post- 02/19/21

In This Issue

Moose House

Eleanor peters 4

Family of Four

Ingrid Ren 2 kyoko leaman 4

IHOP French Toast Adi thatai 5

Re-finding Fantasy Joe suddleson 6

Hallogallo

postCover by Elliana Reynolds

FEB 19

VOL 27 — ISSUE 3

FEATURE

Family of Four a story, or not, of gentrification

By Ingrid ren Illustrated by Lucia Tian

W

hen I was in the fifth grade, my family of four

ings (a penthouse privilege), two closets, a kitchen, and

wall to the left of the closets were a kitchen stove, oven,

moved into a penthouse studio apartment loc-

a disproportionately spacious bathroom. When we

dishwasher, and refrigerator. Across from the kitchen

ated in downtown San Francisco, elegantly named

first moved in, my mom excitedly invested in Murphy

appliances, my parents slept in a queen-size Murphy

Symphony Towers. An odd location for a family, the

beds that were nailed into the wall and could be

bed that was similarly never folded up. We talked of

building was filled with young, single professionals and

conveniently folded up to make space. In reality, it

hanging a fabric partition to maintain some privacy

couples—the kinds of people you’d imagine wanting to

always seemed like too much of a hassle to remove

between my parents and my brother and me, but we

live in the center of a dense, bustling city with a history

blankets and pillows from our beds and fold them up

never got around to it.

of hippies and a reputation for pricey housing.

for a couple extra square feet. My brother and I shared

Looking outside our bay windows, we could see

A “studio apartment” is essentially a master bed-

one such Murphy bunk bed, nailed into the wall next

the City Hall, which lit up at night in orange and black

room with a kitchen. My mom, my dad, my brother, and

to our office space (a table and desktop computer

to celebrate the San Francisco Giants, or in red and

I lived in this 400 square foot studio for two and a half

placed in front of the large windows). Our bunk bed

green to celebrate Christmas. I remember the view of

years. We had very little space by choice. We traded

faced the two closets, one of which I claimed for myself

the city narrowing as new high rises were built. Across

square footage, separate bedrooms, and a backyard for

the day we moved in, leaving my mom, my dad, and

the street from our studio was a public elementary

a downtown location, gorgeous bay windows, high ceil-

my brother to share the second. Continuing along the

school. In order to maximize space, the school’s play-

Letter from the Editor

Long Weekend-worthy Holiday Ideas

Dear Readers,

Astrology left me cold until a few months ago.

Apart from a stint at the end of elementary school when I read my horoscope in the newspaper every morning, I pretty much ignored whatever Cosmo, Co-Star, and tag-yourself memes predicted about my life. But sometime after coming out, I decided to embrace the gay stereotypes, which basically resulted in me desperately cross-referencing compatibility charts with my love interest of the week. Spoiler: I tend to become starry-eyed over girls with the absolutely least compatible signs. Call it a product of my Aquarian inability to commit.

Now, I can feel myself slowly falling into the spiral of ascribing everything to my chart. Heart-squeezing angst over someone who lives so far across the world that Google Maps won’t let me plan a route? Aquarius. Failure to remember which four clubs my friends spend their free time scrambling over? Aquarius all over it. Reveling in my utter eccentricity while talking to myself alone in my room? Can’t help it, it’s in my chart.

Fortunately for you, the writers for this issue are quite a bit more grounded in reality than my airsign head could hope to be. In Feature, the writer

2 post–

examines the gentrification she grew up with in San Francisco. In Narrative, one writer reflects on missed connections with her grandfather and another on peaceful early mornings spent at IHOP. Arts & Culture transcends time and space, but within reason: one writer grapples with race, whiteness, and the Eragon series and the other looks at the transformative potential of post-WWII German rock today. To cap off these practical, real-world topics, the author in Lifestyle gives us just-in-the-nick-of-Midterms advice on where to find coffee in Providence.

As for me, I will have to restrain myself from astrologically analyzing these writers after diving into their innermost thoughts. Don’t be like me (lol, is my Aquarius ego showing?) and just enjoy the ride.

1. Just Do It. Cut Bangs Day 2. Snow Fell Off A Roof And An Icicle Almost Stabbed Me Day

3. Dean Zia Ate At My Ratty Table Day 4. I Woke Up Before Noon Day 5. Initiate A Healthy Dialogue About Boundaries with Your Roommates Day 6. It’s Over 40 Degrees For Once Day 7. New AHA Flavor Day

Wistfully howling at the moon because I’m quirky like that,

Olivia Howe

Editor-in-Chief

8. Online Classes Gave Me Chronic Eye Strain Day 9. GET Mobile Actually Worked Day 10. Face Your Inner Demons Day

FEATURE ground area was on the rooftop, and I would occasionally

name. In one tale, police officers were said to have

deep sadness and pity when seeing people existing

see children running and talking and playing there

accepted so many bribes in the district that they could

on the city streets. But projecting disillusionment and

during recesses. I remember being close in age to them

afford the tenderloin, an expensive cut of meat. A sim-

grief while ignoring the very human bodies who were

but distinctly knowing I was not one of them. I, like

ilar account claims that officers were able to afford

the subject of my emotions does nothing for anyone.

almost one third of San Francisco children, attended

the pricier cut with the bonus pay they received for

As Simone Weil says, “Attention is the rarest and purest

a private school halfway across the city. How must it be,

working in the midst of the neighborhood’s violence.

form of generosity.”

I wondered, to play and breathe in the middle of city

In a third tale, tenderloin metaphorically refers to the

My memories of walking through this neighbor-

life?

soft underbelly of the city, full of crime and corruption.

hood carry the luck and wonder that can be found,

I don’t remember growing tired of the small space,

In the 1800s, while wealthy residents chose

alongside the people who are trying to live while not

or getting sick of constantly being around my family

to live at the top of San Francisco hills, the flatter

the way I do now in our larger home. I remember all of

Tenderloin district was largely left to non-wealthy

us going to bed at the same time, talking to each other

residents. This district developed into the city’s home

Although San Francisco was named “the most int-

late at night. One night, after turning off the lights and

for entertainment, both legal and criminal, as well as

ensely gentrified city in America from 2013 to 2017,”

taking turns speaking into the darkness of the shared

the home of rebels and outcasts. Throughout the first

(NCRC) the Tenderloin has largely and surprisingly

room, I went on such an impassioned tirade against

half of the 20th century, the Tenderloin’s streets were

resisted this. Nonprofit land acquisition, single room

my fifth-grade teacher that I cried while my parents

crowded with gambling establishments, speakeasies,

occupancy (SRO), and Tenderloin residents who

and brother listened, their silence more pensive than

theaters, jazz venues, brothels, and some of the first

advocated for regulations on high-rise buildings have

empathetic. I remember video calling my at-the-time

gay bars and clubs in the city. People would travel to

all contributed to the Tenderloin’s apparent immunity

best friend, doing homework and chit-chatting for

the thriving Tenderloin district to dine out, drink, and

from widespread gentrification.

hours while my family moved about in the background.

dance.

being seen. ***

However, high-rise buildings, like the one my

And when I discovered Harry Potter, I stayed up read-

In the 1950s, however, San Francisco took action

family moved into, were appearing all along the out-

ing The Goblet of Fire locked in the bathroom—the only

against the successful and illegal businesses populating

skirts of the district. We lived there at a time when piano

other room in the studio—so the light wouldn’t disturb

the district’s streets. Randy Shaw, an attorney and

stores and universities were replacing fast food rest-

my sleeping family.

activist who worked in the Tenderloin for decades,

aurants and long-empty buildings that, for a long time,

I spent many weekends in the city’s main library,

said in a KQED interview, “City Hall intentionally

were seen as unattractive due to their proximity to

only a short walk away from our studio, wandering

wrecked the Tenderloin [in the 1950s]. They eliminated

danger and poverty, two things believed to be perm-

through the long rows of children’s books for hours and

our gambling operation, which they had to do. They

anently intertwined.

picking out a pile to borrow. One time, when using the

changed our street configuration. They took away our

After my family had been living downtown for

library’s public restroom, I waited in line and looked

cable cars.” The city architected the Tenderloin to

some time, something frustrating yet sadly not uncom-

and un-looked at the people in the room with me. I

make it less attractive and less accessible, resulting

mon happened to us. My parents had parked their

saw bags of belongings leaning against the walls while I

in the replacement of businesses with drug dealing,

car on the street overnight, and in the morning, the

stood in line clutching my bag of borrowed books, which

petty crime, and not-so-petty crime.

side window had been smashed, tiny pieces of glass

I’d return to read in my penthouse home. The library

Largely ignored in the second half of the 20th

glittering on the gritty sidewalk. Road trip CDs, a pair

felt like a haven for many. The streets at the library’s

century, the Tenderloin was able to become “a haven

of tennis shoes, and a colorful bed sheet had been

perimeter were populated with people and carts and

for gay and lesbian San Franciscans” (KQED) who

taken. A red crowbar was left in the place of these

bags of clothes, blankets, jewelry, empty bottles, and

sought safe spaces. Outcasts and low-income residents

items, which I remember being bitterly perplexed by,

CDs. When I walked through these streets, I only looked

found community, affordable housing, and new

wondering why someone would abandon this tool.

and looked away, keeping everything in the periphery of

beginnings in this district. Following the Vietnam War

There was dried blood, too, on one of the back seats,

my vision. I was too scared to fully see and internalize

and continuing into today, the district became home to

dark red-black hardened on the leather cushion.

the beauty and pain and success and struggle of the

many Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian refugees,

That day, my mother wore her upset openly, hating

city that I lived in.

with locals affectionately naming a couple of the city

the dirtiness of the Tenderloin. I remember thinking

blocks “Little Saigon.”

how shameful and awkward it felt to be upset about

As I grew older in this studio apartment, I began to better understand the socioeconomic complexities

On weekend mornings, my dad loved to bring me

thievery from someone with very presumably less

of downtown San Francisco. Living downtown meant

to the restaurants and grocery stores of Little Saigon,

belongings than us. She was angry, we were angry, but it

living next to dozens of bus and Muni (subway)

walking us past bars and strip clubs without pointing

also felt embarrassing to be angry. When the violence

lines, next to high-end vegan restaurants, next to

them out. I remember during one morning walk,

of loss exists next to the greater violence of economic

immigrant-run grocery stores, next to the city’s

we came across scattered pieces of a ripped up one-

inequality, how can we—the city and its residents—heal

largest public library, next to the famed San Francisco

dollar bill, an absurd and delightful finding. I excitedly

the chasm between us?

Symphony, next to parents and toddlers at the newly

picked up the shredded pieces, ignoring my dad as

***

renovated playgrounds, and seemingly always next

he told me not to bother, and found that I had all the

A couple weeks after the car window was broken—

to homelessness. Our apartment building was just

scraps to make a whole bill. I wondered if I could tape

enough time to lessen some of the initial upset—my

adjacent to, if not inside, the Tenderloin, a San

the bill together and use it, reveling in the seeming

dad came home, a little amused and a little sad. He

Francisco neighborhood historically known as a center

magic of the city without thinking about the implica-

had been walking back and saw the bed sheet that had

of homelessness, open drug use, sex work, and crime.

tions of violence and rebellion in what I had found.

been taken from our car, red and orange with a loopy,

This reputation persists today, creating an expectation

Another morning, my dad and I passed by a man

cursive flower pattern across it. A woman had hung it

and a fear in newcomers like my family of all of

sitting on the ground, a paper cup with coins in front

up to form a small shelter in the nook of an abandoned

the above.

of him. I remember feeling acutely aware of my actions

building, granting her several square feet of privacy

***

and particularly my lack thereof, but neither of us

in the middle of the city. There was her, a fabric

There isn’t one clear origin for the Tenderloin’s

acknowledged the man’s existence. I know I often felt

partition, and then the world.

“They’re like the opposite of assless chaps!

They’re assful chaps.”

“I’m low-key part of a pyramid scheme already. But it’s a nice one.”

February 19, 2021 3

NARRATIVE antler, the shine of a glassy eye, the smooth texture of fur.

Part of me knows it’s for the best, and I’m certainly grateful—the promise of a larger space, the safety of a building brought up to code, the convenience of contemporary fixtures and better organization. Despite all this, there’s an ache of mourning, of genuine grief, for what used to be. I don’t quite want to move on, so I’ve found myself getting drawn back further and further, hanging on to offhand comments as we unpack—“those paintings, your grandfather brought back after Vietnam”— as though it might resolve something. I ask my dad for stories, clarifications, replaying those I already know as though I’ll find something new between oft-repeated phrases. I’m trying to turn the page in a book, and yet I’m stuck on something that happened several chapters ago.

This house isn’t my grandpa. I know that. I mourned him almost a decade ago as a confused, awkward elevenyear-old. The waxy face inside the casket in the funeral home in Grand Rapids, the person smiling out of photographs placed amid lilies—I missed my chance to truly know him, if I ever really had one. But still it feels like I’ve let another chance slip through my fingers. Perhaps I’m grieving the house to compensate for a loss I didn’t fully feel in the moment. It’s hard to appreciate life as you experience it; maybe that explains the pessimistic lens of my memory. I never sat back and

Moose House a recollection of people, places, and things by eleanor peters Illustrated by joanne han

let the sunlight and dust settle over me, never just hugs bent awkwardly over a wheelchair, the musty

took it all in without fixating on imperfections. My

smell of age.

grandpa and the Moose House were always a bitter-

It takes digging, sorting through the mess of rec-

sweet collage of memories, with a heightened focus on

ollection, to unearth a more complete understanding

the bitterness. Now that some pieces are gone, probably

of him. Often I wish I could reach into memories I have

forever, I wonder if I can ever recover some of the sweet

long since lost, to a time before my grandpa’s declining

that was lost on a palate too immature to appreciate

health presented such an insurmountable barrier to

the complexity of people and places. And yet.

our relationship. It’s always been easier to look around

The house still spills out to the lake, the renovations

The house sits above the lake, so that the water

the Moose House, at the clutter contained within wood-

unable to correct that essential cosmic tilt. My feet

glitters through the thin grove of trees. Up there, every-

paneled walls, and notice the details. The souvenirs of

still find their way down, over soft ground strewn with

thing spills out towards the shore, as if the floors, walls,

countless trips to Asia, Europe, and South America line

pine needles and dry leaves, to the strip of sand before

the entire house is tilted slightly downward. I find my

the bookcases, spilling into boxes and cabinets, hinting

the edge of the water. My grandpa brought in this sand,

gaze drawn out, my feet carrying me down three short

at his wanderlust. Antique duck decoys decorate a

but the water level has risen so that the beach-like effect

sets of stairs to the rocky edge of the water. That

shelf above the kitchen, carved out of coarse wood and

has all but disappeared, while the natural rocks of the

natural magnetism pervades my memory, blending the

painted in monochrome. (He was a collector of varied

shore prevail. At this time of year, the dock is gone, put

house and the lake together as two inseparable parts

and innumerable trifles.) Flies, the sort crafted out of

away in preparation for the sharp bite of winter. When

of a larger image: what I think of when someone says

string, wood, or plastic to mimic bait, are hooked into

I stand there with the house behind me, looking out at

“Michigan,” a place synonymous with family in my

the ledge above the counter. The moose, of course,

the water that shivers in the gusty November air, my

subconscious.

is joined by fellow taxidermy: a fox, a salmon, several

nostalgic sadness drains away. Maybe, when I look at

I’m always unsure what to call the house, wary of

birds. Here, the indoors is a catalog of time he spent

that lake with its frame of trees and the smudge of the

both the polished pretension of “lake house” and the

outside. Crouched in the basement is a jukebox filled

far shore, I’m looking at a more unwieldy part of my

overly rough connotation of “cabin.” My family calls it

with records, each track painstakingly labelled: The

grandpa’s collection—an image that can’t be relegated

“the Moose House”—capitalization merited through

Beatles, Elvis Presley, Simon & Garfunkel, Village

to boxes or replaced with newer things. Maybe this

decades of humid summers and bitter winters spent

People. A picture of Jesus, arms uplifted, in a frame

view that my grandpa knew and I know now, of a lake

there. At some point, I suppose moose may have inha-

adorned with a yellow lure and the words “Great Catch,”

that has known us both, draws us closer.

bited the wooded coasts of Michigan’s northern Lower

belying some distant sense of humor. Even though my

Peninsula where my family vacations, but the partic-

grandpa died when I was in fifth grade, this house holds

ular moose that inspired this name died far away in

so much of him. He and my grandma lived in other

Alaska before I was born. Its taxidermied head pre-

houses, but none I’ve visited ever felt so familiar. In

sides over the activities of the house from the wall

my comfortable days spent around the Moose House,

in silent, solid majesty. In my memory, my growth is

drifting through rooms, exploring the detritus collected

measured by my ability to touch the enormous nose:

by an extended family over decades, I can make out

first requiring my father to lift me, or a chair, but gett-

an image of him.

IHOP French Toast

on stealing back empty hours by kyoko leaman Illustrated by Habesha Fasika Petros

ing closer, closer, until I could stand flat on my own two

The renovations were planned for a year and a half,

feet, reach up, and feel the scratchiness of whiskers

but they still snuck up on me: two second-story bedrooms

Gray hush of the predawn morning. Blue gravel

and the coarse fur.

grew from the squat ranch façade, beige carpet and

cracks under my heels. We are lit up by the twinkle of

My grandpa killed the moose on a hunting trip,

hardwood replaced worn dark green carpeting, the

my light-up sneakers, blue-pink-orange LEDs bursting

had it mounted and sent to Michigan. My sisters and I

living space transformed from outdated coziness into

with every footfall. My mom lifts me into my cushioned

christened the house the Moose House, completing a

cavernous modernity. And all the clutter picked through,

booster seat, but I buckle the seatbelt myself. She gets

strange generational collaboration, the only significant

sorted, packed away. I wasn’t even there for most

in the driver’s side, my father in the passenger seat, twin

link I can recall between myself and my grandpa. My

of it, too busy with school to make the eight-hour car

car doors slamming. The old cream Mercedes interrupts

memories of him are conflicting, flavored with affection

trip north. One moment, the house existed as it still

the sunrise with a violent diesel grunt and we’re off—

yet composed mainly of snapshots of discomfort. Like

does in my memories, then I blinked, and everything

down the mountain, across town, over the highway and

this mid-century relic of a house, blemishes stick out

became bare and unfamiliar. The moose was relocated

down the exit ramp. The roads are vacant under the

far easier in my memory: the itchiness of sandy sheets, a

to the entryway, no longer the steady guardian above

5 a.m. sky, I-581 spilling purple and empty across the

wracking cough lasting several long minutes, dead mice

us as we lounge on the old couch by the fire. Standing in

valley. In maybe 20 minutes, we’re pulling up to the airport

appearing every year in the basement closet, unfamiliar

the kitchen, I can only catch glimpses: the points of an

temporary parking, the Kiss & Fly Zone. I am not kissing

4 post–

NARRATIVE or flying, though. I am yawning, sleepy and small.

My dad lifts an overstuffed backpack onto one

or gossip, or maybe read. I don’t remember what we said,

am always dreaming of a pale purple sky, a cream

now. I just remember the feeling.

Mercedes. IHOP French toast on my tongue. An endless

shoulder, suitcase strap over the other. Last time he went

I always found those stolen hours so lovely, all

out of town, he came back with a plastic baggy full of

unclaimed and wild. Time that no one owned but us.

rough chips of turquoise that he found in the desert. I ask

No expectations pressing in, no deadlines or demands.

him for more rocks this time, and he laughs.

The smell of powdered eggs, empty roads outside the

“Only pretty rocks,” I remind him.

window. Utterly peaceful. ***

“Pretty rocks for her. Chocolate for me,” my mom

Now, we live in a house that is crawling with time.

adds.

He laughs, nods, kisses me on the top of my head,

Too many months spent in the same small space. Quar-

says goodbye, assures me he’ll bring me back something

antined in a bedroom I’ve already outgrown, with parents

good. He disappears through the revolving doors and into

who thought my move to college would be more perm-

the glassy, fluorescent airport lobby. To fly, I assume. Hard

anent than this. We approach a year being rooted in the

to say where. Nevada or Dubai, up or over.

same place. A year of stepping on each other’s toes.

morning.

Re-finding Fantasy

the revolutionary power of elves and dragons

by Adi Thatai Illustrated by Anna S (@wormwood.tales) I’ll admit it: I love dragons. Like, I really love dragons. I always have. Ever since I can remember, my

We leave the airport parking lot with the car one

My hours feel crowded. Even secluded in my

person lighter. Instead of going home, we go to IHOP.

mother’s repurposed sewing room, alone with my pre-

embarrassingly persistent desire to befriend and ride

It’s tradition.

recorded lectures and endless p-sets, I feel like each

a dragon has been at the forefront of my birthday wish-

This time, I get strawberry and cream stuffed French

second has already been claimed. The hours I spend

making, movie-requesting, and book-purchasing. As

toast. Last time, it was chocolate chip pancakes. My

working don’t belong to me, and neither does all that

a child, the heart-wrenching disappointment of a long-

mom is eating something savory, unappealing, with eggs.

time spent trapped in a square on Zoom, or the long

ing so wholly unfulfilled is likely what left me disill-

Next time, I think I’ll try something new, maybe the

dinners I spend dancing around tense conversations.

usioned with Santa so young, but that didn’t stop me

waffles. But the French toast with its syrupy strawberries

My time has been given away.

from asking the void just one more time if I could

is just so hard to pass up, sticky and red and staining the corners of my mouth. Difficult choices.

Each morning, I pour coffee into a mug that says

get that pet dragon for Christmas.

TEENAGE DAUGHTER SURVIVOR in expansive black

To be fair, it’s not just dragons. Fantasy is my favor-

Hours from now, I will be dropped off at elementary

font—a gift I’d given my dad for Father’s Day, as a joke.

ite genre. How To Train Your Dragon (yes, I cry every

school and sent into the fray. Probably tracing more

Maybe the joke is that I’m the only one that uses it. I

time I watch it), Avatar: The Last Airbender, Harry

letters or cutting out shapes, staring blank-eyed at color-

slide into the rolling chair with poor lumbar support,

Potter, and my favorite book of all time, Eragon, the first

ful walls or being told not to read while the teacher is

which neither of my parents wanted, and already I feel like

book of The Inheritance Cycle. Magic, monsters, and

talking. Like every other day I tumble through unwill-

I’m drowning. It is ten in the morning. I can hear someone

wands just do it for me. So much so that, during middle

ingly. But for these cool, untouched hours, this is

speaking in the other room, which should not annoy me,

school, as I first began to explore the idea of social

a day with all its windows open. Fresh air against my

but it does. As though I have a brain full of bees. An angry

circles, the first group I ever associated with was a rag-

skin. Every time we take my father to the airport, it is

hive.

tag bunch of burgeoning and established fantasy buffs.

another heist, stealing hours from sleep and transform-

Even in high school, long before my world had

Hardcore fantasy buffs. Rare-action-figure-touting,

shrunk to meet the walls of my house, I'd feel this way.

Star Wars-collectibles-hoarding, Magic: the Gathering-

My mom drives us home. It is 6:30 in the morning

As though each moment was too full, all my time belong-

tournament-winning fantasy buffs. I loved it, but being

now. My belly is full, and my father is suspended in

ing to someone else. My solution now is the same as my

relegated to watching Magic: the Gathering games

the sky over a state I’ve never been to. The radio spits

solution was then: staying up too late, so that I can exist

instead of learning to play, never feeling comfortable

country music, the audio absolutely fried by the ancient

in an hour when everyone else is asleep. A time on the

going to Comic-Con, and not being clued-in to Star

speakers. Other cars start to spill into the empty streets

clock that only I get to see and make mine. Or I reclaim

Wars conversations left me feeling that I was never

as the sun punches suddenly into the sky. My mouth

my time by taking an afternoon to drive aimlessly,

truly a part of their world. I began to notice more and

still tastes like strawberry.

pouring regular unleaded gasoline into the problem

more the differences between myself and the faces

***

until it’s gone. Brain numbed by the road, the wind burst-

around me. Without fail, I was always the only person

The years fold up with me tucked safely inside them.

ing through rolled down windows, the music playing too

of color in the room, the only person who spoke a

loud.

different language at home, certainly the only person

ing them into a sugared secret.

A hundred times we perform the same ritual: awaking in the brutal morning, ferrying my father to the Roanoke-

I have my little ways of finding hours to reclaim.

with Indian parents, and sometimes even the only one

Blacksburg Regional Airport. 5 a.m. feels earlier when I am

When the frenzy gets too loud and time gets too crowded,

with black hair. I loved these friends—countless hours

ten than it did when I was five, and even worse at fourteen.

I have ways of making space, finding room to breathe.

spent playing Halo and watching superhero cartoons

The saccharine promise of the IHOP breakfast menu

Stolen time. I end up sleep-deprived, spending too much

will do that to you—but even that young I understood

starts holding less and less sway.

money on gas, but some sacrifices must be made. Any-

the inaccessibility and whiteness of spaces dedicated

thing to feel the calm hush of a moment that no one can

to fantasy. Now, that exclusivity feels unsurprising—

take from me.

fantasy is inseparable from a long history of racism and

But still, I go. Even after I’m old enough to stay home and sleep in. Wedded to tradition, maybe, or too attached

a glorification of whiteness.

to the familiar stillness of those mornings. My mom and I

After this last crumpled year, with its distorted

slide into the tacky green booth with the restaurant eerie

months and rotting minutes, I’m finding it hard to make

Despite the promise of invented realities, fantasy

and quiet around us. Sometimes we talk in lazy spirals,

those few empty hours enough. I guess, in the end, I

remains fascinated with medieval Europe, both in its technologies and perspectives; swords, horses, castles, and battles form the core of the fantasy canon. Fantasy is reactionary in this sense; it romanticizes the rigid hierarchies, homogenous whiteness, and hypermasculine heroism of medievalism. Too often, “fair” and “white” define goodness, while forces of evil are “dark” and “exotic,” both metaphorically and physically.

Fantasy canon often assigns a caste system to species, with white male humans on top and humanoid creatures like dwarves and centaurs willingly subservient—an ethos that easily lends itself to vile displays of racism and misogyny. Fantasy’s limitless potential for imagined worlds is dangerous in the hands of those who want to imagine themselves and people like them on top.

For people like me, that creates countless stories that just hurt to read.

By the end of middle school, I gravitated away from those friends and toward kids who looked and felt a little more like me. As each year passed, I read less and less fantasy, and the magic it had once held in my heart steadily slipped away. I say fantasy has always been

February 19, 2021 5

ARTS&CULTURE universe—not just an altered world, but one that is fundamentally different, completely irreconcilable with this limited reality of ours. For people like me, for people who feel that the world is not yet structured for them, fantasy provides hope. It's not the vague hope that things will inevitably get better, but a more actionable kind of aspiration, one that finds power in what we are brave enough to imagine, in what we dare to truly wish for.

To me, that feels revolutionary.

Hallogallo

how a song from 1972 restored my faith in the future

by Joe Suddleson Illustrated by Will Nussbaum When I returned home after uncontrolled spread of my favorite genre, but before 2020, the last time I read

liege-lady, is a Black woman—a Black woman who is a

COVID-19 forced the university to shut down in-person

The Inheritance Cycle was in the seventh grade. Leav-

full character, who leads, and who struggles with and

operations, I was lost. In all honesty, this feeling wasn’t

ing my hometown and coming to Brown, I never ima-

learns to love her identity.

entirely on account of the sudden onset of a global

gined that I would once again become mired in a culture

Eragon also offers an unparalleled landscape for

pandemic, or the combined strain and anxiety of pack-

of fantasy, but this time, in a vibrant community of almost

escape. With pages and pages spent describing the

ing up my college life and moving back home in the

exclusively people of color.

history, geography, culture, and ecology of the land,

span of a few days; I had been feeling lost long before

Whether it was my roommate Obi reading the latest

Alagaësia isn’t a world you get to peer into, constra-

that, though the pandemic made things worse. App-

Boruto manga, or our mutual friend VJ coming in to

ined by the limits of a screen, but one that you construct

roaching the midway point of my college experience

talk about his latest fantasy audiobook, I lived freshman

around yourself within your imagination. As a child

with little idea of who or what I wanted to be, disillusioned

year surrounded by an unabashed appreciation for

who felt othered at almost every turn, Alagaësia pre-

with the path the country was taking, and trying to

fantasy. But this time, knowledgeable smiles greeted

sented a vivid escape for me to burrow into on rainy

cope with my lifelong battle with depression, the wear-

my eagerness to learn, instead of inaccessible games

Saturdays and provided a playground for my imag-

iness and fatigue of life’s constant churning had cons-

or expensive action figures. Every day, POC streamed

ination, where the world in the pages felt like mine

umed my existence. Facing the reality of a prolonged

into our room to play Super Smash Bros, watch Rick

to explore. I found the most pleasure in imagining

period of forced isolation, I knew I needed to redis-

and Morty, or talk Naruto. Thanks to Obi and VJ, I

the five-mile-high Beor mountains with their dragon-

cover who it was I wanted to be, based on—and perhaps

learned to love fantasy again. I actually only got back

sized cave bears and trees of stone, not scenes of battle

in spite of—who I’d been before. It was around this time

into Eragon thanks to VJ; last fall, we decided to listen

or political subterfuge. One key aspect of The Inher-

that I came across an obscure song from 1972 called

to the audiobook together during a long road trip to

it-ance Cycle’s worldbuilding is Paolini’s treatment of

“Hallogallo” by Neu! that helped me begin to face my

visit our significant others. After 10 hours of driving,

language. Paolini spent years developing convincing

past, look ahead with hope, and redeem my tired soul.

filled with whoops during crazy training scenes and

and consistent grammatical structures, vocabulary,

Ambitious optimists from the beginning, Michael

quiet awe at vividly written magic, we still hadn’t fin-

and pronunciation in the languages of the various

Rother and Klaus Dinger formed the German musical

ished. Safe to say, VJ was hooked and I had found my

populations, with Elvish characterized as the words

outfit Neu! in 1971 with the intention of leaving the past

love of the series again. I decided then and there to reread

of magic and eternal truth (Paolini actually made a

behind. Inspired by the wide-reaching radical stud-

the cycle at the first chance I got—winter break.

grammatical mistake in one Elvish line in Eragon, and

ent movements and counterculture of the late 1960s,

The Inheritance Cycle, made up by Eragon, Eldest,

once he realized it, he found it necessary to fundamen-

Neu!, which means “new” in German, created a new

Brisingr, and Inheritance, is a young adult high fantasy

tally change the trajectory of the entire series). For

sound and a new vision of the future beyond the

series written by Christopher Paolini. High fantasy

a kid that spoke four languages at home, Eragon was

cataclysmic destruction of Europe in the 20th century.

refers to speculative fiction set in entirely fictional

the first book I read that found the same importance,

Over ten minutes in length, “Hallogallo,” the first track

worlds, with authors “worldbuilding” to familiarize read-

beauty, and energy in disparate languages that I did.

and de facto manifesto of their debut album, is one

ers with fictional geographies and ecologies. Eragon’s

Eragon, as with many protagonists within fantasy, is

continuous, repetitive groove of guitar and drums:

characteristic world is Alagaësia, a continent complete

marked by his difference; his name, his family, and

no lyrics, no chord changes, and no semblance of any

with its own detailed landscapes, history, and popula-

his appearance isolate him from the rest of Alagaësia.

traditional Western musical structure. Emerging grad-

tions (the immortal elves that grow their homes out

While my differences had acted as forces for exclusion,

ually from silence, Rother’s meandering guitar patterns

of giant trees are personal favorites). The story

Eragon’s differences bestow on him the responsibility

float

follows Eragon, a parentless farm boy turned last-free-

of greatness. As a child, I had never imagined that my

drumming like the placid surface of a wandering

dragon-rider, in his journey to defeat the reigning

dissimilarity could be a strength—I found the capacity

rustic stream over a bed of jagged stones. Lulling the

tyrant and restore the world to its former peace. Along

to be bold within those pages. And, thanks to magic,

consciousness into a trance-like groove, the beat is of

the way, he learns the intricate rules of magic, trains

problems feel tangible within Alagaësia; they can be

the machine and beyond it, modern in its calculated

in art and ethics with elves and dwarves, struggles to

dismantled, fought against, and reworked on the ground

regularity and as timeless as humanity itself. “Hallogallo”

make change in political systems, grapples with the

by individuals. Even vast sociopolitical issues with

is time, constantly in motion, flowing, knowing only

morality of revolution, finds his place within history,

historical roots are solved by magic. For the son of two

forward.

and, best of all, forms an unforgettable partner-

Indian immigrants grappling with my relationship

Neu! and the other experimental German bands of

ship with his dragon, Saphira. Get why I love it so much

with history, the fantasy of Eragon offered me that rare

the so-called “krautrock” genre, including groups such

now? But it’s not just the dragon that pulled me to

kind of hope that doesn’t just soothe, but empowers.

as Can, Faust, and Kraftwerk, perhaps best represent

Eragon—as a child of color the narrative offered me something that I couldn’t find anywhere else.

above

Dinger’s

propulsive

and

mechanical

Finding my community at Brown, seeing an

the generation of Germans who began to openly quest-

increasing number of fantasy books by writers of color

ion, remember, and challenge the nation’s hideous Nazi

I consider myself lucky that Eragon was my first

sitting in bookstores, and getting back into Eragon

past. Though each group had its own unique sound,

foray into written high fantasy. Despite critics cond-

with VJ, I have had a multi-year long journey getting

they all applied novel and avant-garde techniques—

emning the similarities to The Lord of the Rings, Paolini

back into fantasy with non-white friends supporting

unconventional recording methods, instrumentation,

rejects traditionally racist and sexist world structures.

me the entire way. With their help and companionship,

and musical structures—to their music, signaling a styl-

Eragon’s personal journey through the series involves

I’ve come to realize that I’m far from alone in my

istic and ideological break from tradition. Almost out

ingratiating himself with the differing cultures of

obsession. Sitting in the car, listening to Eragon

of necessity, these young bands took it upon themselves

Alagaësia, shedding his prejudices, and learning to

along-side my best friend and watching the blazing

to leave everything behind and chart a more optimistic

value life and freedom for all species. While Alagaësia

colors of a New England fall roll by, I remember it

course. Far more than niche musical ventures, these

is still a Eurocentric, patriarchal, white world, non-

all clicking, why fantasy pulls people like me in. High

innovative experiments had such emotive power that

white people and women exist in key roles throughout

fantasy offers what no other genre can for marginalized

they influenced an entire generation of popular music-

the story. In fact, the leader of the revolution, Eragon’s

peoples: the possibility of imagining an entirely new

ians from Joy Division to David Bowie. Even The Killers

6 post–

have used a sample of the percussive guitar licks of

world, bristled at the brazen challenge to American

This is why “Hallogallo” gave me hope. Though a

“Hallogallo” on the song “Dying Breed” from their 2020

demo-cracy on January 6th. As an American Jew, I will

deadly virus isolated me from the world and put

album Imploding the Mirage.

carry the pure horror of watching live as Neo-Nazis and

important aspects of my life on hold, I came to know

At this very moment, our own nation sits precar-

other far-right extremists stormed the sacred halls of

that I was always ultimately in control of my own destiny

iously on the precipice of a self-inflicted destruction

our democracy for the rest of my life. But we must

and had the strength to look ahead to a brighter, better

not too dissimilar from the one that dawned on interwar

carry on. We must hold fast to the knowledge that

tomorrow. During sophomore year, I realized that my

Germany. On January 6th, 2021, a hoard of Donald

change is bound up in the story of humanity as much as

depression had reared its ugly, untamable head again

Trump supporters mounted an insurrection on the

trauma is, that we need not wait for time to absolve or

after years of lying dormant; almost at an imperceptible

federal government, breaching the halls of the United

redeem ourselves; we have the agency within ourselves

rate, I had lost all sense of purpose, joy, and self-esteem.

States Capitol in a siege meant to disrupt and halt the

to affect change at any time.

Every afternoon I’d come back to my dorm after classes

joint session of Congress tallying the electoral votes of

“Hallogallo” recreates thsensation of subjective

and cry alone. I stopped dreaming altogether. I was coll-

the 2020 presidential election. The events of January

human experience in the face of painful historical mem-

apsing in on myself, becoming less receptive to those

6th—the first time insurrectionists have overrun the

ories, turbulent present circumstances, and nebulous

around me as I withered into a mindless automaton,

Capitol since the British scorched much of Washington

future uncertainties. Endlessly repetitive in rhythm,

executing the commands of a social order that was bent

D.C. in 1814—draw eerie parallels to the German Beer

sound, and structure, the song mirrors the cyclical

on extracting my productivity at the expense of my

Hall Putsch of 1923. In November of that year, Hitler

nature of life in the universe: the earth orbits the sun,

humanity. Depression traffics in lost hope. Like some

and a mob of Nazi party members attempted to over-

we’re born only to die, we wake up only to sleep, on and

sticky, malignant shadow seeping and oozing between

throw the German government by violent force. The

on and on for eternity. But the story of humanity, and

the folds of your brain, depression can descend as swiftly

attack of January 6th, like the Nazi coup d’etat attempt

of “Hallogallo,” is not one of futility in the face of ind-

as the sun on a December day in New England and

of 1923, failed. Progress and hope seemed to triumph

omitable universal forces. The continuous and unidir-

remain lodged in your spirit like scar tissue. It makes

over sedition and insurrection. Congress eventually

ectional unfolding of time presents the possibility of

even the banal tasks of daily routine, like getting out of

carried out the people’s business of confirming Joe

change, a possibility that splinters the burdensome

bed and brushing your teeth, feel insurmountable. Soon

Biden and Kamala Harris as the rightful winners of the

march of fate and injects the most human of emotions

enough, the global pandemic prevented me from enga-

November election. But to think that the lies and viol-

into our experience: hope. Impartial and redemptive,

ging with the gleeful eccentricities of life; I had no choice

ence propagated by Trump and his followers would

time promises that the failures and tragedies of today

but to be with myself each and every day. Fate consigned

disappear on January 20th would be to ignore the

will fade into yesterday and give way to new opportun-

me to a closed loop existence punctuated only by the

lessons of history and balk at the power of time. When

ities. Echoing out from an immutable past like the

same routine tasks that depression renders impossible,

confronted with reverence and respect, the progress-

immortal hum of “Hallogallo,” we fly forward along the

but I also had Neu! and “Hallogallo'' to drive me on-

ion of time can become the greatest salve for our

unrelenting arc of time towards a future of our own

ward, to bathe my soul in the light of a sunrise and draw

trauma. Ignored or erased, the actions of the past can

design. Though there is much to be done to advance

me out of the shadow of a long and perilous night. Like

echo into our pres- ent and wreak havoc on our ability

the causes of equality, justice, and righteousness in this

connecting with the cosmic radiation rippling through-

to change. Hitler’s attempt to seize control of Germany

country, we can start by lifting our heads towards that

out the universe from the Big Bang, “Hallogallo'' assured

failed that day in 1923, but it saw that Germany’s

infinite horizon, that hope that is so fundamental to

me I was here: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It told

democracy sat in ruins a few years later, alongside the

the human character, that faith in the flow of time to

me that I was a part of the unfolding of time, not

rest of Europe. Many Americans, and many around the

renew even that which has endured immense hardship.

imprisoned by it: that I, like anyone else before, around, or after me, had a voice worth sharing.

The time is now to recognize the power we each possess to write the narrative of our lives and alter the course of our history. “Hallogallo” holds the promise of a sunrise. Each day the sun’s silky auburn rays fill our bodies with warmth and our eyes with light; each day is a new opportunity to work on ourselves, to improve our communities, and to lay the foundations of a better tomorrow. On and on we go while the pattern repeats, on towards the infinite horizon. Though the sun will rise and fall every dozen or so hours until the end of human history, there are, within the confines of that unchangeable pattern, an infinite number of ways to be. Even in periods of abject stasis, our hearts and minds have the capacity to learn, to grow. Experiencing “Hallogallo,” confronting the almost incomprehensible void of time, I turned inward and let the light and love of life enrapture my broken spirit. Hurtling headlong into tomorrow, whether you like it or not, it is time we all ask ourselves: who do we want to be when we greet the rising sun?

“My love for you is not like a rose, because the majority of roses end up at either Walgreens or Costco and are sniffed relentlessly by the general population. My love for you is not like the ocean, either—because, geez, pollution.”

—Kaitlan Bui, “To All The Friends I’ve Loved Before,” 2.14.20

“Every online morality quiz pins me as a paragon of decisive self-interest, neutral as Swiss chocolate, Swedish meatballs, Irish tea, or Andorran tax evasion. Fine by me. Andorra has the highest life expectancy on earth.”

—Charlie Stewart, “Defending Eurylochus,” 2.15.19

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Olivia Howe a FEATURE Managing Editor Alice Bai Section Editors Andrew Lu Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Emma Schneider

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Minako Ogita Section Editors Siena Capone Christina Vasquez LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

Section Editors Kyoko Leaman Maddy McGrath

COPY CHIEF Aditi Marshan Copy Editors Emily Cigarroa Laura David Samuel Nevins Eleanor Peters SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen Layout Designers Lily Chahine Sharlene Deng WEB MASTER Amy Pu

STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Editors Eashan Das Kelsey Cooper Danielle Emerson Julia Gubner Jordan Hartzell Kyra Haddad Nicole Kim Jolie Rolnick Gus Kmetz Chloe Zhao Elliana Reynolds HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Adi Thatai Victoria Yin Joanne Han

Want to be involved?

Email: olivia_howe@brown.edu!

February 19, 2021 7