the kids aren't alright to mr. chalamet, with gratitude
concentration should you really be studying?
1. Belly + Conrad + Jeremiah
2. Bella + Edward + Jacob
3. Elena + Stefan + Damon
4. y/n + Zayn + Harry
5. Me + you + your sister (why no girls??)
6. King Arthur + Queen Guinevere + Sir Lancelot
7. Short-term memory loss + Short-term memory loss + Short-term memory loss
8. God + Satan + Job
9. BDH + Indy + Noser
10. Zendaya and the people from Challengers whose names I can’t remember
“LET ME BE STRAIGHT—well I mean, I’m always straight. You guys are gay.”
“Whenever
I see you guys together on campus, it’s like a sunrise.”
letter from the editor
Dear Readers,
All summer long I’d been traveling on New England’s finest modes of transport: the MBTA’s Providence/Stoughton line and Boston’s Green Line. During my travels, the Green Line was only delayed about ten times, while the MBTA tracks caught on fire a mere two. So more accurately, all summer long I’d been waiting on and in New England’s finest modes of transport. In these interrupted moments of limbo, with only 200MB of data to spare, I was prompted to stare wistfully outside the scratched-up train window and think about how much our lives were spent in transit and the transitory. I’d then promptly fall asleep against the glass, usually waking up to find that I was no longer where my body thought I was. I found that I didn’t mind the sitting in stillness for another delay because I knew where I’d eventually end up. All summer long I traveled to Shanghai, Seattle, and yes, Providence, RI, toward the people I loved and the places holding them.
In the first issue of post- (!!) this semester, our writers are also journeying. Ivy delves into the world of performative men in this week’s Feature article and discovers the ways in which we are all performative men deep down.
In Narrative, Samaira considers the path that Love takes across her bedroom
ceiling, while Mar goes to a museum in Amsterdam for a conversation with a stranger. Meanwhile, for the first A&C article, Sofie enters the virtual terrain of Roblox chat rooms to investigate how Gen Alpha is shaping the discourse on body image. In the other, Indigo writes a letter to Timothée-Chalamet-as-Bob-Dylan for the way his A Complete Unknown role helped her healing process after being sexually assaulted. In Lifestyle, Yana details her venture into trying coffee for the first time and how “coffee chats” have taken over Brown. And Jessica takes you across a whirlwind of departments, study spots, and dining halls in her post-pourri quiz to help you determine which concentration you really should be studying! Finally, check out Lily’s crossword this week, which transports you back to the 2016 (yet arguably eternal) Hamilton craze with a “Best of Wives and Best of Women” theme.
Now that I’ve returned to where home has been for the last three years (both Providence and post-!), I’m feeling so grateful that the Main Green and Coffee Exchange and 88 Benevolent St. are my frequent destinations. I’m even more grateful for the people who await me there. As you embark on your own odysseys, I hope you’ll pick up this week’s issue of post- to keep you company (especially if there’s, say, a three-hour MBTA delay)!
Nevertheless championing public transport,
Emilie Guan
Editor-in-Chief
on prolonged boyhood
a psychoanalytical approach to male emotional maturity
social order. Come Tom, come all.
I should clarify: I’ve had a series of Toms in my life, one after another. With time I’ve become far more interested in chronicling the way these men were raised rather than the way they currently act. I’m perplexed by an ingrained pattern among all Toms: a central inability to express what they feel.
I recall being in a club in Berlin this past June with one particular Tom. We were Americans on a study abroad program in a foreign country. Through my glasses, I could see dozens, if not hundreds, of individuals older than me dancing in a square of their own making. I remember the sight of Tom, flicking his wrists in the way American men do, moving his body jaggedly, with far too much exposure of his drunkenness. His lips were moving, but I could not hear. He motioned for me to move closer to him. His breath was inches from my face and Pilsner wafted from his mouth. He
“I’m so fucking old. I’m 23. I’m kind of just a 23-year-old boy when you really think about it.”
Looking at him from across the club’s abyss—this hedonistic, ego-obliterating safe haven that only came to exist because of the fall of the Berlin Wall—I came to realize Tom was stuck in a perpetual adolescence, a prolonged
boyhood induced by culture.
I called my mother for advice.
“Men are like birds,” she said, an ocean between us. “When their feathers get ruffled, when things feel a little too serious for them at your age, you have to just let them fly away because, sometimes, they’ll come back.”
Suddenly, I imagined myself shrinking. Through my vision I could see my body becoming smaller, my hands less wrinkled and my fingers less long. I inhabited the body I had in sixth grade.
In this vision, I sat in my home kitchen, in Texas. I faced my parents, although I looked away from them.
“Why are the boys so immature?” I begged for an answer. I admitted I was drifting away from childhood male friends who, overnight, seemed aloof, reticent, in a different world I was not allowed into.
“Boys develop and mature slower,” they told me.
As a child, the narrative spoon-fed to me by authority was as follows: I was not like the other children; I was hyper-aware, self-sufficient. I remember the feeling of tears falling out of my eyes like flies, these itchy things I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t figure out why I felt a sense of disgust watching the other boys goof off in class, mock the girls in our grade who were just starting
slap and punch and kick each other in the name of love.
I’d like to think this illustrates what many women and queer people experience from a young age: a heightened awareness of power dynamics, issues of safety and discomfort, and a recognition of inequities within the social structure. What may be seen as maturity could instead be seen as accelerated development, a so-called maturation that happens without consent.
Research shows that girls tend to develop superior emotional awareness and communication skills at an earlier age, but developmental timelines don’t exist in a vacuum. In the American context, girls are often praised for expressing emotions like vulnerability and empathy, even as they are forced to take on caretaking roles within the family. Meanwhile, boys are systematically socialized to suppress emotions, particularly those perceived as "weak" or "feminine," such as sadness, fear, or sensitivity.
In such a system, it is only inevitable that so-called “sensitive men”—that is, Tom—are unable to communicate their emotional states, even as they are aware of them. A phantom organ to which they have no access.
The phrase for this is the normative male alexithymia hypothesis, coined by psychologist
Ronald Levant, who observes that expressions of hurt, fear, and attachment are out of reach for many men due to gendered socialization. Alexithymia literally means “without words for emotions.” There is even a scale to measure this gap in language.
Dating is a fairly recent historical event, and, taking into account that male adolescence is a newly prolonged construct (during the Industrial Revolution Tom would have been at work in a factory before he even hit puberty!), I can’t help but wonder how he came about, how America raised him, birthed him, not once but twice. The women in his life, too: his mother, his first girlfriend, and the women that follow.
As a trans woman, I am fascinated by the ways in which I disrupt these prescribed social timelines. At the same time, I am frightened by how I am mythologized by men, seen as a fantasy or someone who gets “both sides of the coin,” someone with whom men can commiserate about their upbringing and traumas.
In a relationship, one becomes acutely aware of the way their actions correlate to someone else’s feelings and personal histories in a way that friendships do not necessarily demand. Relationships are said to take you out of the hamster wheel of futility, showing the importance of yourself, because you are no longer just a person but someone with a
puberty,
BOY
simply so many Toms; something perplexing about how Tom does not have the language to explain what he feels to the women he dates because society confiscated it from him before he could speak; something genuinely concerning about how patriarchal social development stunts manhood while prolonging
brewed an affective economy of frustration, despair, and repetition among many of my friends.
Tom is not just a new phenomenon but a paradoxical one. Tom is just self-aware enough to speak about his subjectivity, even as he fails to break through it.
Picturing Tom from afar, standing in all his glory, I realize we are all Tom, no matter how much we wish otherwise. We are the “man of the house” even when we don’t want to be. We are told of the need to be emotionally regulated and stable even when social conditions incur mania. We strive for the ‘good life,’ sharing clusters of promises about people that they cannot fulfill.
Yet even if we are all Tom, we are not all men, which is to say language does not inevitably fail those socialized to express their feelings. Just as memory is a recreation of something that was, language is
a recreation of something that is. Our fantasies rely on imprecise language and feelings as interpreted by language. Language is something that carries baggage, structures our thoughts, serves as the mode of living that decides how we name our inner conscious, yet is nonetheless something we do together. Though emotional maturation is an individual concept that is influenced collectively, we carry the baggage of everyone
bedroom ceiling
spiraling on thursdays
by samaira mohunta
Illustrated by Rhea Hu
You realize that you’ve forgotten to throw Love in the trashcan. Love passed its expiry date a year ago but remains stuck to the ceiling of your room because you want to stare at the ceiling and think of Love every night before falling asleep.
When you walk inside the washroom and open your cupboard, your clothes fall onto the floor. You left them in a mess, but you can’t seem to remember why. Your eyelashes flutter, and you remember that Love liked it when you showed up to Diwali parties in your hot pink, round neck Lululemon t-shirt with neon green Nike shorts, liked it when you wore clothes unfit for the occasion—liked it even more when you wore clothes that didn’t match. So you throw the clothes that didn’t fall to the floor down and let them pile up too. It’ll be easier to plan unmatched outfits now. Besides, what does it matter? You cleaned your cupboard then, you’ll clean your cupboard now.
When you take out your Hindi literature textbook from your school bag to read Chapter four, you open to page 147 without realizing it. Love’s initials are more visible than the text on that page; you’ve always had a habit of scribbling too hard, so even months after you erased his initials from the page, faint grey shadows remain.
Your head spins. Your gaze drops to the floor. A yellow card peeks out from behind your cushion. You pick it up and see Love’s cursive handwriting that spells out “HAPPY BDAY,” the A so much slimmer and taller than it should be, slimmer and taller than even the A from ‘Amatic
bedroom
AC.’ Somewhere near the bottom left corner, the paper feels uneven. You had opened the card for the first time right after eating a Snickers bar from the packet Love had bought for you on your birthday. So you decide to go to the mall and buy yourself a packet of Snickers to have while watching Love’s favorite movie, MS Dhoni: The Untold Story.
You see Love at the mall. Love tells you that your hot pink, round neck Lululemon t-shirt looks ridiculous with your neon green Nike shorts. So you tear open the Snickers packet you just bought, open Love’s fist, aggressively shove some into Love’s palm, go back home, and cry and cry some more. So you clean your cupboard again, wear a matching outfit, scribble over Love’s signatures, throw Love’s card in the trash, and delete that movie from your downloaded Netflix films.
But when you go to sleep that night, you realize that Love is still on your ceiling and you are still staring at it.
my friend at the museum an unspoken understanding
by mar falcon
Illustrated by Wanxin (Rita) Li
Today I’m in the museum lobby, newly thrifted jacket in hand, waiting for my friends to come out. I’m in Amsterdam. Specifically, I’m at the Rembrandt House Museum, though I wouldn’t know—I haven’t gone past the lobby. Still, “Rembrandt van Rijn" is written in a font so big it’s impossible to miss, resting right in front of me. For how cultured I aspire to be, you’d think I’d want to learn more about the guy. But it’s late and I’ve walked a lot and I’m too tired and my friends are already inside. Today I choose freedom—every small act doesn’t have to function as a perfect representation of my entire sense of self. My apathy towards Mr. Rembrandt doesn’t define me: I remain an artist.
Today I’m sitting on a bench—the one furthest from the entrance—and I’m pretending to read a book. Today I’m thinking and I’m interrupted by this man who comes up to me. He immediately intrigues me; he’s wearing an all-black suit and oval-shaped glasses, seems to be around 60 years old, and is very stronglooking. I notice his badge and feel the weight of authority. He seems almost too calm, too confident, too clean—except for the remains of old finger tattoos, a scar from a former eyebrow piercing, and a keen eye for my leather jacket.
“Tell me a story,” he asks as he sits by my side.
Usually, the open book in my lap would keep a stranger from mistaking my posture for an invitation to talk, but he can tell that I’m not really reading. I’m rarely open to talking to men I don’t know, especially if they’re older, and even less so with a demeanor this controlled.
But “tell me a story,” he says, and despite my instincts, I choose to trust him. I mean, he’s a man in an all-black suit with a museum badge— what harm can he do?
“Should it be a real story?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Make up something fun.”
I start with a story where you find yourself at a flea market hunting for the perfect jacket. You look and look and look, and eventually you stumble upon one that you wouldn’t have imagined, one you wouldn’t have intentionally looked for—but when it’s right in front of you, it’s suddenly perfect, so you buy it. It’s about doing something fun for yourself, and though the process of searching feels time-consuming and unsuccessful and never-ending, eventually you find the one. And it’s even better because it was unexpected. Surprise factor! So fun!
My Friend at the Museum My Friend at
story—this is indeed the house of an artist.
“I don’t think he’s too upset,” the man says. “Rembrandt, I mean. Do you really think he ghosts around his house museum all day?”
much time together and how the enormity of their affection could never be confined to the house’s walls. He pulls out his phone then and shows me a photo of him and his mother standing in front of their simple home.
“The energy of a place is more than the color of its walls.”
“Who’s the corny one now?” I tease back.
“At least I’m not dismissing museums because of their lobbies,” he says.
“Trust me, the market was huge,” I say. “It was so unlikely you ended up buying that exact one.”
He glances at my jacket, then looks back into my eyes with a serious expression, doubting the fiction of my narrative. I don’t miss his slight smile—a playful kind of disapproval.
“You missed the part where I became friends with some of the sellers,” I justify. “Sure, it’s all in hopes that I get a discount, which I do, but it represents more than that, no?”
He’s not convinced.
“The power of kindness and friendship in casual conversation and all,” I argue, “and of unexpected beautiful finds.”
For some reason, I want to prove to this man that I’m a good spontaneous storyteller.
“Cheesy,” he replies, no longer hiding his smile. I’m winning him over.
“Thought I’d play it safe.” There’s a moment of silence then. We sit on the bench, both still facing forward, and my gaze starts to drift. This place is interesting—full of character and a subtle energy that only becomes apparent once you pay attention. If you bother to drop your book and deign to look up. If you decide to be present, curious, to crave details and explanations. So I pay attention, then: to the creaking of the wooden floors as people walk by, the way the light filters through the windows near the entrance, how it falls on the too-bright white, cold-toned walls. How those walls match the clean lines of the sharp gray reception desk. I wonder about this—“Do you think Rembrandt notices? Do you think that he’s aware of the lobby’s modern dullness, disapproving from above, offended by the staff’s decorating choices? That he might deem it disrespectful, an inaccurate prelude to his art?”
The man, deep in thought, turns to me. “What?”
“Look at this lobby,” I say. “It looks nothing like his paintings.”
On the front desk, a small TV displays pictures of Rembrandt’s works, their titles in a small font at the bottom-left corner. The image changes after around six seconds. I spot “The Night Watch,” “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” “The Jewish Bride,” and “SelfPortrait.” Sitting on the bench, I glance toward the stairwell leading down to the museum’s entrance, catching the corner of a painting in the hallway—maybe it’s one I just saw on the screen. The walls there are painted darker, warmer, as if to match the paintings’ moods. I can’t see much from here, still in the lobby, but I imagine everything down there must have a
I nod in agreement. “Yeah,” I say, “good point,” or something like that. I’m still focused on the walls. Our silence doesn’t feel awkward; it’s respectful. I notice a poster on the wall across from us showing a world map. It marks similar museums on different continents; places like the Musée Eugène Delacroix in Paris, Goya’s House in Madrid, and Frida Kahlo Museum in Mexico City—all former homes or intimate spaces of artists, now turned into quiet, reverent temples where the walls still feel like they’re listening. I wonder how Mr. Rembrandt feels about all these strangers constantly wandering through the halls, judging him and his art. Maybe he thinks that some of them don’t form strong opinions at all and are just passing through like it’s any other place. Or that some don’t even enter, but just wait on benches for their friends to get bored enough to leave. He probably finds that ridiculous; it’s not like they’re at his house, his most meaningful place in the world. Does he ghost around, thinking about all these things?
Still staring at the map, I turn my view to South America, seeing how few places are marked there. I think of South America and I think of home, and my gaze softens as my mind drifts. I haven’t thought about it in a while, and I miss it, and sometimes I wish that—
“Where are you from?” he interrupts, catching me staring. Or maybe he noticed my accent earlier. “California,” I say, trying on my best valley girl voice, but he cuts me off quickly. He faces me, narrows his eyes, sees right through it. “I’m from Peru,” I tell him. “Lima, more exactly.”
Now he’s intrigued. He has this very particular way of looking into my eyes as I talk—as if confirming, or genuinely wanting to hear more. He asks good questions. It’s encouraging. I open up, then, about how my city is dangerous yet safe, about the complicated politics, about how I really feel about the place. I tell him about how, as a teenager, I used to count the days until I left, and how now I count them to go back. About how living abroad is hard, but it's something I’d never regret. No one’s asked me about home in a while.
I notice he has an accent too. South African, he says. There’s a pause, a moment of quiet responsibility—to share more, dig a little deeper, get more emotional. He doesn’t talk much about politics, if at all. Not about the government or the economy or social injustice or international affairs. Instead, he talks about his childhood. He lived in a housing complex with small units, a very modest space, he says. He talks about how he walked back from school every day with his two best friends, and how his mom was always waiting for him, lunch in hand. How they spent so
the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at the Museum My Friend at
He has a point. He turns to me and he moves a little closer.
“I don’t think Mr. Rembrandt is offended,” he says. “But it’s not for the reasons I mentioned before. Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely watching everyone here, paying attention, but maybe he agrees with the odd decorating choices.”
I turn toward him now, too, but my eyes still wander the walls. I’ve become observant.
“I like to think there’s a point to it all, you know. That it’s intentional. Only those who know what they’re looking for here—or those who truly look—don’t get turned off by first appearances. I spend so much time here. I know the place well.”
I see where this is going: “Maybe it’s right that I don’t get to walk in there and experience it, then.”
“I work at the museum because a cold lobby wasn’t ever going to keep me from the beauty of its paintings,” he adds. “You could’ve figured it out yourself—I can always tell when someone isn’t really reading.” He gestures at my book, the one I’d been pretending to read when he approached me earlier, now forgotten at my side.
“That’s not a very common way to meet people.”
“You never would’ve thought of picking up that jacket until you saw it,” he says, looking at the brown leather jacket beside me.
I meet his eyes in defiance. He doesn’t waver. It’s true, I think.
I glance back at the TV on the front desk, now showing Rembrandt’s “Self-Portrait,” a painting where he sits staring out at the observer. What I see in his eyes surprises me—he doesn’t hold the look of a calculating guest-watcher. Instead, I see the face of an artist—humble, slightly too emotional, wearing his feelings openly for everyone to see. He’s not concerned; he’s honest. And he’s been looking right at me all this time, with the truth of what his art carries. After six seconds, the image changes. I sit at the bench, unmoving. I look back at the man.
He’s still facing me. Puzzled yet hopeful, he continues to stare, slowly making his point: you see?
I look away as my phone buzzes. My friends are asking where I am. It’s getting late, I realize. I gather my bag and my book and my jacket, and I stand in front of him.
“I never really liked talking to strangers,” I say with a shrug. “Thought it was weird.”
“Yeah, me too,” he smiles softly. “Who even does that anyway?”
He still looks straight into my eyes. I meet his stare and can’t help the smile that begins to form on my lips. He returns the smile, and I know he gets the message.
I always saw.
“It was nice meeting you,” I say at last.
“You as well,” he replies, nodding his head in acknowledgement.
I slip the unread book into my bag, put on my new jacket, wave goodbye, and walk away.
the kids aren’t alright
Roblox chat logs give insight into how Ozempic and y2K aesthetics are negatively shaping Gen Alpha’s rhetoric on body image
by sofie zeruto
Illustrated by Ellie Lin
In the past five years, the anti-diabetic medication Ozempic has entered the American pop-cultural vernacular. The medication has transformed into an unofficial weight-loss drug, lauded by celebrities and the affluent as a miracle pill that staves off hunger. The Ozempic era has coincided with the cyclical return of Y2K trends, characterized by stick-thin models wearing low-rise jeans and crop tops. Gone are the days of late 2010s body positivity, when rhetoric celebrating curves dominated the culture, and the success of plus-size singers and models like Lizzo and Barbie Ferreira inspired conversations about body diversity and beauty standards. Indeed, today, it seems nearly all the former faces of the body positivity movement have had sudden significant weight loss, including Lizzo, Ferreira, “All About That Bass” singer Meghan Trainor, and many others. Even worse, many celebrities deny the use of Ozempic or other weight-loss drugs, perpetuating the age-old myth that anyone can obtain the “ideal body type” completely naturally.
Growing up amid the transition from Y2K dieting culture to the body positivity movement, I remember my own struggles with my body and how this cultural shift influenced my self-image. I recall working on a project about the body positivity movement with my friends in high school and feeling hopeful that maybe, just maybe, the next generation of kids could exist in a world where all body types are celebrated and considered uniquely beautiful. It is becoming increasingly evident to me that this is not the case, and it may indeed be true that Generation Alpha is intensely backsliding on this front.
About a year ago, I, a 21-year-old woman, began playing Roblox in the evenings to destress after a long day. Growing up, I loved online games—from old Minecraft Java servers
and MOBAs, to MMOs like Final Fantasy or Guild Wars 2. As many of those communities have died or lost most of their player base, I found the bustling servers of Roblox fun and comforting. However, cognizant of Roblox’s primary demographic being kids between the ages of 9 and 15, I have found the chat rooms on some of the minigames to be disturbing in a way I never expected: Namely, it appears that fatphobia is in. Truthfully, it was not very long ago that I was in that age group and had unrestricted access to the internet. I remember being called
a “bitch” and being asked if I was on my period by teenage boys on Steam games if I ever dared to turn on my voice chat. Unlike Roblox, the games I played did not have chat censors. Kids swore and hurled slurs at each other. Online gaming 10 years ago was by no means familyfriendly. Still, fatphobia was not as prevalent as I see it to be now, and it wasn’t “cool.” Besides, how can you be fatphobic in a video game where you don’t know what anyone looks like in real life? The very notion appears nonsensical. Perhaps it is because Roblox has body type character customization options, or
perhaps it is due to the game’s automatic chat censorship of words it deems inappropriate, but one of the principal insults employed by children on Roblox is to call someone “big” or “fat.” In fact, I have witnessed kids on Roblox self-police each other to stop swearing in the game’s voice chat feature, and insulting another player’s gender or race appears generally intolerable among Gen Alpha, as opposed to my experience in adolescent Gen Z communities. While the needle of progress, in some respects, may be shifting positively for Gen Alpha, that leaves the question of why body positivity has
backslid. Jokes about binge-eating, overstuffed refrigerators, anorexia, and Ozempic generally fly without pushback or censorship in Roblox chat rooms. While directly calling someone “fat” in an insulting manner may have once been blatant bullying—or at the bare minimum a tired, uninspiring insult—today’s kids appear to be shamelessly calling each other fat with the intention to hurt.
While my working hypothesis for this sudden cultural shift has been the rise of Ozempic—an account that is perhaps duly corroborated by the kids themselves mentioning
the drug by name in chat exchanges—the return of Y2K aesthetics also has an effect that cannot be overstated. One of the platform’s most popular games, Dress to Impress, involves players dressing up a naked model in trendy clothes according to a set theme before having their model pose on the runway to be voted upon. While players can pick between a male and a female model, each gender only has one body type option, which is a slim Barbie-dolllike figure with an hourglass waist.
My baby cousin, who loves the game, told me she wants to be a model when she grows up and begged for a Juicy Couture tracksuit for her birthday circa the Y2K megatrend. Clearly, Roblox is influencing Gen Alpha kids profoundly, which leads me to note the fatphobia trends all the more. There is very little information yet about the connection between Ozempic culture and Gen Alpha body image; however, I cannot imagine that it will be good. Furthermore, as long as Roblox continues not to censor fatphobic rhetoric, kids are being molded in an environment where such language is socially acceptable. The resulting echo chamber effect, where hurting kids call each other “big” and “fat” online while celebrities they idolize on their TikTok algorithm claim to be losing rapid weight through mere exercise and diet, is cause for concern.
Moreover, the potential death of body positivity for Gen Alpha kids, alongside reactionary anti-DEI pushback from the culture, could be a self-defeating prophecy. Plussize model and activist Felicity Hayward notes that this fashion season, plus-size contracted models in New York declined significantly. Additionally, she highlights a rise in online hate, stating that “abuse [she has] received online has skipped back to pre-2016 levels, when that sort of hate towards bigger bodies was kind of the norm.” If fatphobia reigns supreme in online spaces for Gen Alpha, and plus-size bodies disappear from the mainstream media altogether, there will be little space for children to learn how to feel positively towards bodies that don’t resemble a Dress to Impress model or celebrity on Ozempic. The lack of attention on the mental well-being of kids is frightening. If we as a culture are not careful, our kids will be immeasurably harmed as a result. Whether it be holding celebrities accountable for lying about drug usage, condemning hateful speech, or demanding, at the very least, reinstated body inclusivity in the media, the arc of body positivity must continue for the sake of the lives and health of young Gen Alpha kids.
TW: sexual assault
Dear Timothée/Mr. Chalamet/Timmy T,
I’m not usually one to write a fan letter, but exceptional circumstances demand exceptions to the rules. Though you’ll probably never read this, you deserve to know the unique way in which you’ve made the process of healing from one of the most traumatic events of my life a little easier.
But, before we get into any of that, I want you to know that I’m more than the thing I’m going to tell you about. I’m a loving daughter, friend, and girlfriend. I love what I’m studying (history) so much that when I’m lost in a good reading, I’ll blink and suddenly it’s 5 a.m. I like to run until my lungs burn and to make Impossible Beef chili for dinner.
In addition to all of these things, I was assaulted on my university campus a little less than two years ago. Because it was so violent, my brain blacked out the memory of the assault itself, and I had to piece together what happened from my injuries and what my friends saw. About a year and a half later, the memory came back after a specific way I was touched triggered it. This led to a complex Title IX case and a very shitty spring of my junior year, as you can imagine, Timothée.
The worst part of it was that the rapist went to my university, so after I remembered the full details of the assault, I would have a panic attack every time I saw him on campus. I know this is a lot, Timmy T—can I call you that? But if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you are able to empathize with experiences that are not your own (see: your performances in Call Me by Your Name and Beautiful Boy). Both the depth of your ability to embody a completely different character and the statements you have made on these performances are admirable.
My rapist graduated in the spring. Normally, at this point in a piece of writing, I’d put some autumn-themed metaphor about a new season starting, but describing something like this requires simple, straightforward prose. The violence itself was enough of a spectacle— there’s no need for metaphors and imagery.
Sorry for getting sidetracked, Timmy. When I returned to campus after the summer to start my senior year, I knew in my head that he wasn’t here. He graduated. He doesn’t go here anymore. I repeated these facts to myself over and over, but my body wouldn’t listen.
Whenever I saw someone who looked like him, I’d get nauseous and press my fingers to my neck to see how fast my heart was beating, and decide if I needed to step into a bathroom to have a panic attack or not.
You’re probably wondering where you fit into all of this. Just wait—I’m getting there. You need to know one more thing: I’ve always had trouble sleeping, and weirdly, something that’s worked recently is to imagine you giving a rambling monologue about my insomnia as Bob Dylan in A Complete Unknown. I’ve tried doing it with the real Bob Dylan, but it only works with you specifically as Bob Dylan.
To be clear, I don’t have a crush on you. I did in high school, like every Gen Z girl who saw Lady Bird (“What you did was very baller, it was very anarchist.”). It wore off in college, and seeing you in Wonka eliminated any remaining romantic feelings I had. (You were great in that, by the way. Anything Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-related simply eradicates all feelings of lust.)
Anyway, I was obviously really nervous for the first day of school. I felt like a five-yearold in that way, even though I was starting my senior year of college. As I walked onto the main campus (we call it the Main Green), I could feel my throat clenching in anticipation of having to walk through the swarm of students, some of whom would have my rapist’s hair or his eyes or his height or anything else that would make me want to throw up. I tried to think of something calming, and my strange bedtime ritual immediately came to mind. My headphones were already on, so I switched from Virgin by Lorde to the A Complete Unknown soundtrack, specifically “It Ain’t Me Babe.”
It wasn’t an instant fix, obviously. But it helped. With your (purposefully) nasally Bob Dylan imitation in my ear, I could take my eyes off the ground and wave at friends passing by. I could move from class to class without feeling sick. Whenever I passed a spot where I had seen him last semester, I would just focus on you playing the harmonica, and things would get a little better.
The healing process is not over, and your
to mr. chalamet, with gratitude
on the eccentricities of healing
by indigo mudbhary
Illustrated by Mot Turman
performance in A Complete Unknown definitely didn’t singlehandedly fix everything. But it certainly has helped, for now. So thank you, truly.
I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll wrap things up soon. You have roles to prepare for and awards shows to attend. I also have a mountain of homework and grad school applications to get to. But one last thing. In the apology letter my rapist wrote to me (I went the restorative justice route, much to many people’s chagrin), he said that he hoped we would both learn something from this. Based on the rest of the letter, which was condescending and dismissive, he definitely wrote that with the intention of belittling me even further than he already had through sexual violence.
Still, I have learned something from this mess. There is nothing beautiful about violence like rape, but the healing process that comes after offers up brief moments of beauty despite it all. Healing is difficult, time-consuming, and frustrating, but sometimes it offers you moments of gorgeous levity like a gift. Realizing that your role as Bob Dylan has played a noninsignificant role in my path to learn how to live after violence has been one of those moments for me.
As an artist, you can give all the red-carpet interviews about your films that you want, but people are always going to bring their own baggage to the movie theatre and interpret your work how they want or need to. I think that’s the beauty of what you do—you play a famous musician in a biopic to honor his legacy and hopefully get an Oscar, and somehow it ends up helping some random 21-year-old in Providence start to recover from her sexual assault. So keep making art, Mr. Chalamet. You never know what people will do with it.
With respect and gratitude, Indigo
There’s nothing like caffeine-induced jitters to affirm that you are indeed an Ivy Leaguer. This time last year, I'd never pictured myself strutting down Thayer Street, wielding an atrociously overpriced cold brew from Ceremony on my way to a consulting club meetand-greet. And yet, a week ago, there I was: the physical manifestation of sleep-deprivation, lucrative ambition, and imposter syndrome— caught up in the frenzy of a new life I’d only just begun.
How, you might ask, did I end up here?
I would call it fate, but that doesn’t do justice to the hours of supplementals, Common App malfunctions, and endless transcript requests I had to chase down to even consider the possibility of transferring. What kept me going during this process, though, was visualizing myself walking to class at Brown like a woman on a mission, spiral notebook in one hand and, perhaps, a coffee in the other. Picture Meryl Streep as Miranda in The Devil Wears Prada, or Sandra Bullock as Margaret in The Proposal. In this scene, I had a purpose. I was intent on something. I was, for lack of a better term, the main character.
At my previous college, I fancied myself a lost artist. When people asked about my postgrad plans, I’d offer hazy answers—that I was drawn to writing, or that I enjoyed looking at a good piece of art. Beneath that mask, I felt unsettled by the disarray of my disparate interests and the prospect of what lay ahead.
coffee chats and culture shocks
one transfer student's experience
by yana giannoutsos Illustrated by Jay moon
When I came to Brown, however, I resolved to refine my trajectory and use the opportunities here to meticulously curate a ten-year plan just like everyone else. To abandon my tendency to float around aimlessly and choose something of my own. Something that, like a cup of coffee, would give me the boost I needed to feel a sense of belonging.
I’d never, ever—not even once—drank a sip of coffee until my first day at Brown. In fact, the only caffeine-adjacent product I consumed regularly during my first year of college was matcha-flavored ice cream from Trader Joe’s. I used to look smugly down on those who needed their morning cup to function, confident that I was not nearly sleep-deprived enough to succumb to such an addiction. But things changed. It started when I discovered the concept of a “coffee chat” on day one of orientation. Suddenly, coffee wasn’t just a drink that looked cool—it was an initiation ritual, the price of admission to clubs, jobs, and networks. I should have started off gently. Should have eased my way into this new life. But I decided the only way to really fit in at Brown was to go full throttle. I scanned Ceremony’s menu for an item that would embody the new me. As I did so, I realized that coffee orders say a lot about a person. Strawberry matcha? Far too
colorful. No one would take me seriously if half my drink was pink. My eyes scanned down to the next item. Brown sugar espresso latte? Far too sweet. Something that tastes like dessert shouldn’t count as coffee and doesn’t belong in a business setting. I needed a change. I needed to prove to myself that I was tough and ready for a challenge. That I was a girl who meant business. No more matcha ice cream. I knew just what to get.
I felt sophisticated as I asked for a large black cold brew. The words rolled off my tongue as if it wasn’t my first time ordering something from a coffee shop that wasn’t a chocolate croissant or cake pop. When it was ready, I snagged the cup and quickly studied Google Maps for directions before setting off for Sayles Hall, proudly displaying the dark mahogany liquid as it caught the September sunlight.
Though my lips pursed with the first sip I took, I quickly convinced myself I liked my coffee this way—bitter, cold, and strong. From then on, I became intent on incorporating this quirk into my new Ivy League personality. My signature order became the sidekick I carried with me to the countless extracurriculars I had signed up for. My stacked Google Calendar— which I had begun using for the first time—and the empty cups of black coffee accumulating on my desk were a testament to my exhausting efforts at conforming to what I mistakenly thought was the expectation, and everything I’d been missing before. It wasn’t all fun and games
anymore. I had made it to Brown. It was time to get serious like everyone else… right?
But there’s only so much caffeine the human body can handle. Only so many versions of a perfectly drafted resume to distribute to various clubs and associations and societies. Only so much you can change. It all came to a head one night when, after consuming two cups of cold brew after 4:00 p.m., I couldn’t fall asleep for the life of me. Eyes wide open and fingers jittering from a caffeine overload, I sat and reflected for the first time since I set foot on campus.
I had almost forgotten the entire point. I didn’t come to Brown to blindly hop on the preprofessional pipeline. I didn’t come to ditch my passions for writing and art for consulting (a job title I quite literally had to consult ChatGPT to define just a couple weeks ago). I didn’t come to Brown to abandon the equally creative and confused parts of me. I deleted all the tabs on my computer for clubs I only wanted to join because of the long line at the club fair. I cancelled the consulting coffee chats. I cleared my G-Cal of Investment Group meetings (I hardly know what a stock is), pre-law associations, and all the other sporadic events I’d been dreading, leaving only those which felt most like me—post- magazine, TEDx, and acappella. I now saw vacancies in my week: time I could devote to binge watching The Summer I Turned Pretty with my new friends, knitting on the Main Green, or just simply existing
While this two-week whirlwind may sound melodramatic and irrational and erratic (all of which are true), every moment was useful to me. Even though I am now at Brown, I am still very much the same lost and meandering version of myself I was a year ago—more drawn to writing, reflection, and exploration than to a neat preprofessional path. And thankfully, that was, and is, still okay. That’s why I came to Brown. To explore and experiment and exchange ideas and, ultimately, to find peace and purpose in the passions (prestigious or not) that give me a sense of home.
I’ve been at Brown for three weeks, and I haven’t felt more at home than right now as I clank away at my keyboard. A matcha latte sits beside my desk as I type away. I am sipping it, relishing the sweetness of the milk and subtle flavor that doesn’t make me cringe. It reminds me of my matcha ice cream, only in drink form. I’ve been experimenting with new flavors as of late—I’ve tried vanilla, lavender, and, yes, even strawberry. My plan is to work my way through Ceremony’s entire menu. I haven’t found my new signature drink, but I have ruled out black cold brew, at least for now.
I have nothing against those who truly enjoy black coffee and business attire and consulting firms and corporate lingo. All the power to those who seek purpose in the grind and fun in the competition. All I am saying is that maybe that’s not me. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe this is where I am meant to be after all—drinking my matcha and writing my heart out and wondering what’s on the menu at Andrews tonight. Because, maybe, even at an Ivy League, it’s okay to not know everything.
POS T-P OURRI
BEFORE YOU GO
what concentration should you really be studying?
the answers your Meiklejohn can’t give you
by Jessica Lee | Illustrated by Corrina Zhang
If one more person tells me that they plan to doubleconcentrate in ECON and IAPA, I’m gonna throw something. Apologies to my many ECON/IAPA friends, but I’m longing to hear something different!
So, if you are still undecided on what concentration you would like to declare or are simply looking for a fun new identity to take on the next time you’re making small talk with a stranger, take this quiz to see which concentration you should really be studying.
1. Where is your favorite study spot?
A. Providence Athenæum
B. SciLi Basement
C. Leung Family Gallery
D. The Hay
E. A local coffee shop
2. Which is your favorite dining hall meal?
A. Blue Room sandwich
B. Jo’s burger
C. Ratty pasta
D. Ivy Room Bowl
E. Andrews Salmon Bowl
3. How are you most likely spending your Saturday night?
A. Streaming your favorite TV show and doing some type of crafting
B. Watching TedTalks or educational podcasts on YouTube
C. Having a philosophical discussion with your friends at 1 a.m. (potentially sober, potentially inebriated)
D. Going to the movies or a live performance
E. Taking a bus or train somewhere outside of Providence
4. Where’s your favorite place to grab a coffee (or other beverage of choice)?
A. The Underground
B. Aroma Joe’s
C. Coffee Exchange
D. Sydney
E. Ceremony
5. What’s your go-to cafe order?
A. Matcha Latte
B. Cold Brew
C. Flat White
D. Tea
E. Cortado
6. What is your favorite Brown University tradition or event?
A. Spring Weekend
B. Silent Disco
C. Naked Donut Run
D. Late Night Organ Concert
E. Brown vs. Harvard Football Game
7. What is your favorite extracurricular at Brown (aside from post- Magazine, obviously)?
A. A Cappella
B. Formula Racing Team
C. Model UN
D. Gregorian Society
E. Brown Outing Club
If you chose mostly A’s: You enjoy the finer things in life and are super artsy! You should consider taking some classes at RISD, as well as concentrating in Music, Theatre Arts and Performance Studies, or Visual Art.
If you chose mostly B’s: It seems like you gravitate toward a STEM degree, but let’s look at some of the more quirky and fun options! You should consider Astronomy, Design Engineering, or Physics and Philosophy.
If you chose mostly C’s: You’re inquisitive and openminded, and want to gain a deeper understanding of humans and the world around you. You should consider Anthropology, Philosophy, or Sociology.
If you chose mostly D’s: You love learning about history and culture, and sometimes even wish that you were born in another era. You should consider Archaeology and the Ancient World, History of Art and Architecture, or Medieval Cultures.
If you chose mostly E’s: You have insatiable wanderlust and are already planning your next Spring Break destination. You should consider a concentration that focuses on learning about the culture and language of a region, and pair that with a study abroad opportunity! Look into East Asian Studies, French and Francophone Studies, German Studies, Italian Studies, and so many more!
best of wives and best of women
post- mini crossword
by Lily Coffman
1 2 3 4 5 7 8 6
Across Down 9
1. Raleigh HBCU
5. Nigerian metropolis
7. POTUS when Hamilton opened on Broadway
8. With 4-Down, what Eliza is the "best of" in Hamilton's 44th song
9. Hamilton's bills
1. At a snail's pace
2. Nun garb
3. Sweetener for an Ivy Room smoothie
4. See 8-Across
6. Lip or cheek
Thank you for reading
“The water awoke myself to my body, a thing so funnily forgotten. The coldness pressed against my limbs so that I could feel every hair I’d always pondered shaving off, and in the full of my throat a fresh thud of heartbeats gathered.”
— Elena Jiang, “on coastlines and other beginnings”
“Here we find the midpoint in our evolution—the oceanic transition into TikTok bisexual boy style—taking the lessons you learned in your sauce incubation and graduating into a sauce moth (the sauciest insect).”
— Sean Toomey, “sweating towards bethlehem” 09.20.23
