post- 10/17/25 [SPECIAL ISSUE] by post- Magazine

Cover by Mot Tuman

Designed by James Farrington

1. Yours ;) 2. Addams

Feud 4. Ties

5. Modern 6. Mine ;)

take art leave art share art! the road less traveled - the nakasendō 中山道

7. Rachel Berry, her two gay dads, and Idina Menzel

8. The turkeys on Benefit street

9. The brother and sister from the Folgers commercial with a ‘special’ connection

10. Me and ‘Mother’ (Lady Gaga)

“Do you ever look at that emoji and think there’s a lot going on behind that face?”

“No one even shares a chaste kiss.”

sitting with my dad in the kid’s section of Barnes & Noble, collecting four or five Mr. Men and Little Miss books from a spindly shelf, and listening to the tenor of his voice tumble over the pages. My mom was the one who introduced me to the Grimms’ fairy tales— these new worlds of thistle and thorn, where straw could be spun into gold and brothers flung into raven-form. These were precious gifts to me. I wanted to keep reading forever, and to be forever read to as well. To share a story and have it cling to us like a stubborn, shimmering mist. And cling they do, even now, blending in with the new poem a friend recommends, song lyrics my roommates and I sing at the top of our lungs, and lovely post- articles from a community I so deeply cherish. What magic: stories shapeshifting as they’re shared, all these voices collecting inside of us. In this special Family Weekend issue, our writers also share their stories of community and communion. In A&C, Alyssa explores the gift of reciprocity and shared art, from arancini to handmade jewelry to scrapbooks, while Ellie delves into the storied history of Japan’s mountains. Lifestyle writer Yana travels the (train) tracks of reunions and reminiscings—from Astoria, Queens, to Providence, RI. Meanwhile, Liv explores the beauty of found families, much like an eclectic but cozy collection of items at an estate sale. In Narrative, Danielle dives into the shared experience of learning to swim, then dive, and Samaira writes about making Brown feel

letter from the editor

like home. This week’s Feature, by Dolma, invites us to gather around as she details the ways windowsills are ledges of community, including back home in Amdo, Tibet. In post- pourri, Jessica shares a fun quiz to help you and your loved ones find the perfect Family Weekend itinerary. Finally, don’t miss AJ’s “beary familiar” crossword as you bask in the spirit of Bruno, Brown/RISD, and Providence this weekend!

I hope that you, dear reader, are surrounded by community as you read these stories— whether family who have traveled far, or friends you hold close. A warm welcome also to said family and friends of the post- community: We hope you enjoy your stay within these post- pages and around our campuses. Nothing makes me sentimental like a good story. I carry the stories I love like the sound of my parents wishing me goodnight, letting them wash over, slow and over and over again. The best of them though, are ones told to me deep in the mouth of night, or unfolded with the magical words of “I think you’d like this,” or written by a mycelial network of love, connected together by this sweet little magazine, crawling, clinging, misting softly over all of us. So maybe nothing makes me sentimental like a good story, and good friends to read them with. I have this magazine to thank for both. Happy reading, post- family.

Clinging on,

Emilie Guan Editor-in-Chief

“Why can’t I be both? Why can’t I be fluid? I can’t shake off the idea that defining my bilingualism as a state of constant translation, of conscious switches between languages, means chasing my own tail forever.”

—Nahye Lee, “untying my tongue”

“Little girls’ brains are sticky as flytraps. When you’re young, every facial expression you see, every word you read, and the smallest fragments of information all collect in the back of your brain.”

— Olivia Cohen, “how to be a girl” 10.19.23

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Emilie Guan

FEATURE

Managing Editor

Elaina Bayard

Section Editors

Anika Kotapally

Chloe Costa Baker

ARTS & CULTURE

Managing Editor

AJ Wu

Section Editors

Lizzy Bazldjoo

Sasha Gordon

NARRATIVE

Managing Editor

Gabi Yuan

Section Editors

Chelsea Long

Maxwell Zhang

LIFESTYLE

Managing Editor

Daniella Coyle

Section Editors

Hallel Abrams

Gerber

Nahye Lee

POST-POURRI

Managing Editor Michelle Bi

Section Editor

Tarini Malhotra

HEAD ILLUSTRATORS

Junyue Ma

Lesa Jae

COPY CHIEF

Jessica Lee

Copy Editors Indigo Mudbhary

Lindsey Nguyen

Rebecca Sanchez Tatiana von Bothmer

LAYOUT CHIEF

Amber Zhao

Layout Designers

Emma Scneider

Emma Vachal

James Farrington

Tiffany Tsan

SOCIAL MEDIA

Rebecca Sanchez

Yana Giannoutsos

Yeonjai Song

A gap in the calendar. A kind of pause that hovers as the months bleed into each other, when leaves flow in the wind and daylight thins into dusk. From a windowsill, the gap is like the pause between inside and outside, connecting what is still clinging to what has already stepped away.

A windowsill reserves a seat for me to spectate as October melts into November. Here, the past skims over the glass before disappearing into the streetlight muddle. Unlike doorways, which require crossing, a

the warmth of home, moments of belonging, and the comfort of routine lingers. From this seat, I see parents and children standing by their own windowsills, caught between the warmth of their homes and the outside world that they gently keep open for us. I see students walking out, half attached to their phones and half caught in the essence of their own unfurling lives.

The windowsill develops a social hinge. This border invites a natural gathering place, leaning into its edge to connect, breathing in the outside without

embracing the reality of communal bathrooms and dining hall food, I found myself at a newly presented ledge. This ledge, however, was one where the abrupt realization of adulthood came into play. In my dorm room, I begin sitting on the rim of my wooden sill unconsciously. Barely wide enough for my thigh, the mature wood creaks under the weight of my mood. My view of the cool trees and street contrasts the radiator’s hot breath.

In my grandma’s residence, the windowsill is a portal of community. Neighbors pass to exchange greetings, resting elbows on the ledge as the scent of butter tea consumes the room. Conversations loom between departure and arrival. Yet the windowsill is always watching each passing moment.

Staring at the slab of sun-bleached and chipped wood, my mind finds

windowsill gatherings on thresholds that invite

pause

by Tseyang Dolma Arow

Illustrated by Ellie Kang

Instagram: @misselliekang

room

Holding contradictions, the ledge interprets life inside while maintaining its framing of the outside. The cold outside air, full of anxiety and frenzy, kept separate from the cozy essence of the inside, where connections with others run about.

The angle framed by my window is that of two trees. Each tree latches onto the other by its branches. As they embark on the colorful transition into autumn, I entangle myself in this period of my life.

The days stretch on, lectures and late snacks hover against the life we left behind outside the glass, and

to wander. My although new to me, reminds me of my grandma’s apartment windowsill. Even if the scent I smell is that of clean laundry, the window still calls for balance. There is a lesson within the structure of the windowsill: To lean out is to risk the cold and to lean in is to risk staying the same. The ledge provides a place for both, staying open for the draft of the undisclosed to meet with the warmth that holds onto you.

A windowsill is able to provide a stillness, forcing one to perch, to balance between leaning in and out. This balance is reflected in my current stretch of life, where I tilt between the freedom of independence

and the warmth of returning home, letting the air of ambition and the coziness of familiarity coexist. Late nights under library lamps to return home to the scent of my mother’s cooking create crisp airs of ambition against the coziness of familiarity, both finding room to exist.

Every summer in my tween years, my family made it a point to make our way to the Amdo region to visit. It has been five years since I have been able to smell the fresh air of the Yellow River. But I remember not only the river, but the night of my departure. From a long pandemic to struggling to reach the doors into the Plateau, 13-year-old me had no clue of the obstacles that would revoke the opportunity to see my family each summer.

The airport terminal became its own windowsill. Here, I faced the pane of glass where the night stretched along the runway. I witnessed the blinking lights of parked planes in the midnight air, the travelers in the terminal lugging suitcases across the polished floors. Between the tarmac and the terminal, I felt that to lean toward the outside was to enable the ache of absence and to lean inside was to risk conformity. The windowsill, although unable to solve the dilemma, provided a ledge where I felt both the essence of departure and the tether of safety.

The ache of absence in my departure was sourced from not only leaving my family but the weight of their identity on mine. No longer surrounded by the aroma of fresh grass

and momos, I was now left with only unfamiliar scents. Entering the airport that night meant I was unable to return to my family, only left with my household of three back home in California.

But to stay pulled just as much on my heart. To stay stagnant meant to leave the crashing waves of California, the constant reminder of nature’s patience, and to forget all that my family had built in the Golden State.

At the moment, I wasn't able to decipher the gravity of what leaving the airport meant that night. However, when given the moment to linger along the windowsill between family and comfort, I was provided with the privilege of a place to say goodbye even with a conflicted heart.

I will continue to search for windowsills during my time at Brown, some literal and some not. I hope to find new places where presence and absence, warmth and chill can share in their characteristics while providing a place where each can be understood in its magnitude. Now, as my fans hum softly in my dorm room, I am greeted with a warmth that brushes against the city air outside. It is a place that does not demand attention, but rather invites the solace of reflection.

There is freedom in the choice to lean on the ledge— letting your back stay in the warmth while you lean your eyes out on the edge. Both choices hold validity, but the tension between them continues to beat. Sitting at my desk, and reminded of the airport terminal years ago, I can still picture my longing. The glass I looked through reminded me of a windowsill ledge that did not provide solutions, but invitations to reflect and inhabit the spaces between the world that people hover against each day.

As I hope to return to the Yellow River one day, I am grateful for the time I was able to share with the windowsills I experienced there, those that allowed me to inhabit the simplicity of being present.

Windowsills, glass, and doorways constitute those small spaces that invite intimacy. Here, conversations flow differently, as a ledge provides air and a stage for observation. The active noticing of the inside and outside cultivates the patient border that does not force either side to overtake. It is often that we gather in evening lulls, while the sky meets the moon, hovering against ledges that let the outside and inside meet.

Even now, while I watch October turn to November, I find remnants of many windowsills in my life that have borne witness to my contemplation. I can remember the reflections that meet change, and the warmth that meets the cold.

As I finish my deliberation on what windowsills represent, I continue looking into the pane and carrying this quiet tension. I watch, with the fan hissing, the cars that pass, and the trees that grow into each other. The sill tolerates my half-formed observations to teach patience and humility that comes from watching through the frame as others negotiate their own ledges.

familiarity

walking past and then back towards places

by Samaira Mohunta

Illustrated by Rhea Hu

I stepped onto a campus sidewalk, two days after the rush of move-in and still unsure how to find my way to V-Dub from my EmWool dorm, the Main Green a foreign field. I remember staring at your face, confused about why you were extending your arm forward to shake my hand, completely oblivious to the fact that I’d been texting you for a while. I remember not extending my hand, scowling at you until you said your name, then saying I’ll see you later and running away.

I like the weather here, our eight-minute walk to Insomnia Cookies, where the lights are always on but the shop always closed when we go. I like the moonlit skies at night, though not so moonlit that you can’t see the stars. I like the winding paths, the drivers who pause for seven seconds just so you can cross the road. The corner shop we walked past and then walked back towards, where we bought waffles dressed in strawberry sauce that dripped down our fingertips; I like that shop, too. Can we go there every morning? Not on Saturdays and Sundays, though— that’s when I have my Andrews granola bowl, and end up with part of your burrito bowl.

I know I never said thank you to you as many times as I should have, ran away from you without seeing if you followed—you did, though. I’ve been lying in my bed ever since, my right leg outstretched, left leg carefully folded Karma, I suppose. But I never wronged you, I wronged someone else. I know I should have said I’m sorry sooner, but I didn’t. So I’ll say it now, say it over here.

I’m sorry.

We all sit together in a circle on Prospect Terrace and sing “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls and I miss my high school friends. I give into the urge to call and tell them that I love them. But in that circle, I find myself smiling. I love all of you and I think you love me too. I’ll make more friends over the next four years, but I’ll keep all of you. Keep me too. Text me if you ever need anything, and I’ll be there the way you were there for me. If you walk to Insomnia again, I hope it’ll be with me. I’ve been told friendships can’t be forced, but these are some that I’ll always want to hold onto. Thirty days may be too few to start calling everything routine but it’s enough for me to know I don’t want it to end. Not now, not ever.

dive

the deep end of growing up

by Danielle Li

Illustrated by Orla Maxwell Instagram: @eight_of_ponds

I squeeze my eyes shut before the dive, even though they’re encased in my thick, blurry goggles.

Perhaps my fear has to do with the neardrowning incident two summers ago, when the artificial blue waves of Sahara Sam’s Water Park held me down and I suddenly couldn't remember which way the sky was. I felt like an ingredient in a firstgrade science density lab, the sluggish syrup that dribbled its way straight to the bottom, unable to rise above the buoyant vegetable oil no matter how hard I flailed about.

It was then, while quite certain of my impending death, that I knew I would never be a swimmer.

When I was young, I was afraid of everything. Swings, slides, bicycles, overly large teddy bears, the neighbors who lived across the street, even orange juice. At seven, my parents decided to sign me up for swimming lessons (“It’ll be fun!” they said), and I was adamant that no amount of coaxing or convincing would ever persuade me to dip a single toe in the water.

Lo and behold, I ended up in the pool anyway.

It turns out, I was not only destined to be humiliated as the last kid to jump in, but I was also immediately

One moment, weightless. The next, my face was slapped by cement-water. My treacherous mouth opened, eager to guzzle air, but chlorine-spiked water shot down instead. My arms flailed, white flags in surrender. I was a tumbling bowling pin, the eight-foot void beneath me snatching at my ankles, enviously tearing the goggles from my head, and despite the chlorine, I could taste nothing but salty-sweet panic. Then the instructor’s hands clasped onto me, and I was rescued from my watery grave.

I boasted of my second near-death in the pool to my mother, who had been watching me from a plastic folding chair across the water. I was waterlogged and exhausted, perhaps from my initial fear. But perhaps even more so from the pure exhilaration. I was so consumed by this thought that, on the drive home, I could barely pay attention to counting the windshield wipers that clicked like a metronome, and when my mother asked, “How about going again tomorrow?” I agreed without hesitation.

This is what I remember, nine years later, when I am the one holding the whistle, once again observing the colorful heads bobbing in the water. I am still taller than them, and they still remind me of apples, but I am no longer the one trembling on the diving board.

Now I squeeze the plump fingers of the little girl who extends her hand to me. She wears a purple swimsuit with prancing ponies, and wisps of her strawcolored hair elude capture by a matching swim cap. Her other hand is detained firmly by her mouth. Her brother has only just been consoled enough to pause his firetruck wail and now perches with tear-stained lashes on the edge of the pool, solemnly waiting for his turn.

line, soggy prune toes curling on the edge of the speckled pool deck. The instructor clamped her mouth on the whistle, signaling me to plummet to my fate from the diving board.

My nerves coiled like snakes, and a bile-flavored lump in my throat threatened to make an appearance.

I lead the girl onto the diving board and gently untangle her hand from mine. So far, she has been a model of the plucky and lionhearted, undaunted by backstroke, breaststroke, or basic butterfly. I can’t help but compare my own first swimming lesson to hers, with my awkward, standout height and uncooperative orangutan limbs. I wonder how she’ll do on the diving board.

“Ready?” I ask her, and she nods her head, mouth still working anxiously at her thumb. Another boy, eleven or twelve by the looks of it, takes a ferocious dive into the lane to our left, and the droplets shower us like sudden summer rain. This seems to spook her, and I can see the tremble of her lower lip that threatens to break into a howl.

“I’ll be right here the whole time, I promise.” Her lip relaxes, and now she gives an apprehensive nod. “On my whistle, then.”

And when she soars, I am seven years old again, soaring with her.

Many months later, I made her a necklace, wielding mineral oil, wire, and pliers to turn the colorful rocks I collected into pendants. Although we live states apart, the distance isn’t so far when we wear the pieces we made for each other. When I wear her earrings, I know that she selected each bead with intention, consideration, and warmth. And I am honored that she found these beads beautiful, and that they made her think of me.

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer is Kate’s favorite book, so I spent all summer reading it, taking weeks between chapters to digest and embody each story. Braiding Sweetgrass is an unparalleled work of art, a love letter to the natural world and a call for us to reshape our relationship with the earth, with each other. Kimmerer synthesizes Indigenous ecological knowledge with her academic background as a botanist, urging us to learn from—and act as stewards for—our environment and our community.

In one essay entitled “The Gift of Strawberries,” Kimmerer explains that in her tradition, the “value of [a] gift [is] based in reciprocity,” as there is a mutual understanding that everything that is given will ultimately circulate back. To Kimmerer, “The essence of the gift is that it creates a set of relationships.”

maintains connection, keeps people close. This applies to me and my cousins too, because before each Easter and Christmas, no matter how much we’ve grown up or how far we’ve moved away, we come home and dedicate a Sunday to decorating sugar cookies with her.

Last winter, shortly after the Christmas cookies were mass-distributed, my grandmother and I tackled another Sicilian tradition: arancini. To make arancini, you have to dip each rice ball in egg, flour, and breadcrumbs before frying. The process is incredibly messy, and you end up with egg and flour and breadcrumbs stuck all up under your fingernails. As we dropped each rice ball into the pot, I felt so closely intertwined with the food (which was in the crevices of my cuticles), with my grandmother (who was guiding each step of the recipe like she always has), and my grandfather—who passed away years ago but would be so happy to know we were still making things together.

***

My mom has always taught me to notice beauty everywhere. Growing up, we spent our favorite days together picking out new towns to explore, pointing out every lovely detail. Even when I’m far from home, we send each other pictures of flowers and of the sky, always sharing the very best moments with each other.

One morning last summer, she leads me on a new adventure around Ocean Grove, New Jersey. We pass gardens and front porches with swings and a fig tree and a wishing fountain before finally stopping in front of a mailbox bolted to the side of a house. “TAKE ART /

Now, whenever I look at the dish, I think of the stranger back in New Jersey who made it with such care, diligence, and wonder, and decided to pass it on, leaving it up to the universe to decide who got it next. Parting with something textured by their fingerprints, all for the sake of the community and the unknown. As I trace over the imprints of their fingers in the clay, I feel tied to something much larger than myself. I feel tied to my mom, too, who is the reason I seek out art in the first place, and the reason I care so much.

***

A few years ago, on a whim, I picked up a cross-stitch kit at the counter of a record store. I had no experience with any kind of needle arts, but I was feeling disconnected and I wanted something grounding—something to do with my hands. As I worked on the craft all weekend, fingers stumbling through each stitch, I fell in love with the intense focus and patient concentration of creation, the profound appreciation for and sense of kinship with whatever I had in my hands.

Ever since, crafts have become my love language. By creating things for the people who matter to me, I hold my love in my palms, immortalize it into something tangible and lasting. Over the years, scrapbooks and embroidery have become my favorite gifts to give.

Last November, when Kate and I had only just started dating, she gifted me a handmade pair of beaded earrings, periwinkle and sage and silver and forest green. My favorite colors, and a perfect match to the rest of my jewelry. To receive something handmade as a gift, I understood then, is to be known.

This chapter moved me deeply, and I think of it often as I move through the world. I especially felt its impact when I first encountered the art library in Ocean Grove, as Kimmerer emphasizes the importance of giving gifts as the currency of community. When we make and we pass forward, there is an implicit understanding of reciprocity, trusting that we take care of each other and are taken care of in return. I think of this when my friends bring a homemade sign to cheer me on at my field hockey game. I think of this when I drop off fresh arancini on my uncle’s front porch. I think of this when a stranger compliments the t-shirt I embroidered. I think of this when I try to learn my girlfriend’s favorite songs on the guitar.

***

Years ago, Nadia and I made Soleena a scrapbook for her birthday—that scrapbook sits on the coffee table of the home we all now share with Kaiolena and Sophia. We cook together, we bake for each other, banana bread, apple crisp. I make bracelets to bring back to the art library. And I work on my new embroidery project: a tote bag stitched over with designs drawn by the people I love. A collage of care immortalized with thread. My greatest hope for this tote bag is that it is dynamic, that one day I will have to cram designs into its margins, but even in its early stages it conveys the fullness that I feel.

At the end of “The Gift of Strawberries,” Kimmerer urges us to embrace “a gift economy,” as it “opens the way to living in gratitude and amazement at the richness and generosity of the world… When all the world is a gift in motion, how wealthy we become.”

I adore that phrase: “a gift in motion.” How deeply I hope we never stop creating for each other. How deeply I hope we always carry love in our hands.

the road less traveledthe nakasendō

a psychoanalytical approach a journey from kyoto to edo

by Ellie Kang

Illustrated by Selena ZHU @109sel

Upon seeing the RISD Museum’s Asian Art special exhibition “The Road Less Traveled - Edo’s Nakasendō” in my Urban Studies seminar, I was inspired. Featuring a plethora of works from my favorite ukiyo-e (Japanese woodblock print) artists Utagawa Hiroshige and Katsushika Hokusai, the beautiful landscapes of Japan reminded me of my deep love for Japanese landscape prints and the culture behind them.

This inspired me to embark on my own journey through the Nakasendō to explore the depths of the Japanese mountains and relive the road captured in these prints by the greatest ukiyo-e masters.

The Nakasendō was one of Japan’s main highways during the Edo period (1603-1868) that connected Edo (present-day Tokyo) and Kyoto. In contrast to the more heavily traveled Tōkaidō highway that ran along the eastern coast, the Nakasendō snaked inland across the central plains and highlands, covering terrain from rugged snow-covered mountains to expansive serene lakes. The route featured 69 post stations (juku) where travelers would stop to rest.

On the trip my friend and I undertook in early summer, we traveled through some of the most famous post stations, stopping and staying the night in traditional inns, hiking and traveling during the day.

1. Kyoto 京都

Starting off in true Edo period fashion, we first arrived in Kyoto, which was the capital of Japan for over 1,000 years.

Traveling to Arashiyama, I experienced the absolute beauty and tranquility of the Japanese mountains and forests. I visited Yusai-Tei Gallery, a Meiji-era building constructed roughly 150 years ago, where views of the Katsura River are adorned with works created by the host Yusai with a unique dyeing technique (yume-kôrozome). It is here that I experienced Kyoto’s beauty: its water, light, and serenity. Further into the mountain is the famous Arashiyama bamboo forest, where komorebi—a Japanese word that describes the kind of light in a forest where the rays of sun are filtered through the leaves of the trees—is fully understood.

During the night, we felt for the first time the pace of the countryside. While we ran up to the mountains during sunset, shops around us were still bustling with commerce;

by dusk, the streets were dark and shops were closed. Returning to Kyoto city, we explored the night views of Ninen-zaka, which featured small winding paths with shops on either side, leading to the hundreds of lanterns illuminating the night at Yasaka Shrine. Each lantern surrounding the dance stage bore the name of a local business in return for a

The next morning, we traversed the most famous landmarks of Kyoto—Fushimi Inari Taisha and Kiyomizu temple. We climbed through thousands of vermilion torii gates leading into the wooded forest of the sacred Mount Inari. Afterwards, we climbed down to the base of Kiyomizudera’s main hall and arrived at the Otowa Waterfall to drink from one of the three separate streams of water that offer

Magome is where the journey really began. Taking the Shinkansen train to Nagoya, then transferring to Nakatsugawa, then a short taxi ride—we finally arrived at Magome-juku. Magome-juku is perhaps one of the areas of the Nakasendō that best conveys the look and feel of the Edo period, evoking its lively 400-year history. We stayed in a traditional ryokan (inn), tasted soba for lunch, and visited Toson Shimazaki Honjin museum. Honjin is an official inn for daimyo (feudal lords) on the Nakasendō. Born in Magome in 1872, Shimazaki is a highly regarded figure in Japanese literature. In his novel Yoakemae (Before the Dawn), he describes life in the area around the years of the Meiji Restoration, and it eventually became highly known in points on the Nakasendō.

3. Tsumago-juku 妻籠宿

Leaving Magome, we experienced the authentic hiking experience as we hiked to Tsumago, absorbing the scenery of gentle forest paths, tea houses, waterfalls, and wildlife. Not far outside Tsumago-juku, we stopped by a pair of famous waterfalls, Otake and Medaki. Named the “men’s falls” and “women’s falls,” these natural baths were used as separate bathing areas along the route.

specifically for him a whole room and even Western-style bathrooms that ended up never being used. The Tsumago Honjin museum also offered numerous insights into the Kiso Valley’s history, especially the style of logging and the methods of harnessing hydroelectricity by utilizing unique geographical features.

4. Kiso-Fukushima 木曽福島

Kiso-Fukushima was a quiet and peaceful mountainous town that we arrived at by way of Nagiso station. KisoFukushima was one of four security check points along the Nakasendō, flourishing as a political and economic center in the Kiso Valley. We explored Yamamura Daikan Yashiki, a samurai residence housing the local magistrate and gatekeeper of the Kiso-Fukushima Sekisho (checkpoint). The Yamamura family ruled the Kiso Valley throughout the Edo period as samurai, and their residence also appeared in Shimazaki Toson’s Yoakemae, showing how the stations were all connected in different ways.

of the most well-preserved Edo-period towns. Due to leaving Magome later than expected, by the time we got to Tsumago, everything was closed, the buses had stopped, and the streets were empty—yet, it was only around 5 p.m. Catching the last

Afterwards, we visited the Kozenji Temple, with its kanuntei (rock garden)—the most spacious dry landscape garden in Asia. With a view of the Kiso Mountains and Kiso River, it showed imagery of a mountain floating on a sea of clouds. The zen garden with stones arranged in groups of three, five, and seven portrayed a sense of movement in stillness. Finally, the Fukushima Sekisho marks the halfway point along the Nakasendō, with the Fukushima Seki representing the important checkpoint. It was here that officials checked travel and gun permits.

5. Narai-juku 奈良井宿

After a quick train ride to Narai station, we finally arrived at our last station to explore: Narai-juku, known as “Narai of a Thousand Houses.” Narai-juku is one of the longest stations, with the main street stretching over a kilometer, and also one of the wealthiest. Today, it is one of the most commercialized and popular destinations along the Nakasendō. We also visited historic temples and shrines just off the main street. Standing on top of Kiso-noOhashi Bridge, we viewed the Kiso River one last time as we concluded our journey, following the guidance of the river, and traversing the mountains of Edo-period Japan.

After five days in the mountains, we concluded the experience in the true fashion of the Edo travellers: taking the train back to Tokyo, back to the city, and back into

There’s something satisfying about being at the whim of a train. Something pleasant about resting my head against the slightly clouded glass window, peering out at the horizon as it oscillates between city skyscrapers and rolling grass fields, feeling as if I’m somewhere between inside and outside. Something comforting and poignant about being bound by space for just a few fleeting moments, with a group of strangers who will probably only encounter each other once. I like to imagine my life as a train ride, each distinct era

My first stop was Ditmars Boulevard Station in Astoria, Queens—right at the heart of New York’s “Little Greece.” Though the apartment was barely big enough to hold our young family, it felt large to me. During chaotic nightly dinners, I refused vegetables, my sister threw tantrums from her high chair, and my parents tried to hold it together despite the exhaustion of two kids under six and another on the way. Our time in Astoria had the same energy as the local station during commuter hours: cramped, noisy, and full of hope all at once. It was the place where our journey began— where my parents first met and where they departed from each morning towards the Big Apple to try and realize their vision of the American Dream.

The next stop was South Norwalk Station in Connecticut.

youngest sister, and learned to get used to the slower, more deliberate pace of the area. Life fell into a quieter rhythm. The sounds of sirens and car horns were replaced by crickets and howling coyotes living in our backyard, and tantrums at the dinner table morphed into nightly multiplication flash card sessions that my mother insisted on. Like the SONO station, Connecticut felt steady, manageable, and organized. It was so tight-knit that I seemed to know everyone in my small Fairfield County town. And I was okay with that.

This past summer, I stopped at Athens Railway Station right by my grandparents’ home in Greece. Here, all bets were off. I was the “American Girl” in town. No one cared about the prestige of my university, my sense of fashion, or my five-year plan. The deafening sounds of cicadas and waves from the nearby sea drowned out thoughts that had followed me for years. Instead of wondering if I was behind, or stressing about whether my extracurricular schedule was adequate, I pondered my family’s roots, imagining what my life would have been like had they stayed there, and spent my mornings on the sand playing backgammon with my grandpa as I basked in my brief hiatus from real life. It felt wild and free, almost like a fever dream, as if the train had drifted into a new dimension. Greece wasn’t a stop on the way to anywhere else, but a lapse in time where I could simply breathe.

My latest stop was at the one and only Providence Station. Predictable settings, familiar faces, and people who knew my name were all a thing of the past. I recall looking up as I stood in the center of the station for the first time, eyes wide and full of uncertainty. There, I found a circular window of light directly above me. Looking out, I saw the sky and wondered how many people before me—Brown students, tourists, or Providence residents—had done the same. It was the first time I’d inhabited a space where I had no roots. No solid ground to trace my story back to. I was alone, without my parents to hold my hand and walk me through every step, without the familiar culture I’d always taken comfort in. Yet, for the first time, I found myself in a

myself in Providence. Strangers from orientation became acquaintances I explored campus with and now meet for dinner nearly every day. Our “spot” at the Ratty—right next to the pasta station—is a revolving door of different friends each night, all of us stopping on our way to and from various club meetings, classes, and sports practices.

As I write this, I am in transit yet again. It’s late at night, and I am coming back from the Harvard-Brown football game, doing what I always do when I find myself on trains: reflecting. I am sitting directly across from three strangers I don't know if I will speak to yet. I wonder what their story is and how, like me, they happened to find themselves on the 10 p.m. train from Back Bay to Providence Station on a Saturday night. I wonder if they are traveling together, or if they simply happened to sit next to each other. I wonder who or what they are going home to, or if they are even going home at all. I wonder if they, too, are wondering about me. Maybe they see my life’s “stops” written all over me. Maybe they notice the evil-eye necklace from my month in Greece that I now wear around my neck as evidence of my heritage and my family’s superstitions. Maybe they see my high school’s logo on the back of my phone case (I keep delaying replacing it since it reminds me of home). Maybe if they listen to my voice, they will notice that the way I say certain words; ‘bowl,’ for instance, has a barely detectable tinge of a New York accent—a relic of my Astoria upbringing.

As Family Weekend approaches, and many of us prepare for the thrill of traveling and reuniting, we should remember that a place is never really left behind. We hold onto bits and pieces picked up along the way at every stop we’ve gotten off at.

While we all happen to find ourselves here together, we should remember that we are always, in one way or another, traveling. Always in motion. And that makes the times we do happen to find ourselves at the same stop all the more special. For now, there is nothing we can do but sit back as if in a train car, taking pleasure in the ever-shifting scenery before us, knowing that the most exciting stops lie ahead.

Illustrated by Kyra chen

the estate sale

finding a home away from home

by Liv Moon

Illustrated by Jay Moon @jaewonnmoon

The first time I went to an estate sale, I showed up with a tote bag and a pocket full of small bills. I’m not entirely sure what I expected, but I definitely did not anticipate feeling as though I was trespassing.

It all seemed too intimate—sorting through the bookshelves of strangers, picking out a mug to take home. There was something precious, even sacred, about dog-eared paperbacks and chipped porcelain. Polaroid cameras still holding the proof of someone’s childhood. I wasn’t sure that I had the right to hold them because these objects felt more like stories, rather than just things.

It’s unnerving—staring for too long at photographs of people who will never know you’re looking. You learn the shape of a person’s life through the things they leave behind, signed by the angle at which they cross their t’s and the cardigan threads they fidget loose.

That quiet collision of memories often returns to me, especially now, as I try to make sense of my own relationships, chosen communities, and what it means to belong.

The word “family” falls into a wildly vast range of definitions. Some students come from lineages of tradition, growing up with framed diplomas hanging in their hallways like art. Others are first-generation college students, clutching treasured acceptance letters like a lifeline. Some have parents who attend every university webinar, and some have parents who had to Google “Brown University” when they first heard the name.

The term —most prominently used in queer, adopted, or marginalized communities— describes built relationships that take root in understanding and chosen love, not obligation. At a university where identity is fluid and individuality is celebrated, aspects of found family are woven into the everyday. They’re the

classmate who checks up on you when you’re sitting alone, the professor who spots your potential before you do, and the group of friends that feels like a home you never knew you needed.

No two people come from the same place. Despite efforts to blend in, there are always visible seams of upbringing, privileges, burdens, etc. Some of us were raised debating at the dinner table, others in silence. Some had curfews enforced by fear, others had no one waiting up at all. For some, “home” is a comfort. For others, it’s a situation to survive.

Family Weekend may feel like a collision between the old world and the new. Maybe you’re introducing your mother to your partner for the first time, or perhaps you’re avoiding questions about your newly declared concentration. You might even be the lone student on the Main Green with soundproof headphones on, attempting to drown out all the buzz and chatter of lunchtime as everyone heads towards Thayer with their parents.

It can be both a beautiful and a difficult time, but like an estate sale, it’s not about collecting all the pieces. At an estate sale, even the most ordinary objects are imbued with sentiment. A calendar with a three-month anniversary circled. A single glove in a drawer. You don’t need to know the whole story in order to feel something. All you need is a trace. That’s what found family is—a cluster of odd treasures, a nest of mismatched twigs.

To the families visiting students this weekend: Thank you for trusting us with them. And to the students who feel like they don’t have anyone arriving this weekend: You are not alone. Your family may not be here in person, but maybe they’re the ones who walked you home last Friday night or saved you a slice from Fellini’s.

The shelf above my desk is adorned with an assortment of strange, little things that only I care about. Pocket-sized notes from people I no longer speak to. A pin from a punk show I went to when I was 17. A doodle drawn on a Post-It, presented to me by a co-worker during a shift at the café I once worked at. An empty tahini jar, now repurposed as a vessel for random screws, nails, and other hardware that I have yet to find a use for.

None of it matches. All of it matters.

In many ways, we inherit each other. Even without knowing someone’s full past, we hold on to pieces of them. A phrase they always say. A song they introduced us to. The way they taught us to be more gentle (or confrontational), or to pour the water before adding the tea bag (or was it the other way around?). We lug our pasts around like objects in a box— belief systems we’re trying to reconnect with, dreams we were once told were too big.

You can build family in the margins, from leftovers, from one interaction to another. We are walking archives of shared meals, inside jokes, fights, and reconciliations. We are cobbled together from our siblings’ habits and strangers’ throwaway comments. And in turn, we leave behind pieces of ourselves for others.

Someone out there is still quoting the story you once told them. Someone is still laughing at a joke you forgot you ever made. Even now, you are someone’s artifact.

So many of us come to universities with the goal of outgrowing versions of ourselves created “back home.” In trying to reinvent ourselves, we discover new identities and routines passed down from each other in the form of group chats and shared Spotify playlists. We cross paths with other people doing the exact same. Over time, these imprints grow their own kind of family tree formed not by blood, but by presence.

We are not a matching set. We are a collection.

Corrina Zhang

Happy Family Weekend! Whether you have family coming to visit you from home, a fun weekend planned with the friends and family you’ve found here on campus, or a study date with yourself at a library to lock in, this weekend has a bunch of fun events and activities in store! Trying to cram everything into just a few days can be a bit stressful, though, so let me take one thing off your plate and help you plan out your ideal itinerary for the weekend!

First things first: How about kicking off the weekend with a true Brown Dining experience? Would you prefer to treat your guests with:

A) The best we have to offer, a true gourmet meal

B) The hustle and bustle of the lunchtime rush

POST-P OURRI BEFORE YOUGO

C) The late-night grub that keeps you alive during finals season

If you chose: A) Go to the Blue Room to grab a sandwich (with fig jam if you’re feeling fancy!) and a pastry. B)

Go to the Ratty and try not to lose your guests in the crowd! C) Go to Jo’s for some comfort food.

Next, it might be time to go study for a bit—the perfect chance to show off where you spend all those long hours that you’re not in your dorm. Do you want your family to see:

A) A classic library with a stunning sunset backdrop

B) A grand reading room with a true Ivy League aesthetic

C) An award-winning building with the best views of Providence

If you chose: A) Take them to the Rock! B) Take them to the Hay! C) Take them to the SciLi! I didn’t lie when I said it’s award winning—the SciLi has won ‘Ugliest Building in Rhode Island’ several times!

Family Weekend brings the perfect opportunity to venture off campus for a mini adventure… Would you rather:

A) Go admire some amazing art

B) Go for a picturesque picnic

C) Go for a walk and see a silly statue

If you chose: A) Go to the RISD Museum—admission is free on Sundays! B) Go enjoy the views at Prospect Terrace. C) Go bike or walk along the East Bay Bike Path, and say hi to Mrs. Skipper the troll!

It’s about that time in the semester when you could use a break from the dining halls. Consider trying a new restaurant in one of these neighborhoods!

A) Would you prefer to stay within a close walking distance to campus?

B) Would you like to venture just off of College Hill?

C) Any chance you’re craving Italian food and have access to a car (or are willing to grab a rideshare)?

If you chose: A) Take a look at some of the restaurants in Fox Point. B) Go explore the restaurant scene in Downtown Providence. C) Take a short drive to check out Federal Hill.

At some point in the weekend, you’ll definitely want to stop for a sweet treat.

A) Want something to cool you down after all the exploring?

B) Do you like to enjoy something sweet with your morning coffee?

C) Is your favorite dessert a classic, good ol’ cookie?

If you chose: A) Get some ice cream at Tizzy K’s or Kow Kow. B) Try PVDonuts or Zinneken’s. C) Go to Feed the Cheeks or Insomnia Cookies.

Alas, the weekend is coming to a close, and it’s time to pick your final breakfast spot. Would you like to:

A) Stay on campus and have a true dining hall staple

B) Listen to the soothing sounds of Thayer Street while you sip your morning coffee

C) Take a walk down Wickenden Street while you enjoy your breakfast sandwich

If you chose: A) Go to Andrews for a burrito bowl. B) Try Caffè Nero or Sydney. C) Go to Amy’s—my personal favorite is the ‘Hash It Out’ sandwich!

Finally, what event is the ultimate “can’t-miss” for you and your family?

A) Are you a sports fan or do you possess a lot of team spirit?

B) Do live performances just make your heart sing?

If you chose: A) Make sure to go to the football game on October 18 — it’s Brown v. Princeton, and it’s a pink out! B) Don’t miss the a cappella performances! Lots of groups will be sharing their amazing talents

Well, there you have it: the perfect itinerary of both on- and offcampus activities to dive into this weekend. I hope this guide has been helpful in inspiring some of your plans, but no matter where you go or what you do, the most important thing is to enjoy the time with your loved

If you have family coming to visit for the weekend, enjoy getting to show them your favorite stomping grounds and introducing them to your friends, and make sure to hug them extra tight before they leave. And if you don’t have people coming to visit and it’s just another weekend for you, take this guide as a reminder to go out and explore our lovely college town (and the surrounding areas) and consider trying something new!

The family you make here on College Hill is equally as important as your family back home, so whoever you get to spend the weekend with,