, one of our writers thinks about the role of memory as examined by science fiction, while the other writers about finding comfort in jazz. Our 2

post–

Feature writer recalls his experience having pet fish and how it led him to animal rights activism. In Narrative, one writer poetically reflects on experiences of home clashing with identity. Lastly, one of our longtime staff writers searches for certainty and looks toward the future in her final piece with post-.

Whether you’re a horror movie buff approaching this weekend with popcorn bucket in hand or you’re gearing up for a marathon of themed parties, I hope Halloweekend treats you well. I, for one, will be balancing my introverted urges to cuddle up indoors with a need to be witnessed as Strawberry Shortcake in the public eye. From the entire post- staff: Happy Halloween!

More tricking than treating,

Kyoko Leaman Editor in Chief

FEATURE gallon tank, added more colorful rocks and playthings, and

before. When I came back at 3 a.m. on Sunday, I took a look

concerned by the staggering loss of aquatic life that fishing

even lined the tank with wallpaper to make them feel like

into my fish tank to make sure they were okay. The first thing

and environmental harm produce.

they were in the ocean. I hadn’t yet formally investigated the

that I noticed was that it was cloudy. The next thing I noticed

More specifically, I’m saddened not directly about

literature demonstrating that environmental changes and

was that there was decaying flesh floating at the top of my

the number itself, but about the fact that those quantities

exciting surroundings enhance the cognitive capacities of

tank. Then finally I noticed that there were no fish. As I was

represent the termination of an individual life, happening

fish, but I cared about them and wanted to provide them with

sobbing, my mom explained to me that our AC broke while I

over and over again. When my fish died, I didn’t cry because

more than the bare minimum for survival. Along with the

was away. And, since I lived in Florida, the temperature in the

a certain number of them had died. I cried about each

tank’s extra space and new decor, I got more goldfish to keep

tank got unbearably hot and boiled them to death. I let these

one and their idiosyncrasies, because they individually

Rishi and Ganga company. The fish had gone from my weird

individuals, whom I ostensibly loved, die a slow and agonizing

mattered to me: Hut’s tendency to hide behind the arch

obsession to an actual aesthetic part of our house.

death. I gave up keeping fish after that. How could I continue?

whenever someone loomed over the tank, Pachacuti’s ritual

Then, in the seventh grade, Ganga died. I noticed before

***

of swimming over to nudge my finger whenever I stuck it in

I went to school and cried the entire day. My friends, guidance

After coming to Brown, I became extremely involved in

the water. I have no personal connection to the trillions of

counselors, and teachers were sympathetic but bemused by

animal rights—perhaps a natural outgrowth of my love for

sea creatures that die each year, but I recognize that they’re

my tears. One friend even tried to comfort me by recounting

fish as a teen. I learned about the scale of animal agriculture,

individuals who want to live, the same as any of the fish I’ve

the time his cat knocked over their fish tank and ate all of his

saw the unspeakable things that happened on factory farms,

ever cared for—and that’s reason enough for why their lives

fish. He laughed as he told me that story. Others could affirm

and wanted to do something to help these suffering animals.

have value.

my feelings, but could not understand my grief over a single

Still, while I intellectually understood the reasons to support

goldfish. For me, Ganga was a member of the family. He was

animal rights, I couldn’t connect to the strife of farmed

an individual and had his own peculiarities: He never swam

animals until I saw masses of fish crammed in tanks at the

to the top of the tank for food and randomly jolted around the

supermarket.

tank to create a current in the water and mess with the other fish.

Among the fish confined to the tank, there was one fish in particular—a fat catfish—that made eye contact with me.

Uncertain Certainties

the feeling of not knowing but wanting to

This mismatch in our reactions to an animal dying

As he wriggled his body in distress, his bright and kind eyes

desensitized me. Clearly, I was overreacting by crying over

locked with mine. We stared at each other, and as each second

the death of a fish. After all, who cares about fish? Over the

passed, a smile slowly began to grow on his face as he opened

next couple of years, the goldfish would continue to sink to

his mouth and moved his whiskers. His face was filled with

the bottom of their tank. My only reaction was to take them

hope, even as he was surrounded by 20 other fish, most of

out, lay them to rest in the lake behind my house, and pray

whom seemed to have resigned themselves to their imminent

that their little souls would attain moksha.

and inevitable fate. This fish kept swimming forward, as

I first felt certainty at my masaní’s (grandmother’s) farm.

though he, with just a little more willpower, might somehow

I felt safe in her hogan, curled up with blankets, the stove fire

escape the cramped four-by-six-inch tank.

hot on my cheeks, side-by-side with my younger siblings. I’d

As my goldfish were dying, I decided to keep them company by getting more fish. At the fish store, I was

by Danielle Emerson Illustrated by Nate Kolek

fascinated by the diversity of gilled creatures—from exotic

I had to look away. This fish was fighting for his life,

listen to their breathing, a steady rhythm accompanied by

eels to pufferfish to loaches to goldfish. But, at the same time,

but I knew the date of his death. I wanted to do something,

soft crackles from the burning wood. Through her living room

I felt sad. It seemed that, at the bottom of every tank, there

but what was there to do? Perhaps I could break the glass of

window, I’d watch as the wild cats slept in the old pine tree. I

were throngs of fish that were either dead or on the verge of

the tank and liberate him, but then what? He would just die

was so sure they’d come around one day, and accept my love

death. I would peer into the tank and try to look at anything

of asphyxiation instead of decapitation. I could try to buy

for their scraggly, matted selves.

other than these moribund fish, but my eyes were always

him alive, but I had no means of taking care of him, let alone

I felt certainty again later that morning, around my

drawn back to them. They sat pathetically at the bottom of

bringing him home. He was no different from the fish that I

masaní’s peeling green dining table, eating homemade flour

the tank, opening and closing their mouths, clinging to every

used to care for and love, and I was powerless to help him, just

tortillas with Spam and potatoes for breakfast. I could see the

passing second.

as I had been before. The only things I could offer were a shred

sun rising through her rickety metal screen door. I could feel

Still, I brought home four black skirt tetras and four

of sympathy, a place in my memory, and a prayer to a God I

its warmth on my nose, just like at the fireplace last night.

red-eye tetras, and gave them some very eccentric names:

hoped existed. It had been three years since I had last cried

Pizza, Hut, Taco, Bell, Pachacuti, Belly, Fish, and Stewart.

over a fish, but there I stood in the supermarket, bawling my

Take another look before it goes

They seemed very merry in my tank—playing with each other,

eyes out over a fish killed for a forgettable meal by someone

Days are only footprints in the snow

swimming freely, and voraciously devouring any food that

who never cared about his life.

How far away can I walk

I poured in. Watching how much they enjoyed playing with

Till I'm way too far from home

***

each other, my fascination with the fish only grew. I became

Reading news about how climate change is affecting

I wish I knew, I wish I knew

increasingly invested in their lives and mythologized about

our oceans, I often feel gloomy. There are predictions that

I want something more than

friend groups that existed within their little fish community.

we will have more plastic than fish in our oceans by 2048.

More than restless mornings

Obviously, Pizza & Hut and Taco & Bell would be awesome

Giant garbage patches made predominantly of fishing nets

Getting by's so boring

couples. I began to think of them more as interesting

are strangling marine life. Overfishing is destroying habitats

individuals and less as mindless drones. I loved them.

of fish, like the Great Barrier Reef. To me, these facts aren’t

“Fever Dream,” Mxmtoon

During my senior year of high school, I went out of

sad because pollution or environmental degradation are

town for three days to visit colleges and left my fish under

vacuously bad—I wouldn’t be invested in plastic waste on

I can name moments at home where I’ve felt the most

the care of my mom, who had never had to look after them

another planet, because there isn’t life there. Rather, I’m

certain, the most safe, the most reassured and cozy. These

Houses 1. Haunted 2. Gingerbread 3. Harry’s

“Make sure you pee after sex, otherwise you’ll get a UTRA.”

4. of Dragons 5. “a music genre characterized by a repetitive four-on-the-floor beat and a typical tempo of 120 beats per minute” –Encyclopedia Britannica 6. Wife 7. Not a home

“I thought volleyball was a daytime sport.”

“You can’t talk and pee? I thought that was a hallmark of masculinity.”

8. Party 9. Sarah Doyle 10. MD

October 28, 2022

3

NARRATIVE moments come easy, like yellow leaves that twirl and flutter

Oh please don't ask me how I've been

in the air before falling; a satisfying crunch on a wistful

Don't make me play pretend

walk. And a part of me wonders if it’s because, when you’re

Oh no, oh what's the use?

Everything stays right where you left it

little, everything feels absolute—you’re not looking into the

Oh please, I bet everybody here is fake happy too

Everything stays But it still changes

future, because no six-year-old plans the specifics in their career, especially when their attention span barely covers the

them less overwhelming and a bit more achievable.

“Fake Happy,” Paramore

present. Being certain in elementary school means knowing

Ever so slightly, daily and nightly In little ways, when everything stays.

which bus to ride to your nalí’s (paternal grandmother’s), and

Obviously, the future brings more uncertainties—not

how much you hate riding the bus because it is either too hot

because I don’t feel safe, but because I’ve never visualized a

or too cold. It’s watching leaves change colors and thinking to

place, somewhere down the line, where I’m certainly happy.

yourself that looks pretty without knowing the hows or whys

I never thought I’d make it this far in life. Sometimes a voice

My aunt used to tell me, “If you’re not feeling good, drink

of seasons.

“Everything Stays,” Adventure Time / Olivia Olson

in the center of my throat, heavy like black tar, says I don’t

some water and look up. Looking down makes you feel stuck.”

I took a train back to Providence recently. As I sat in the

deserve it, that imagining a future isn’t possible. It makes me

She then proceeded to laugh a bit when she realized looking

cafe car trying to write emails, I stared out of the window a lot.

second-guess: I erase applications, rewrite to-do list after to-

up at the skyline is a bit more difficult here—surrounded by

I lingered on the thought of certainty: New England weather

do list. I feel like giving up on school and moving back home,

brick buildings and hills—than it is back home. But her words

is awful, but goddamn, the autumn trees are beautiful; the

where things are chaotic and toxic, but ultimately familiar

stick with me. Just as my friend’s seemingly simple suggestion

lakes surrounded by said beautiful autumn trees amplify the

and straightforward—where certainty becomes “just be safe

sticks with me.

scene’s beauty tenfold; if I could, I’d ride this train forever,

and survive,” because that’s all my life should amount to.

watching as streaks of crimson blur over into dark yellow and

The idea of breaking it all down into more manageable pieces. I can lose track of all the branches, zigzagging and

Every other day I’m wondering

crisscrossing between paint-splattered trees. I can lose track

"What’s a human being gotta be like?

of my footprints amongst all the fallen leaves, covering and

Do you ever get a little bit tired of life

What’s a way to just be competent?"

uncovering my path. When I feel the most lost, I’m scared

Like you're not really happy but you don't wanna die

These sweet instincts ruin my life

I won’t feel certain about anything, that I’ll always be in a

Like you're hanging by a thread but you gotta survive

Every other day I’m wondering

strange state of not knowing where I’ll be in five years.

'Cause you gotta survive.

Was it a mistake to try and define

lime green.

But, like with my long anxiety-inducing list, I need to

What I’m certain’s mad incompetence?

take a deep breath and step back. I’ll pick and pluck the small

“Numb Little Bug,” Em Beihold

These sweet instincts ruin my life

things I need to do and the small things I’m certain of to keep

From my experience, feeling certain as a kid essentially

“Imposter Syndrome,” Sidney Gish

close. The small things I need to do to be certain. came down to safety. “I know my masaní’s farm is safe,” “I

If I can’t see a whole future for myself, I should start visualizing glimpses of a future. Me and my siblings. Me

know once I’m on the bus I’m safe,” “I know school is safe,” “I

I was at work when I finished writing my latest to-do list.

and my cat Nicole. Me and bits of my writing. Me and

know my mom is safe,” “I know I must keep my siblings safe,”

On down-time, when there’s no one in the store, I try to catch

pomegranates, because it’s pomegranate season. Me and

“I know doing well in school will help us be safe.” But as an

up on school work or other responsibilities. Every Tuesday, a

the people I’ve met here in Providence. Me and the smell

adult, who doesn't have to live in constant fear anymore—at

friend stops by to say hello before their shift. We catch each

of the coffee I make before my morning shift. Me and the

least, in terms of domestic abuse—feeling certain has moved

other up on our lives, and they offer me a small break from the

comforting food of my roommate, my aunt, my significant

beyond the bare minimum of physical and emotional safety. I

dissociative state that comes with working 12-hour days.

other. And, on the rare occasion I have an evening off, the food

don’t have to always be in survival mode. I’m allowed to think

They took one look at my long list and groaned.

about the future. I’m allowed to be excited for the future. I’m

I sigh, but smile. “Yeah, there’s always something.”

allowed to feel both certain and uncertain about the future.

“Break it up into smaller lists.”

feel certainty with my family, on my homeland, and with

I look up from my notebook.

those I love. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been

“Maybe put them into genres. But just make it smaller,

this way.

If I smile with my teeth Bet you believe me If I smile with my teeth I think I believe me

4

post–

because looking at that is making me anxious.”

It’s a small thing, making multiple lists, breaking things up. But I didn’t realize that making things “smaller” makes

I make for myself.

My uncertainty won’t disappear. But I know I’ll always

Maybe if I hold onto that, then someday I’ll be able to see certainties, a long-lived future, as clear as the sun’s warmth that childhood morning in my masaní’s hogan.

ARTS & CULTURE tw: homophobic slur There is no greater joy than to find a new place. I collect them: places to squirrel away in, places to sit and rest for a while, places to dilly-dally. There are places to watch and places to think and, most of all, places to hide.

My hiding places are often fleeting: I lose them as quickly as I find them. I lose them to circumstance, to accident, to memory. One morning, they pulled up the fire escape ladder, and now it’s just a bit too high to haul myself to the top. Last year, I forgot which stairway brought me to the little room on the fourth floor of the public library that smelled like old books and cigarettes. Two summers ago, I realized I was too heavy to swing myself onto even the lowest branch of the sequoia tree in my childhood backyard.

To lose these beloved places causes me near-physical pain. I miss them like I miss the jasmine perfume my mother wears now that I’m living far from her, or the scratchy fabric of my grandmother's sweater against my cheek.

This is one particular way to lose a place: I was sixteen years old and sitting on my very favorite bench when a man drove by and yelled a horrible thing.

I will start with the bench. It is a sturdy bench, made of fourteen wooden planks linked in a satisfying curved formation, the sort of curve that cradles the shape of your back. The armrests are metal and always cool, which is particularly pleasant in the summertime. Over the bench

Raising Monarchs on flying up, away

by Nélari Figueroa Torres Illustrated by Connie Liu

A jolt backwards pushes me away from the leaves

Still, I cling to this solid evernight, alabaster,

and into the other side of the pink. There are crunches

chrysalis of theirs: are all homes contradictions of yes

and wobbles as whoever, whatever is carrying me

and no, of there and not, of open and close?

traverses a boundless plane.

My new form is idolized by the unlit suns in

They’re watching me through pink as I swing in late

vibrating oohs and aahs. We appear to be breaking out of

summer’s sauna. They smile from east to west. I cling to

their chrysalis as they shield their suns from the flaming

the frigid metal of my enclosure. I am now, seemingly, in

one. Maybe it’s an important day for all of us.

Mother believes that a young girl’s upbringing is not

their alabaster chrysalis, fabricated night, shielded from

My wings open and close, warming in the balmy

complete without witnessing a butterfly’s life cycle. To

the flaming sun, while the unlit suns on enlarged true

spring afternoon. I made these wings. I crafted these

be raised as a girl in our home is an act of shedding skin,

legs have lost interest in me.

means to an end of boundlessness. I crafted this

growing a pair, and embracing change. If your wings get

Alone. In a different, distant, way. In a way where I

stuck, you wiggle about. If the chrysalis is tough, you

could never not be alone. Where I am subjected to others

punch its walls. Survival is a matter of how willing you

outside of the self, the whole.

are. *** Huevo

transport, transitory; translation of what it means to be free; transcendence of meaning; transition of being.

The pink vessel opens with a k-ch. The unlit suns

Alone.

seem to be encouraging me. They say goodbye with some

Crisálida

true leg motions.

I rewind into myself and decide that I am my

The flaming sun gets closer in the ebbs and flows of

I am but a freckle on a leaf, burdened to evergreen

own hallowed, haunted home. That I will build the

my new body, gliding through the waves of air. I descend

beneath the flaming sun. Freckle in the face of life, power

foundation. That I am the foundation, with walls and

once more. Hoarfrost legs grace lachrymose butter

in the face of oblivion. I don’t know why I am or, rather,

an impermeable roof. I am the fragmented floor plan

leaves. Still, must I find a home in this bedlam, need I

why I keep trying to be. I know nothing of birth but of

and every wall’s scrapes, bumps, and bruises. I am every

seek refuge in cold flames licking up prickly legs and

rebirth. I’ve been here before. I know how this ends.

cabinet that does not quite close, every tile missing

tattered wings? Do I exist perpetually? Am I shedding

I munch out of my first home and swallow.

a corner. I am every cracked picture frame and every

another’s skin? Need I explain my garb?

Larva

picture inside. I am every line measuring heights on the

As my eyes adjust, I perceive myself desolate in this

Is it greedy to want to exist unexplained? To let my

wall corners and every bump on that wall. I am every

mass of green. Where did they go? Am I the cause of

mismatched pair of socks and all of their loose threads.

fervent distress? Am I the chaos, the mayhem, a sword

stripes create roller coasters for ants, bouncing up, down across milkweeds. Munch. Is it greedy to want? To be?

I rewind into bubbling bile and remember that I am

brandished, a gin straight, a cheap gun, a broken clock?

all I ever need. That this home is latent. Shapeless, I sit,

I hold memories of needing, of wanting. Must I have the

My thoughts are disrupted by shaking, rumbling,

stand, and lay all at once in a womb of my own devising.

unfortunate existence of a butterfly, deeply wishing to

coming from somewhere. I munch mindlessly until I

I (in)voluntarily envelop myself in caresses through the

go back into themself and just be, unexplainable? Yet,

believe myself to grow taller. Has my transition occurred

on and off of the flaming sun I have since gone out of

early? Is this burden the pair of wings I am destined to

sync with. In the closing and opening of the unlit suns,

model?

I am anew.

To ask?

I munch a last bite before I am pushed into a foggy wave of a pink vessel.

Touring this space is necessary. Munch. It appears

For a beat, I become ichor, flowing, trickling.

I am rebellion, I am resurgence, I am rebirth, I am perpetuity, I am contradiction.

I need to find a flower.

I must find myself.

For a beat, I am the maker and its creation.

For a beat, I exist unexplainable.

*** Mother believes that all young girls are monarchs to

to be dinner and a show; there’s enlarged true legs

I am entropy.

be. Destined for hardship and possessing innate resilience.

from outside moving back and forth. Munch. A steady

Mariposa

To be raised as a girl in our home is therefore an act of

movement upward and I am met with much dimmer

If I wasn’t already in the process of jumping out of

staying one. If you get stuck, you cannot stay stagnant. If

suns—eyes blinking in and out of existence. There are

my skin, the unlit suns staring at me would have jolted

it gets tough, you cannot say it is so. Survival is a matter of

trees of filaments surrounding these unlit suns as they

me to do so. And I am riven, swilled, shoehorned into

how willing you are to deny yourself.

eagerly stare at me. Mun-.

frigid pink ground.

I am no longer home.

October 28, 2022

5

ARTS & CULTURE

On Fragmentation And My Disappearance a meditation on The Memory Police and cultural amnesia

by Leanna Bai Illustrated by Lucia Tian Please hand-write a one page essay about yourself.

Due tomorrow.

American literature—the tendency towards assimilation

Lying on my belly in my closet, I lazily scribbled

that occurs when someone, like myself, grows up in

several ideas onto the paper. Hi, my name is Leanna.

places like scarlet-stained Texas. But when I attempt

I’m thirteen years old. I definitely know more capitals

to peel off the coat of Western culture, expecting to see

of the world than you. Also I have a cat. I am Chinese-

rows and rows of ancestors inviting me home, I find that

American? Here you go, teacher, I have no idea what it

I don’t even know where to look.

means to be or exist or gather memories into the shape of a human.

I am envious of those who can take a 23andMe test and learn their precise ethnic composition instead

In fact, do not make me say one fun fact about myself

And that’s how our family ended up in Xi’an, my mom

point that has been reiterated countless times in Asian

deftly folded the last piece of laundry and left the room. +++ There reaches a point in The Memory Police where knowledge of body parts begin to vanish.

It starts with a leg—people rise from their beds and feel a weird sensation on their hip. The protagonist trips and falls, the object welded to her body throwing her off-kilter. The island walks with a limp.

of “Broadly East Asian,” of those who know they are

People no longer conceptualize a “left leg.” The new

distantly related to King Henry VIII or [insert literally

disappearance initially sparks distress and confusion

any other European]. At the very most, I know snippets

among the residents, but then, the other leg dissipates

It is with my very elementary notions of identity that

about my great-grandmother from my mother’s

from existence. Then arms. Then the rest of the body,

I stumbled upon a particular novel over the summer—

anecdotes. What else is there? Was there a woman in the

and the protagonist is merely a voice.

The Memory Police, written in Japanese by Yōko Ogawa

Tang Dynasty who had my face and loved cats as well?

in 1994 and later translated into English. I consumed this

How much of my family history has been lost to time? Or

What becomes of the identity of a cultural isolate?

book in the way my aforementioned cat demolishes a bag

maybe it was the Cultural Revolution?

I know maybe 50 percent of the holidays and 25

or two truths and a lie. I literally don’t know. +++

of Costco tortillas: secretly, in the corner of my home.

The Memory Police imagines a mysterious island,

I mourn the disappearance of my ancestors, and I don’t even know who I’m sad for.

in which ordinary objects like ribbon, music boxes, and

+++

+++

percent of the language. The customs, traditions, and ways of living in Chinese culture are fragmented in my memory. The hyphen in “Chinese-American” is a

perfume vanish from people’s minds. Accompanying this

But I know one full story about my family.

divide, an expansive rift that blocks the parts of me

phenomenon is the titular Memory Police, who enforces

A small, shaky wagon cuts across the province of

that have disappeared. Whatever is passed down to my

these disappearances by capturing select individuals who

Manchuria, carrying a mother, a father, and a trio of

descendants will be small scraps and pretenses; as a

quietly remember these items. The main character is a

infants. The arc of the babies’ cries shoot up and across

grandmother, googling a meal I forgot to ask my mom

struggling novelist, and when her editor is endangered,

the plain. Japanese invasion was imminent, and most

about wouldn’t feel the same.

she decides to hide him under the floorboards of her

people believed that the inland was safer. Fingers clench

house. As the disappearances become more severe, the

the cart, hearts set themselves towards Xi’an.

duo grapple with the grief of societal and individual

The father squints his eyes at the eastern horizon.

amnesia. The Memory Police is simultaneously a

A troupe of ants advances in the distance. They take the

commentary on personal loss and a political depiction

shape of soldiers. Fingers cover the infants’ mouths. He

of a population that forgets its own history with grave

closes his eyes, levels his breathing. Kisses his babies one

consequences.

last time.

I probe my leg with a finger, and there’s no sensation. +++ The disappearances trickle into other parts of my life.

The Mandarin trapped in my throat snatches the English before it can escape from my mouth, and

Yōko Ogawa beckons readers to contemplate

He brandishes a knife, jumps out the cart, and

my lips move in desperation to convey a coherent

what they themselves have forgotten, and I think I know

pushes his loved ones away. The woman looks back, eyes

thought. I squeak in the middle of English classes, and

my answer.

set with determination, yet too occupied with hushing

my classmates hear small rumblings and half-formed

the children. The cart gains momentum, and he stares at

analyses.

+++ I’m sure other Chinese Americans also underwent some degree of cultural alienation in the US. It’s a

6

post–

his family for a very, very long time, then charges at the band of soldiers. His sacrifice bought them time.

Then, I forget all of the world capitals I so diligently memorized as a point of pride, all of my accumulated

ARTS & CULTURE knowledge, what I looked like and what I loved when I was six—I can’t even conceptualize my favorite ice cream flavor, and when I sit in a circle at the start of a seminar or club meeting, I don’t know how to introduce myself because of the incompleteness of my existence.

I’m afraid that if you peel away my identity there will be nothing; humans are only layers and no core.

Or maybe I’m overthinking everything. And should simply accept that I will never fully comprehend

Seeking Warmth In Jazz lost in the underground

by Kathy Gonzalez Illustrated by Connie LiU

internal monologue.

Somehow I wound up at The Underground. It was long past the usual lunchtime rush hour, so I managed to secure a seat on a high top in the back corner. Like a fly on the wall, I was among the shadows without the paranoia usually caused by others’ lingering eyes. Apart from the few half-hearted pleasantries I exchanged with the barista, I sat in silence. With both hands wrapped

It was February of freshman year and the novelty

around my latte in the hopes of regaining sensation

of New England winter was starting to wear off. My

in my fingers, I filtered out scattered conversations

Should I let go of the disappearances, dissolve

fantasies of a winter wonderland were met with bare

about weekend plans and friend group gossip, allowing

until I’m merely a voice? Glide through the floorboards

trees and blotches of yellow snow, bleak reminders

myself to bask in the warm glow of the dim string lights

into the secret corridor like a ghost and continue to

of my tendency to over-romanticize. The snowflakes

hanging from the pipes around the room. That’s when

expire?

that once gently graced my face now fell repeatedly

I heard it: a single piano note followed by a smooth,

like drops from a leaky faucet you can’t bring yourself

melancholic voice that enveloped me entirely.

my culture. And by extension, myself.

+++ Before the protagonist loses her left hand, she

to fix. The cable knit sweaters and turtlenecks and

For the next three minutes, I submitted myself

finishes her novel. It’s an exhausting process that enlists

cardigans and scarves and fuzzy socks that I bought

to Chet Baker’s anguished rendition of Sinatra’s “My

every fragment that is left of herself—books are now

with great enthusiasm—despite there being no bank

Funny Valentine.” I desperately held on to every

gone, and she can hardly write a coherent sentence,

statement to support these purchases—were itchy,

last word, relishing every syllable, every breath. His

much less the final act. In her incompleteness, she

each layer more suffocating than the last. Perhaps the

warmth was all-consuming, like my mother’s teary-

performed her last sliver of resistance before fading

most disheartening transition lay in the walks around

eyed embrace as I board the plane that puts us over

away.

campus. My once-purposeful strides turned into

one-thousand miles apart. He bore his heart with

On the night I finished The Memory Police, I vividly

frostbitten scurries from one classroom’s refuge to

a dulcet nonchalance that slyly taunted me, for my

dreamt that I was in outer space. I swam forward and

another; that is, if I could muster up the willpower to

moments of emotional release are far more turbulent;

floated towards a multicolored light source—reds,

leave my dorm in the first place.

if only I could mimic his stability, I thought, even just

purples, and yellows swirled in my vision. Somehow, I

On one instance where I did manage to leave the

was able to sit by this pool of colors. An object bobbed up

comfort of the riot-proof New Pem halls I’d grown to

In this moment, Baker was a harbinger of change.

and down in the waves, so I reached out to grab it, inspect

love, I found myself wandering aimlessly southward. It

I was no stranger to the notion of using music to

it, and trace its contours. Dig my fingers into its nooks

must’ve been less than 30 degrees that day, for the usual

drown out my thoughts—I have curated 130+ playlists

and crannies and feel its dimensions. I take it out of the

bustle of passersby down Thayer was replaced by a few

for overly specific scenarios (e.g. lying in the fetal

pool and repeat this process with all the others. A pile

brave souls trudging through the snow and slush. I had,

position on my dorm room floor, soft songs for

of unrecognizable names, histories, and trinkets grows

by no means, accomplished anything on my to-do list,

migraines, driving with the windows down, etc.) to

around me, and maybe this assortment is things that I

but I decided I was done for the day. Done with classes,

back this—but this time was different. Listening to

once knew or lost. Scrunchies. Language. Ancestors.

myself, all of it. Surely a change of scenery would result

his voice did not encourage me to stuff my thoughts

in a more positive train of thought.

into the overflowing mental cabinets I’d long refused

Perhaps there is an unreachable place where

briefly.

disappeared memories end up. It could be buried deep in

Despite my uncharacteristic burst of spontaneity,

to open. For the first time, my mind wasn’t racing

my brain or in some metaphysical plane. This reassures

this adventure started with my usual, soul-crushing

with questions of whether or not I was doing enough,

me.

routine: Put on a thermal layer. Then jeans. Those

caring enough, being enough. Rather, the tenderness

I don’t have to be complete to tell my story, to face

don’t fit you like they used to. Now a sweater. Not baggy

emanating from his voice and the soft piano melody

the soldiers attacking from the east. A tale in fragments

enough. Oh look, I’m crying again. Here goes sweater #2

allowed me to sit comfortably with the very same

can endure eons; I am a scattered clay piece of an ancient

followed by my worn-out black puffer jacket and boots.

thoughts that persistently plagued me. He held

epic. My ancestors are spread elsewhere, but I know the

I hope I don’t see anyone I know. Lastly, the headphones.

my hand and squeezed it tight, reassuring me that

story of my mother, my brother, and especially me—even

Will these keep me distracted for long? I hope so. Like

introspection does not have to be self-destructive; this

in its broken pieces.

clockwork, I layered my insecurities between my winter

is a feeling I was not willing to relinquish.

And, like the writer in the novel, I’ll tell it all.

clothes, subduing the insulation with the iciness of my

I’ve registered this memory with such detail

October 28, 2022

7

LIFEST YLE because it marks the beginning of my search for warmth in music. It’s preserved in my mental archives, glowing with soft sepia tints and covered in delicate lace trimmings like the relics stored in my grandmother’s weather-beaten armoire. In my mind, warmth transcends comfort. It is a sense of familiarity, nostalgia, relief. Within music, I’ve found that more often than not, jazz is the ultimate hearth. It’s Julie London’s sultry voice drifting around the lake house kitchen as my friends and I delegate tasks to prepare a cozy, candlelit dinner during spring break. It’s Billie Holiday’s soulful reconciliation with love unrequited that infuses my mind with ease as I fold fleece quarter-zips during my shifts at the bookstore.

Or maybe it’s Nat King Cole’s silky smooth description of the autumn leaves crunching under my feet on my morning walks down Hope Street. Lately, it’s been Laufey’s modern yet tender touch on the genre as she paints a picture reminiscent of the cobblestone streets I see when I visit my best friend in Boston.

Before coming to Providence, I never had to seek warmth; I was constantly surrounded with more heat than I was willing to bear. I lived in an eternal summer, perpetually drenched in sweat and acne-ridden from the relentless Miami humidity. All I had ever known were the palm trees towering over the gridded streets, stubbornly withstanding the Floridian extremes. I was sunburnt and dehydrated from the sweltering heat, or I was confined to my tiny bedroom from the latest hurricane’s torrential downpour. But at least I was home. At least I could cozy up with my cat when

Halloween Costumes For The Sartorially Challenged

I was feeling down, or make my parents laugh with

by SEAN TOOMEY

my musings during dinner. At home, heat and warmth

Illustrated by Lucid Clairvoyant

were inextricably intertwined, and I was never at a

IG: @l.u.cid

loss for either.

a pretty easy one to put together, as all you need is a blue wig and a yellow raincoat. You could also consider dressing up as the movie’s supporting characters. A benefit of the movie being as ubiquitous during the Halloween season as vaguely inappropriate skeletons is that you can dress high concept or low concept and the costume will still come across. For Ms. Spink and Forcible, you could recreate their pink and green costumes with colored clothing or just their colored robes.

Bobinksy could be done by painting your entire body blue and drawing on a mustache or just by wearing the rattiest athletic clothes you have. You could also do Coraline’s Dad (although I know for many of you this might be akin to looking in the

When I’m away from home, I’ve resorted to

If you’re like me, Halloween is the time for last-minute

mirror) by getting a Michigan State sweater and blue flip flops,

gathering songs like quarters for a jukebox that will

panic and candy indulgence, a time for throwing together the

or just by wearing what you normally wear combined with

imbue me with the warmth I need to make it through

shittiest costume the world’s ever seen and going, “No, you

your already horrendous posture. This should do the trick

the day. With jazz, each song evokes a curious sense

just don’t get the reference,” to people who see right through

amazingly.

of nostalgia for a time I’ve never known. There’s

your Spooky Season laziness. But, as the old adage goes, those

something so comforting about leaving behind the

who can’t do, teach! Today I’ll be giving you some Halloween

Miss Piggy from The Muppets:

woes of my day-to-day life to immerse myself in a

costume ideas to try and save you from the inevitable early

Miss Piggy is another example of a costume that can be

world wherein I, as well as my fears, do not belong. I

exits at parties.

am untethered to my responsibilities, relieved of the

pulled off with both high- and low-concept outfits. On the bottom end of the spectrum, you could just grab a dress you’ve

burden of my anxieties, a blissful foreigner transiently

Patrick Bateman from American Psycho:

had lying around since you bombed your audition for Chicago,

wandering. I simply am, and frankly, I’d seldom

No.

throw on some pig ears, and call it a day. On the higher end,

describe myself as simply anything.

you could take that dress you’ve had lying around since you Frank Serpico from Serpico:

bombed your audition for Chicago and spruce it up with all

at The Underground, fingers interlaced around my

This is the perfect costume for those of you seeking to hit

sorts of gaudy additions to the outfit. Then you could go deep in

coffee cup and listening to jazz just as I was not too

that perfect ‘70s balance between grooviness and sleaze. This

character by painting your face pink and method acting for the

many months ago. Except this time, I planned to go

movie’s range of outfits spans from “Gross Milsurp Guy” to

next week in order to prepare for that one joke you just have

there. And the music is not coming from a speaker.

“Gross Big Hat Guy” and will draw plenty of looks no matter

to land, because you’ve never been the same since your voice

The room is dimly lit but lively, with people squeezing

what Halloween function you’re attending. After Halloween,

cracked during your audition and goddamnit I just need this.

together on couches and coffee tables under the glow

you can capitalize on the multiple stylish pieces this costume

of the string lights that continue to adorn the exposed

requires by slipping them into your fall wardrobe. Field jackets

Pirates:

brick. This sight has become familiar to me, for

and oversized coats will always look good when paired with

The real workhorse of Halloween. If you could pick one

every few Wednesday nights, members of the Brown

more casual items like jeans and flannels, including tailored

costume variation to bring with you to a deserted island this

community come together to share their genuine love

clothing like sport coats and trousers. Aim for more casual

would (naturally) be the one to take. Pirate costumes are great

for jazz. Whether they be instrumentalists jamming

fittings to pair with the style of ‘70s fashion. This is also the

because they can be pulled off by anybody with almost any

together as they play “Caravan,” or supportive friends

perfect time to grow out your porno stache/beard combo that

wardrobe to pick from. But effort is what separates the bad

snapping along in the crowd, the warmth radiated by

everyone in your life has been telling you not to.

pirates (dead) from the good ones (dead at a later date). It's

Nowadays, I find myself at that very same table

the speakeasy-like atmosphere of Jazz Jams is what

easy to just throw on some brown chinos your mom got you Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks:

two years ago and a linen top you’ve had lying around begging

As winter looms near, I think back to the first

Dale Cooper is the perfect costume for those who have

to be worn, but the little details that show you care are really

time my close friend invited me to these sessions—his

been collecting cherry pie and coffee jokes from the inevitable,

what's going to push your outfit to the top. Pirate hats, swords,

sheer excitement to share the piece he’d spent hours

extremely confusing TV show marathon during quarantine a

drawstring shirts, giant beards: These are the things that’ll turn

practicing made his offer impossible to decline. I’ll just

couple years back. All you need to do is run down to your local

your low concept outfit into a really good one without breaking

make an appearance and leave. I’ll be okay. One session

thrift store and find a black suit and tie combined with the

the bank. Goodwill and other thrift stores will almost always

turned into two, three, now all. It became tradition,

lengthiest floor length trench coat they have, and you’re golden.

have these Halloween items for cheap, so go get yourself a

with each performance stringing along more familiar

During Halloween, try to tone down on mentioning your

pirate hat and start drinking grog—Halloween is right around

faces to fill up that cramped leather couch. Ultimately,

prophetic dreams and saying “Damn Fine Coffee” after every

the corner.

I am but an observer, yet I relish in these moments. I

sip of literally anything you ingest throughout the day.

makes people, like myself, come back every time.

hold them closely to my chest as I walk along the same

There we have it. Your last minute Halloween without

paths that once overwhelmed me. I allow the melodies

Coraline:

the stress or scrounging! Stay safe and have fun partying,

to seep in, warming my heart even when my thoughts

Everyone does Coraline, and considering the title of this

sequestering, baking, candy binging, or whatever else there is

induce their iciest chills.

8

post–

article, it’s probably best to stick to what you know. This is

to do on the last day of Spooky Season.

LIFEST YLE

Not A Normal Dog the main green's favorite west virginia brown dog

by Andy Luo Illustrated by Connie Lu

balcony door fast enough, he’ll look at her, as if to say, ‘Why

front feet up there and lay his head on you, but he will not get

aren’t you opening the door to the balcony?’ Victoria suspects

on the couch.”

that he knows the word “balcony” at this point.

However, Atlas has been caught in the act on a few

Atlas is calm. Most of the time.

occasions.

“Yesterday while we were all sitting in the living room

“One time one of my roommates came out of the shower,

doing homework, he wasn’t barking, but he’d lie there, and

and I guess Atlas didn’t think my roommate was there. And

then he’d be like, ‘What’s that?’ Then he would run across

Atlas was sitting on the couch and my roommate looked at him

the room and look in my roommate’s door, then run into my

like, ‘Are you supposed to be there?’ so he got off.”

If you are an avid reader of post-, you may have seen my

room and look out the window, then run back and lie down.

“Another time I was leaving, and as I walked by the

entry a few weeks ago where I proclaimed a gaping dog-shaped

He repeated that every ten minutes for over two hours. Atlas

window, I saw him standing with his paws on the arm of the

hole in my life. It exists because I miss my pup from home, Sara

would never disrupt others with relentless barking, he would

couch watching me walk away. So the next day when I was

(who is, unequivocally, the best dog, like all dogs). In an attempt

do a little ‘arwoof woof,’ which is not really a bark, just a little

leaving, as I was heading out of the living room, I saw he was

to fill this hole in my heart, I’ve reached out to talk to dogs and

vocalization.”

standing close and at a strange orientation to the couch, and

dog owners on campus that frequent the main green to hear

“People on the Main Green love him. I bring him there

I was like, ‘I bet he’s gonna get on the couch.’ So I opened the

more of (and perhaps live vicariously through) their lives. This

and walk laps around the Main Green so people will pay

door and shut the door without leaving. I waited a little bit

week, I talked to Atlas (@the_atlas_gram on Instagram!), a

attention to him. He really knows how to work a room. He’ll sit

and I poked my head around the corner, and he was sitting

beautiful part-golden retriever, and his parent, Victoria.

there and let people pet him. Then he’ll lay there and as people

there with his feet on the couch ready to watch me leave. It

start to lose interest, he’ll do a big dramatic flop and everyone

was really funny. I was like, ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ He

will squeal and rub his belly. He fully knows what he’s doing.”

jumped off and was like, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking

The first thing you should know about Atlas is that he’s ambiguously aged. He is six, or maybe seven—he’s a rescue

Victoria recalls what is perhaps his greatest Main Green

so no one really knows. When Victoria first got him he was

performance to date was on the first day of Spring Weekend

around a year old. When Atlas joined her family, she thought

last year:

about.’”

Otherwise, Atlas and Victoria have an exceptional rapport.

he was going to get bigger and grow out of his puppy bed. But

“I walked him up and down the line while people were

“We communicate and understand each other well. I

then he didn’t really do that. Atlas stayed puppy-sized. And

waiting to get in. Everyone told me I should’ve been charging,

just talk to him like a normal person. I really like having him

retained his puppy characteristics of friendly, goofy silliness.

and maybe I should have because I bet I would’ve gotten a lot

here just because he’s my friend and I like having him around.

“He spends a lot of time flopped over on his back, I think it is a

of money. Drunk Brown students want nothing more than [to

I grew up on a farm and we had a bunch of farm dogs, and we

golden retriever thing.”

pet] a dog.”

always had pet dogs and cats and sheep, so it was really weird

Atlas is allegedly also part chow, and part Leonberger

Atlas is a big fan of butt scratches and being under the

my first two years not ever interacting with a dog except for

“which is a giant dog that looks just like him but just much,

bed, and we are let in on the secret that Atlas will also secretly

twice in a semester at a therapy dog event or something. So

much larger”. But perhaps most accurately, Atlas is a “West

sit on the couch.

it’s nice to have him around, but it’s a lot of work.”

Virginia brown dog” (Victoria notes here that this “is code

“I think he knows he’s not allowed to, but I can never tell

“I think this is only working so well for me because he’s

for mutt”). He lives near campus with Victoria in a “weird,

him he’s not allowed because he never gets on the couch when

my dog who I had before I came to Brown, and I knew him

old Providence apartment” that offers Atlas his own private

I’m around. Frequently we’ll let him and pat the couch and be

and had a good connection with him. I knew he wasn’t going

balcony where he likes to start his day with time in the sun

like, ‘Come here, come here,’ and we’ll ask him to get on the

to be really high maintenance and bark all day and annoy the

before going on a morning walk. If Victoria doesn’t open the

couch and cuddle with us, but he won’t do it. He’ll stand his

neighbors or need to go to the groomer twice a week. I don’t think I would adopt a dog as a Brown student because there are so many unknowns.”

As winter approaches, Atlas invites us to join him in facing the drop in temperatures and shortening of days with vigor and dogged enthusiasm. “He’s definitely a cold weather dog, so as it’s gotten colder he’s gotten weirdly energetic.

He always has, but more so this year. I think it’s part of his journey to being a normal dog.” *** I hope you enjoyed this installment of getting to know a Brown dog! If you have a dog, please contact me at andy_ luo@brown.edu. In exchange for getting to spend time with you and your dog, I’ll feature both of you in my next article!

Note: please do not contact me if (1) you do not have a dog, (2) you have a dog but your dog is not physically in Providence, (3) your dog does not consent to being featured in the article. If (2) applies to you, I’m sorry, I feel your pain.

I too miss my dog very much. However, if you meet all the criteria and would like to be featured, I do hope you’ll be in touch!

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kyoko Leaman FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai

“Whether the impetus be a monster, a psycho killer, or a demonic spirit in search of a new host, I always find that there is something so cozy about this Hollywood-produced fear.”

Section Editors Addie Marin Ananya Mukerji

—Ellie Jurmann, “Horror Movies for Bedtime Stories” 10.29.2021

“What threshold of time and space must be crossed before we can fully understand how a film works and the limitations of the magic it offers?”

—Rob Capron, “Screen Memory”

11.1.2019

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

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

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 28, 2022

9