post- 10/2/20

In This Issue

Falling (Back) into Fanfiction

Danielle EmeRson 3

Zoomed Out

Victoria Yin 2

Chloe Chen 4

Tom and Olive Marin Warshay 5

Let's All "Rock the Side Pony" Zach Braner 6

Cybernetic Serendipity

postCover by Anna Semizhonova

OCT 2

VOL 26 —

ISSUE 3

FEATURE

Zoomed Out

a digital exploration of another untethered semester

By Victoria Yin Illustrated by jeffrey tao

O

n the second day of school, my professor decided to simulate what would have been a normal last shopping period—turning and meeting the students next to you in a lecture hall— by sending us off into “the whirlpool vortex of the Zoom breakout room” (her words) for 10 minutes of introductions and less-than-subtle awkwardness.

It’s not to say that I didn’t meet lovely new people and learn things about them. My classmates were studying remotely from Mumbai, D.C., and San Francisco— but that’s about as far as we got before returning to the meeting to be split up all over again. Few things can break the ice in a randomly-assigned breakout room, where meeting new people feels like giving a presentation about yourself to three floating heads.

Clicking on a link at the turn of the hour instead of walking into the wrong class made me wish that Zoom’s computerized efficiency wasn’t so efficient. I wanted

to be taken through virtual campus sidewalks and hallways before popping into my 10 a.m. lecture at 10:02. I wanted to bump into some distant friend from freshman year and have a conversation that would make me late.

My digital version of that experience was relegated to the breakout room, a useful tool for professors and another signal of irregularity for students.

Sitting in the virtual back row of classes I probably wouldn’t take (in reality, staring at Powerpoint slide after Powerpoint slide) didn’t appeal to me this shopping period. I didn’t have the energy—or maybe I’m just getting old. Once an anxious but voracious shopper, this semester I registered for 5 courses through C@B and barely explored any others. Yet by the first weekend, I was drained.

Staring at a screen for hours makes me feel like my parents are going to materialize in my room and reprimand me at any moment. During class, I am

conscious of my eyes glazing over and my attention drifting toward the red dot on the iMessage icon at the bottom of my screen.

This tendency to become distracted is one of many manifestations of “Zoom fatigue,” a term that names the discomfort and exhaustion induced by video conferencing. To seem like we’re paying attention, we feel we must keep our eyes glued to the screen: This is exhausting, according to a Harvard Business Review article.

Let’s face it: It’s easier than ever to text your roommate who is Zooming into the same class from a different room, check and re-check your Google calendar, or, if you’re like me, opt for a camera-off, inbed lecture on particularly draining days.

After all, we’re only human, and taking away the physical cues of human interaction (including eye contact, body language and other subtle behavioral

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, No thoughts. Head empty. Really. I’m just eking words out to fill the page at this point. I mean, aren’t we all? We made it to October, folks, but it feels like we’ve been in this year for ages. Somewhere, some time ago, my lucidity slipped away along with my healthy sleep schedule, structured activities, and undried-out eyes.

Can we just reminisce for a second?

Ah, yes. I look fondly on the days when Zoom was just a PBS show, and we all had Skype downloaded and untouched on our laptops. Or when we groaned at our emails because they were an obligation and not because they started with the same, emotionless refrains. Personally, I really miss being nervous on dates because I am simply a fool of a gal, instead of being so on edge all the time, with or without a cute person to put me there!

Call me nostalgic, call me a sap, but I just want a day that delivers 2019’s brand of bare minimum.

This week, post- continues to ride the quarantine wave, but this time, with a touch of escapism. In Feature, our writer details the trials and tribulations of Zoom University and how we’re all adapting to it. In Narrative, our writers return to the comforting paws and pages of cats and fanfiction to help them get along during quarantine. And in Arts & Culture, one writer processes the death and legacy of RGB using Lake Street Dive’s music and another ruminates on the meta-serendipity of finding the 1968 exhibition “Cybernetic Serendipity.”

So, yeah, no thoughts. Not ones that pertain to the present that is. If you need me, I’ll be going through my middle school pop punk playlists, because if I’m going to live through a painful time, I’d like to choose a more tolerable, albeit embarrassing, one. But, reader, if that’s a can of worms you don’t want to open, then I invite you to browse our pages to keep your mind at ease, if only for a short while.

Take Care,

Amanda Ngo Editor-in-Chief

2 post–

Stress Purchases 1. Rollerskates 2. Candles 3. DIY boba because I can’t go to Kung Fu Tea 4. Identical black turtlenecks 5. A subscription to Calm (only to hear the Harry Styles story, of course) 6. Pepto-Bismol 7. MCAT prep books 8. Disney+ (but NOT Mulan. Lord.)

9. Loaves of bread 10. 20% off Build Your Own Burrito from Baja’s on Snackpass

NARRATIVE signals) makes Zoom-style video conferencing especially “taxing,” a News at Northeastern article wrote.

It’s no surprise that these limitations may also translate to performance in online classes. A 2017 study published in the American Economic Journal found that online college courses seemed to reduce student success, reflected by an average 0.44-point drop in students’ class grade point averages. Of course, Zoom and other new digital resources have since changed the fabric of online learning, signaling a need for updated research.

A few weeks before last winter break—anticipating a month at my humble home in Des Moines, Iowa—I decided to look into Brown’s online Wintersession courses. Introduction to Creative Nonfiction caught my eye, a change from my fiction writing tendencies.

After realizing my financial aid applied to the course, I signed up.

I was nervous for an online college course: The class condensed a semester’s worth of material into just four weeks. Our syllabus involved daily work—readings, discussion posts, and developing three nonfiction essays to be reviewed by my peers, the course TA, and professor Elizabeth Taylor.

Still, the course’s pacing and flexibility allowed me to complete my readings and responses while boarding a Greyhound to Chicago with my friend Emma. Even online, I felt vaguely connected to my peers through virtual discussions and got to know my professor through regular one-on-one video calls. Over those weeks—remotely workshopping drafts, exchanging ideas, and analyzing Anne Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with my classmates—I was surprised by my complete absorption in the material.

This week, I interviewed professor Taylor—one of just a handful of Brown’s faculty members who answered the University’s call to create online courses nearly five years ago, not to mention one of very few undertaking the task in the humanities.

At the time, professor Taylor saw digital learning as an exciting opportunity. “Since I was a journalist and computers first came into the newsroom, I was always fascinated with what you could do with computers,” she said.

After a decade of teaching Introduction to Creative Nonfiction live, professor Taylor took it to Brown’s digital learning and design group, whose purpose was to help faculty replicate their courses online.

She remembers telling them, “I want to take exactly what I do in class and put it into Canvas so I don’t lose anything.” Professor Taylor quickly found that Canvas could facilitate effective discussion, analysis, and peer-reviewing, although some of her colleagues remained skeptical.

The course’s asynchronous format gave greater flexibility to students with busy schedules, and mandatory discussion posts offered a platform for students who don’t usually speak up in class, she said.

With her prior experience, professor Taylor helped her colleagues in the English department transition online in March. “Everybody adapts to the technology more quickly than one might assume,” she said. “Within months, you acclimate.”

Still, some students feel persistent loneliness from the sheer lack of face-to-face interaction—not to mention Zoom’s inevitable dysfunctions, from un-

muting your mic at the wrong time to sitting in a silent breakout room. Already under quarantine, it’s almost too easy to feel disengaged.

I’ve recently found myself tucked in bed with my computer for hours on end, having not left the house since the day before. Some things I’ve found solace in: hilly bike rides, India Point Park on a breezy day, cooking new recipes with roommates, and daydreaming about puppy adoption.

Online classes can’t replace in-person instruction, but in the absence of in-person classes, knowing the limits of online instruction and taking advantage of its benefits is one way to keep learning.

I felt grateful to have had the time and resources to take professor Taylor’s course over winter break. This semester, I have even more to be thankful for. I have an apartment in Providence with a whole room sectioned off just for me—even the paint stains on the hardwood and inherited hole in the door (RISD kids lived here?) can’t dull my excitement.

The fact that I can take classes online without worrying about my home life or financial situation hasn’t escaped me. The New York Times reported that most K-12 students will have fallen behind by this fall and predicts that pre-existing racial and socioeconomic education gaps are likely to grow due to disparities in technology access.

A few years ago, at the only Asian-fusion ramen shop in Des Moines that we knew of at the time, Emma and I ordered kimchi tater tots with vegan cheese.

The steaming tots arrived next to a small container of yellow-green sludge.

“I don’t know if I like vegan cheese,” I said skeptically, staring at the liquid.

“It’s okay,” Emma said, “don’t think of it as cheese.

Think of it as a savory sauce instead.”

Emma’s suggestion changed my perspective on the meal, an enjoyable combination of diverse textures and flavors. And the sauce was indeed savory. Similarly, digital learning doesn’t have to be viewed as a complete replacement for in-person classes (it probably can’t be) but might function as another avenue for the same goal—to continue to educate students as best we can.

As Susanna Loeb, Brown professor of education and public affairs, wrote in Education Week, while online learning isn’t as effective as in-person learning, online courses are “certainly better than no classes.”

This fall, I shopped an introductory poetry class.

During the first couple minutes—everyone’s mics muted while a few stragglers trickled in—the instructor wrote in the chat, “Digital silence is weird, huh?” An apt comment that made me smile.

Just today, I found myself alone, staring at my hair in the mirror of my Zoom screen for three minutes after another professor accidentally placed me and each of her other students into individual breakout rooms. Despite ongoing hiccups and adjustments, I can appreciate a sense of mutual trust between faculty and students: We’re all adapting, trying to be understanding with each other amid one of the most dystopian years of our lives.

I’ve found small surprises and pleasures in the nuances of this semester like no other: someone’s puppy demanding cuddles during class, making ramen during section, feeling the air transition from summer to fall while I rewatch a lecture outside.

Falling (Back) into Fanfiction finding comfort in familiar friends

by Danielle Emerson Illustrated by Elliana reynolds “In the mirror—what do you see?”

“What am I supposed to be seeing, Potter? It’s a mirror.”

“You mean, you don’t—“ Draco took a few steps back to observe the mirror at a comfortable distance. He couldn’t see anything beyond his own irritated expression and huffed in frustration. “I see what I should be seeing,” He snapped, “I see me and I see you.”

--At 13 years old, I completely threw myself into fiction. I devoured books by the handful, reading hundreds of pages a day. Fictional worlds, as always, provided a kind distraction from reality. Here, one can temporarily walk the Elysian Fields of fantasy, away from the frustrations of family, school, and financials.

I learned early that storytelling can soothe just as well as it can provoke. And I’ve always appreciated the comfort. Whispered words, spoken words—all sung in a wind-like rhythm. A soft voice, a stern voice, an inviting, entertaining, or sympathetic voice—all pressed within pages, pulled together into a gentle binding.

--Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled him back to the base of the mirror, his eyes never leaving their reflection. “It shows you your greatest desires.” Harry said, the grip on his hand tightening. “Your hopes and dreams. It should all be reflected back at you while you stand in front of this mirror.”

--But we all know the saying, “all good things must come to an end”—whether it’s a shared moment between friends, a sunrise at the crisp of dawn, or a wellwritten story, cradled and passed onto the avid reader from the author’s arms. Storytelling has its beginnings, middles, and, unfortunately, its ends. Yet, at the cusp of 2014, while I reread beloved books and rewatched cherished TV shows, the rise of a new kind of writing entered my world at exactly the right time: fanfiction.

Now, I won’t provide a link—God forbid you actually Google search it—because I wrote those Drarry (the pairing of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter) excerpts back in the seventh grade. Obviously, I don’t own Harry Potter. Nor do I support many of J.K. Rowling’s stances.

But I will acknowledge the impact of the series on my early years of writing. Middle school Danielle always wondered: “What if Harry and Draco were friends?”

“What if they grew into a friendship, after the book’s events, and came across the Mirror of Erised?” “What if all Draco wanted was someone to confide in? To trust?”

And that’s where it all starts. Those small what ifs cascade into scenarios, which then fabricate into plotlines. Questions the author left unanswered. Holes burned into the curtains. Loose ends ignored or woven too slack. Fanfiction provided a new route to navigate it all, a way in which I could wholeheartedly contribute to the stories I loved. Because I spent so long engrossed

“The new depression meal—wet cold honey in a dish.”

“If I didn’t go there to commit a crime then it’s not breaking and entering.”

October 02, 2020 3

NARRATIVE

in fanfiction sites—Archive of Our Own (AO3), Fanfiction.net, Wattpad, and Tumblr—I considered myself a weary traveler, turning my collar to the wind, forging ahead with pen in hand, plucking genres from passing trees: coffee shop alternative universes (AUs), roommates, fake-dating, slow burn, fluff, friends-tolovers, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, and so forth. All of which were at my fingertips, to read and to write.

Percy Jackson, Harry Potter, Voltron, Attack on Titan, Glee, Sherlock. Each of these stories made themselves at home in my heart. As talented writers expanded their worlds and developed loveable characters, so did my curiosity. I wanted Nico and Bianca di Angelo’s (from Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series) backstories.

What happened after their father Hades wiped their memories? I wanted character redemption. Why is Snape offered a second chance, but Draco and Narcissa are considered unforgivable? I wanted to remove queer bait and replace it with actual LGBTQ+ representation.

You’re telling me Voltron’s Keith and Lance didn’t have that ‘bonding moment?’ The list of ponderings and possibilities grew with each new plotline, each new character, scene, episode, and book.

But as I entered college, fanfiction—once a consistent pastime—ceased to remain a priority. That is, until quarantine.

--Taking Draco’s silence as confusion, Harry continued. “I’m not completely sure, but I’m almost positive Ron sees himself as head boy or captain of the quidditch team.” He forced a chuckle, “… Something like that—personal success.” Harry quickly glanced at Malfoy, suddenly serious. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”

--I have yet to re-enter the fanfiction writing community; honestly, I’m not sure I ever will. But reading fanfiction? Now that just seemed natural. I don’t read fanfiction based on books or musicals anymore.

I’ve laid my childhood sources of inspiration—Percy Jackson, The Hunger Games, Harry Potter, Sisters’ Grimm, Dear Evan Hansen, and Waitress—to rest. I don’t plan on digging up that grave anytime soon. I’ve fallen back into fanfiction, but I haven’t fallen back into specific fanfics, the pieces I read back in seventh through eleventh grade. I love The Hunger Games, but even I have to take a step back from 2012. And I will always consider Dear Evan Hansen a lifelong favorite, but I’ve walked those familiar hills for miles; let the memories remain, while also taking time to explore budding fields.

Fanfiction for recently watched movies and TV shows, though? That’s fair game. Watching as unfamiliar fictional realms are transformed, adventures stacking on top of adventures, the weary traveler perseveres.

I hate to admit it, considering the problematic nature of the series, but I fell back into Attack on Titan (AOT).

4 post–

Levi Ackerman and Hanji Zoë? They deserve happiness.

Ymir and Christa? They should’ve been married. Annie Leonhart and Mikasa Ackerman? They deserve so much more—stop pitting them against each other. I spent a majority of my COVID-19 summer curled up in bed bookmarking AO3 fics and scrolling through my favorite tags. The push came from an innocent suggestion: “Let’s watch Attack on Titan together.” I hadn’t delved back into the fandom since 2014, when the series’s first season was released. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time. I thought, “Sure. Why not?”

Nearly 50 episodes and 70 AOT manga chapters later, I was reintroduced to fandom euphoria. The endorphins that came with loving and caring (intensely, mind you) about a story. And once the final episode of the third season ended, once I caught up to the manga’s latest chapter, I couldn’t simply let it go. Caring and loving a story, whether it be an anime, a Netflix original, or a new TV show, livened my dull summer in Providence. So I rooted myself back into fanfiction.

While quarantined 2000+ miles from home, these stories provided an escape, a glimpse of the familiar amidst stress and chaos, and a reminder of the unique narratives that lay beyond the four walls of my summer dorm room.

--Harry took a deep breath.

“I’m really glad you’re my friend now, Malfoy.”

This outburst was followed by deathly silence. Both boys considered disapparating to avoid the awkward atmosphere. Harry swallowed nervously, “It just felt like a good time to tell you.”

Draco stared at him before nodding slowly. “Thank you,” he said. “Me too.”

--At first, I was surprised at how easy the process came to me. Not that looking up fics required much skill, but my resolve came against zero resistance. Once a cause for adolescent embarrassment (God forbid you mention fanfiction back in high school), now a valued hobby. Writing is tough, and fanfiction’s full of dedicated writers. They pen fic recommendations, post their work online, and boldly take reader criticism. Or sometimes they’re simply writing to write. To delve into the sidestory of their favorite fandom, to pave and cobble a new road. For enjoyment, because it’s fun. Because it’s loved—loved by the fanfiction writer, the dedicated reader, and the surrounding franchise community. Fanfiction recommendation lists, a personalized summary of curated fic favorites, exist all over the Internet.

Readers and writers alike want to share and cherish their love for the story. Because that’s what seems to be at the center of fanfiction. Love.

--“I guess I was just curious. But I know that type of

stuff is personal, so I get why you won’t tell me the whole thing,” Harry said.

Draco automatically stiffened. He prayed it’d go unnoticed. It didn’t.

Harry lowered his voice as he continued. “About the mirror… I left some things out as well. Maybe we’ll work up to it, being friends and all. Maybe one day, we’ll trust each other enough to share. If that’s alright with you?”

-- I won’t say where this fic is posted. If it were up to me, it’d be taken down. But since I lost the login information, this Harry Potter oneshot, regrettably, won’t disappear anytime soon. The worlds created by storytellers are vast. The characters—shaped and molded, pulled from books, TV shows, comics, and everything in between—are rich. Fanfiction writers recognize this; they see limitless potential. As COVID-19 creates new complications, and quarantine heightens preexisting systemic obstacles, I’m reminded of fanfiction’s promise: All good things must come to an end, but a story's potential is everlasting. The sun dances and sleeps; you either wait for dawn, or guide its luster to sunset.

Before I end, I have a small confession: I took a break from writing this piece to read Haikyu!! college AU fanfiction—at three in the morning. It wasn't planned, but yearning is hardly ever sought. The final chapter of the Haikyu!! manga series came out back in mid-July. The characters I’ve grown to love said their goodbyes, and I’ve been scrolling though AO3, compensating for lost time, ever since.

--The silence was back, but strangely enough, they didn’t mind. They were fine with the cluster of tangled thoughts between them. Harry and Draco believed they’d eventually come to trust one another. No matter how long it took, they both made a silent vow to be there.

Tom and Olive quarantine, cats, and contemplation

By Chloe Chen Illustrated by Seabass Immonen Just so we’re clear, you should know that I’m a fullfledged, unapologetic, crazy cat lady. My cat-themed notebook, pins, stickers, and posters can all attest to this—and, of course, my unabashedly outspoken love for my two cats, Tom and Olive. When people visit my house, we introduce Tom and Olive as family. They are a dynamic duo, rambunctious, and always up to shenanigans. They’re known at home for being a pair of lovable rascals—notorious for stealing salmon off the dinner table, clawing up cushions, or rolling around into wacky contortions while high on catnip. My cats have become local celebrities among my high school friends; there isn’t a day that goes by without me texting everyone a silly cat pic. During quarantine, however, I’ve found myself getting acquainted with another side of Tom and Olive. They’ve become so much more than the mischievous scamps and little poop-machines that I have to pick up after. They’ve lended a helping paw in my growth as an individual and in shaping my perspective on our fast-paced, ever-changing human world.

-Each morning, I wake up to find Tom curled up at the foot of my bed. When he’s all balled up like that, he’s barely distinguishable from the knitted sweaters strewn around my room, but I can tell it’s him from the soft, low rumble of contented purrs. Other mornings, he’s not there. Instead, he’ll be in the linen closet, tucked away between the bath towels, or perhaps by the front door, asleep on the fuzzy welcome mat. To him, the whole house is his bed. When the pandemic started, I spent

ARTS & CULTURE most of my days hunched over my computer at my desk, and Tom designated my lap as his new snoozing station.

Meanwhile, I became an involuntary participant in the world’s newest phenomenon: doomscrolling. I was constantly drowning in a deluge of bad news, complicit in my own spiralling, refreshing websites every five minutes, helplessness and despondency washing over me in waves. To be human is to worry, and I was not immune. I watched the pandemic through my computer screen, obsessively memorizing daily case counts and hospitalization rates. It was mentally exhausting, being so invested in something I had absolutely no control over. My sheer powerlessness overwhelmed me.

Yet, in my lap, Tom lay snuggled up and purring, a bundle of pure, unbridled joy. Unencumbered.

Breathe.

The physical touch of a cat in your arms—it’s grounding. A momentary escape. A retreat into comfort.

Breathe.

I plant my face into Tom’s tummy, feel the soft fur on my skin. Let the moments drift by.

Breathe.

There’s something to be learned here: this embrace of comfort and happiness, at a time when anxiety and worry have become second nature. During quarantine, I was burdened with guilt each day that I didn’t watch the daily COVID-19 briefing. After all, isn’t it my responsibility to stay informed? To do my research, to be alert, to be absolutely, one-hundred-percent on top of things? The constant clamor of human life has taught us that stress is innate, and that there’s shame in taking a step back. When I get caught up in the whirlwind of human anxiety, Tom is there. His gentle purrs pull me away from the computer screen. The physical sensation, as I comb my fingers through his fur, coaxes me to be fully present in the moment. A reminder to find comfort in the unknown, to take the time to snuggle up and relax, to breathe.

-Olive, on the other hand, can cause quite a ruckus.

She doesn’t shut up until she gets what she wants—a real go-getter. I’m a soft-spoken person, and Olive possesses a sense of self-assurance that I could only dream of.

When the pandemic began, many of us were forced to be passive. The best we could do to help humanity was to stay inside, binge-watch some TV shows, learn to bake bread. But when the end of May rolled around, things changed. With the murder of George Floyd, passivity was no longer a choice. Millions took to the streets in search of justice for Black lives. Others took to social media platforms to inform and educate. I sat and watched their rallying cry unfold online.

But beside me, Olive mews incessantly. She’s a force that can’t be ignored. I get up and I feed her.

I can’t help but feel a sense of urgency when Olive cries at me. She implores with a fiery passion. There’s something I admire in her ability to assert herself, and when I return to my phone, I am moved. Advocate, speak up. I sign petitions, volunteer, inform others, have uncomfortable conversations with relatives. And I urge others: do not shut up. Sometimes it’s necessary to get riled up. We need to scream at the top of our lungs, protest with fervor. Let’s seek our due justice as humankind—and cause a hell of a ruckus until it’s delivered.

-I’ve spent almost every day with Tom and Olive for months on end now, passing each mundane moment with a cat curled up in my lap or by my side. Every day, I find a renewed love for the brilliant, unique animals they are and the lessons they teach me. Sometimes it’s a lesson on caution: as I watch Olive calculate the jumping distance from the couch to the coffee table, I notice her care and precision, a stark difference from the reckless human world. Other times, it’s a lesson on patience, as I observe Tom chasing an elusive fly for hours, in contrast to my eagerness for the next new thing, and my evershortening attention span.

Their playful, thoughtful, nurturing spirit enraptures me. They’re simple and uncomplicated, fueled by their instincts, and yet they offer a unique outlook on life itself.

It’s captivating to watch a cat go about their day.

Olive likes to stare intently at moths, taking in their every detail—the webbing of veins in the wings, the flickering antennae. She sometimes likes to sit by our windows, watching the sun’s glow disappear into the expansive forest behind our house, vigilant for the evening’s squirrels and owls. Tom spends time investigating our shoes by the front door. He sniffs the shoelaces and heels, then sticks his face inside to check out the soles.

I watch them find joy in simplicity, and explore the world with an intense, insatiable curiosity.

It’s so rare now that I have the time to let myself be overcome by the beauty and intricacies of life. We’re so often caught up with the complications of human society. Politics, projects, and pandemics demand our attention. It’s nonstop commotion.

I’ve emerged out of quarantine with a renewed sense of curiosity and appreciation for life. I take a deep breath of the fresh, morning air. I seek creature comforts. I speak up for myself.

And I come home every night to my two fur babies, and proudly claim my title as a crazy cat lady.

Let's All "Rock the Side Pony"

celebrating and grieving rbg through lake street dive

By Marin Warshay Illustrated by Will Nussbaum RBG. I have been torn up for the past week trying to figure out what to say. Who am I to write about her? Why do I get to process this publicly and put my thoughts about her to paper? I was, and still am, afraid that what I have written will minimize who she was, is, and will continue to be. But I figured that saying nothing at all would be worse.

At a loss for how to move forward, I looked to creativity to help motivate myself and ease my mind.

In periods of loneliness and hopelessness—which has comprised a large portion of this year—music always helps me spark thoughts.

I started to listen to Lake Street Dive consistently last year. When I discovered that one of my friends shared my love for the band, laying on the floor of our dorms late at night and enjoying the peaceful sounds together, I realized how music can form a strong bond between people. This connection made me more interested in Lake Street Dive and more intentional about finding music that spoke to me. Scrolling through their albums the week after RBG’s death, their lyrics particularly empowered me during this time of struggle and emotional conflict. Each emotion that I felt had a Lake Street Dive song to describe it. Hate or compassion, fear or comfort, resentment or gratitude, their songs helped me move from a state of disbelief to a place of peace and drive.

Stage 1: Shock—Hello? Goodbye!

I was sitting at the table on FaceTime with my sister, when she screamed suddenly—it sounded like she was crying. My mind scrambled, thinking of all the possible things that could have happened.

“Ruth Bader Ginsburg just died.”

After making her repeat herself, I echoed her scream. I could not believe it. I googled it for myself because something so horrendous did not compute.

It seemed that through everything going on, I could at least bank on Justice Ginsburg’s strength. The playful panic about the possibility of her dying always seemed like a joke. It felt similar to the humor in the song title Hello? Goodbye!: A hopeful “Hello?” juxtaposed with the painful permanency that the “Goodbye!” entails.

I was unable to take in what I was hearing—my mind clawed onto the possibility that RBG wasn't dead.

“Hello?” was all I could say. I wasn’t ready for the Goodbye.

Stage 2: What the Hell—Baby Don’t Leave Me Alone WIth My Thoughts “Hard times...

When I really need somebody to hold me tight And tell me I'm strong …

Baby, don't leave me alone with my thoughts …

And I'm just tryin' to keep it together” RBG never hesitated to fight for women’s rights. It was just straightforward for her. This song allowed me to examine my, and the nation’s, selfishness against her selflessness. Talking to my family about what this meant for us, feeling anger about why this had to happen to us, us, us, us. I worried about who would fight for me.

Seeing her courage and fortitude had inspired me and I was suddenly scared that my standing in society would somehow regress.

This song sums up the times—hard, lonely, October 02, 2020 5

ARTS&CULTURE

Cybernetic Serendipity art in a time of panic

By Zach Braner ILLUSTRATED BY sable bellew Escapism demands more of me these days. It used to be enough to open Netflix. There’d be some

and fragmented. “Don’t Leave Me Alone With My Thoughts” is a cry for help. RBG was a pillar of strength for many and her passing felt like an abandonment. My mind was swirling with thoughts like “You’re leaving us behind?” and “Now who the hell is going to save us?”

But I was no longer paying attention to the person I was mourning, only my own fate. Finally, from an internal fog, I brought myself into focus. I realized how much people take from icons like Justice Ginsburg. Her dedication to achieving human rights was stocked with enemies and opposition. I wonder whether she felt she had a decision to take this path in life or if she felt a sense of obligation. I knew I needed to leave this stage of grief, turn my eyes and heart outwards, and celebrate the person she was. While it feels like she is leaving us alone, her presence permanently left a platform for people to launch from into a greater future.

Stage 3: Time to Let Go—You Are Free Justice Ginsburg’s demeanor was one of the most striking things about her. In briefings, interviews, and aged pictures from her time in law school, there is such kindness and understanding in the way she went about her work. From being told that she took a man’s spot in her class at Harvard Law School, to receiving a lower salary than her male counterparts during her early years at law firms, Justice Ginsburg took the route of calm fierceness. She tried to spread her openness and optimism to each person she encountered.

That’s what I admired most about her. Her entire life was dedicated to her service. There are endless stories: Refusing to come home without finishing her work, her mentorship to numerous clerks. Her legacy has grown and grown, yet never went to her head. It motivated her to work even harder. Movements for women’s rights, equal marriage, and civil rights will forever be indebted to her consistent support. This song, to me, symbolizes her release from some of the weights that she bore.

“You Are Free…

You don't need a team of lawyers looking for evidence You don't need a piece of paper trying to prove your intent ...

You don't need to look back ...

You don't need your heart running at a hundred percent… ...You Are Free” She showed up, she did the work, and she stuck around. While painful, her time with us came to an end and it is time to “set her free,” as Lake Street Dive says. It is time to accept this, take what she left us with, and run with it—stop discriminating on the basis of identity, create equitable opportunities for all, and question existing systems. RBG’s death is a reminder that it is never too late to try and that the time is now.

Let’s not let our grief waste her golden gifts. Especially now, it is difficult to move past anger, resentment, 6 post–

and confusion. But in honor of Justice Ginsburg, it is time to set her free from her obligations and hold ourselves accountable to be the successors she hoped to leave behind—a community centered around gender equality, religious freedom, the continuation of DACA, and overall unity. Embrace her legacy and prove her work to change the world forever.

Stage 4: ...Or Hold on Tight—Side Pony It is heart-breaking. It is mind-boggling. It is gutwrenching. We are allowed to grieve and I believe that it is important to lean into those dismal feelings. But what’s next? How can we continue to mobilize and prove we are the people that Justice Ginsburg felt were worth fighting for? How can we prolong Justice Ginsburg’s work and tenacity?

Lake Street Dive’s Side Pony encourages all the ways in which people practice self-expression, love, and positivity.

“Against everything square and unsightly Yes I know I look good, so don't fight me All I need is a clip or scrunchie And then I'm ready Because I rock a side pony Baby, I'm just living my life Because I rock a side pony ...

Who doesn't love a side pony?“ RBG’s iconic neck collars demonstrated her daring to be different. Each collar represented her feelings about her work on that particular day, and conveyed her quiet persistence and grit amongst her coworkers (her metallic, prickly collar for when a certain justice first sat on the court). The justice robes were designed for men to show their shirt collars, so she wanted to add her own flair, accentuating her boldness to sit on the court as a woman and stray from tradition.

In the spirit of Lake Street Dive, RBG was the queen of rocking the side pony. She knew her individualism was powerful, she knew how big of a statement it was, that her wardrobe wasn’t just cloth.

She dared to stand out.

As a woman who has directly benefited from Justice Ginsburg’s work, I hope to take on some of her confidence. She was unapologetically herself, rocking the spirit of the side pony, and flipping it in front of the faces of anyone that stood in her way. Because of that, I will dare to strut forward with the notion that persistence is key and that any step forward, no matter how small, holds power.

Thank you, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I could never do justice to you, who has delivered justice to so many. In the words of Lake Street Dive, for the last time: “None will fill the space that you have left behind.” My hair is up, ready to flip. Just let me know who to aim for, RBG.

decades-old program with just enough of a nostalgic ember burning for me to huddle around, warming me into gentle numbness. But the world has changed, my mind’s a bit jumpier, and I take my escapes as they come. That means endlessly wandering the internet as I do classwork, waiting for a fateful surprise—waiting for cybernetic serendipity.

That’s a phrase I encountered halfway down a Wikipedia rabbit hole. I was ostensibly there for some class-related research, but of course the inner mind knows better—Internet, take me away. Seeing the phrase cybernetic serendipity, then, was a bit like seeing your deepest subconscious desire printed on a billboard over the freeway. Wikipedia had gifted me a blue hyperlink that promised the exact thing I didn’t know I was looking for. The phrase “cybernetic serendipity” is not vivid; it’s got enough syllables to refer to just about anything (except our present moment—whatever cybernetic serendipity is, this is not it). Perfect—I closed all my other tabs and clicked through.

Things started off well. In 1965, a curator in London named Jasia Reichardt noticed that the ongoing revolution in computer technology had created a new frontier for art. She began reaching out to artists and engineers who were experimenting with recent innovations, and over the course of the next three years prepared an incredibly ambitious exhibition. She called it Cybernetic Serendipity, for the unique artistic results generated by processes of information flow—in other words, art created without human “genius.” The first section featured algorithmically generated images, films, music, and poetry. In most cases they were hardly recognizable as belonging to their purported medium, but that wasn’t the point: “Cybernetic Serendipity deals with possibilities rather than achievements, and in this sense it is prematurely optimistic,” Reichardt wrote.

She dispensed with the rigid conventions of gallery art.

The contributions of historic artists like John Cage and Frieder Nake appeared alongside those of enterprising but unknown technicians from industrial engineering firms, who had manufactured intricate drawing machines and safety animations. The second section revolved around cybernetic devices: works which in some way responded to external stimuli. In this section were some of the earliest robotic sculptures: For instance, Edward Ihnatowicz’s Terminatorlooking flower stalk that bent toward sound, or WenYing Tsai’s entrancing matrix of steel spindles, each of which vibrated at various frequencies in response to light. The last section was a historical overview of computing, replete with an informal theater at the gallery’s rear for the display of relevant documentaries.

In September of 1968, Reichardt’s show opened at the Institute of Contemporary Art in London, where for a stretch of two months it drew crowds rarely seen in such a rarefied community.

I had struck gold. Cybernetic Serendipity was fascinating without a whiff of evil. The exuberant spirit of these early pioneers filled me with a wonder that was safe from reality. Anything I could learn about these techno-artists working in an antediluvian technological era would be charming—and by the looks of it, the vein was rich and deep. Before long I assembled all the materials I could find online about Cybernetic Serendipity—videos of the exhibit, the accompanying

ARTS&CULTURE book, the album of cybernetic music, and a series of scholarly articles. It was enough to last for hours, and I couldn’t be accused of rotting my brain.

Here’s where the present starts to leak in.

1968 was a big year. Fifty years later, Smithsonian magazine labelled it “The Year that Shattered America.” Their timeline lists the pertinent events: On April 6, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated.

The country had already been experiencing growing waves of mass protest and rioting over violence against African Americans—after King’s death they became outright tsunamis. A month later, Robert Kennedy won the California primary and was well on his way to securing the Democratic nomination when he was shot. His campaign had seemed to promise the return of that youthful optimism associated with his older brother’s “New Frontier.” Now both brothers were dead, and the DNC in Chicago devolved into a chaotic nightmare that fueled Nixon’s victory. Meanwhile, the number of Americans in Vietnam ballooned to over half a million, despite President Lyndon B. Johnson’s assurance that the war was at an end. The Tet Offensive dispatched this lie; Americans watched their television sets, horrified by looping footage of North Vietnamese troops in the streets of Saigon, bullet holes in the US embassy. Student anti-war protesters became the emblem of a national political discourse converging on irreconcilable differences.

It was a year of intense national crisis, anger, and loss with unpleasant parallels to our present: the needless deaths in the tens of thousands, the outpouring of grief and rage over racist violence, and the highly charged election bringing the country to the brink. It doesn’t help to learn that the term ‘silent majority’ first entered the American lexicon in the aftermath of Nixon’s narrow victory that November.

Recalling all of this places Cybernetic Serendipity, my enchanting retreat from current events, in a harsh new light. It’s not a pleasant one, but I’m too invested to back away. Art in the 1960s, as today, was often overtly political: Most leading artists felt a responsibility to challenge prevailing norms and institutions in response to the traumas of their era, and the perception of art as a tool of resistance became widespread, especially among young people. At the same time, computer technology was still in its commercial infancy. The weary ambivalence with which most of us regard “technology” in the age of Facebook, Amazon, and Apple had no place in this era, before the microprocessor and the Internet transformed society.

The role digital technology could play in creating a just future was a fresh and open question.

Cybernetic Serendipity uniquely positioned itself to address this question––even to offer a radical speculative answer, by revealing the possible uses of technology as a weapon of agitprop, a powerful tool of resistance. The term “cybernetics” in fact comes from

theorist Norbert Wiener, who saw information and messaging as the basic mechanism of control in society, as it is in machines. The intellectual framework for a thoroughgoing look at technology in the arts was in place. What did Cybernetic Serendipity have to say?

Basically, nothing. The exhibit never explicitly addressed any of these themes. Partly this can be explained by the fact that it first debuted in London (though it travelled to Washington D.C. and then San Francisco immediately afterwards). Part of this can be attributed to the diverse group of participating artists, many of whom were from outside the US, or were simply fascinated with technology for its own sake. But there’s probably also the fact that Bell Labs and Boeing, among other large corporations, were significant sponsors of the event. Their engineers and scientists contributed a number of devices to the exhibit, including scale models for a history of computer technology that ignored the military and Cold War motivations behind these advancements.

The exhibition earned enthusiastic reviews from the press; they recommended an afternoon of entertaining delights to anyone interested, especially young children. In art journals, however, reviewers questioned whether the exhibit even qualified as art. It seemed designed to present an endearing technological wonderland to an audience eager to believe all was moving in the right direction. The pervasive issues they sought to forget are still with us in 2020, once more at the center of a national crisis. Cybernetic Serendipity gave way to the same impulse that led me to pursue Cybernetic Serendipity—a certain tacit agreeableness

“My new white Adidas got muddy. I didn’t get any of the free food. I ended up helping a drunk first-year I didn’t know walk home.

The game wasn’t what I had expected, but it was, oddly, something that I enjoyed.”

—Colleen Cronin, “Football and Feelings Abroad,” 9.27.19

“Somebody must know somebody with a car. Or I can drive you in my hot new sports car: —Pia Mileaf-Patel, “That Chengdu Feeling,” 9.28.18

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Amanda Ngo a FEATURE Managing Editor Liza Edwards-Levin Section Editors Alice Bai Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Olivia Howe Section Editors Maddy McGrath Emma Schneider

with unreality. The realization brings my joyride to an end, and a familiar sense of shame returns. *** After the fact, scholars appear to regard the exhibition as important for the development of media art, but also as an innocuous endorsement of naive techno-utopian progress that aligned with the economic and political interests of its backers. Not everything on display at Cybernetic Serendipity, however, conformed to this narrative. Nam June Paik, a renowned pioneer of video art, made television sets his medium. His contribution consists of cathode-ray televisions to which he affixed magnets, causing the broadcast image to swirl, dissolve, or swim about on the screen as though through a psychedelic filter. On one set there appears to be a news broadcast, visible only in glimpses between the contortions of the changing magnetic field. The effect is remarkable. Another composition, titled “Video Tape Study No. 3,” plays reverberating audio from a number of politicians over tortured footage of the press events. In its most haunting moment, President Johnson responds to the question of whether he believes race is an incurable problem in America. He affirms the necessity of tackling so-called incurable problems and embraces the Sisyphean role of political change. But his face is utterly detached from the words, and its scarred image freezes and jumps about the frame like a specter. Finally, when the audio itself begins to char and repeat, Johnson’s eyes disappear for a few seconds, leaving glaring white cavities that beam out at the viewer and then subside. It’s painful to watch, but it’s utterly inescapable.

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

Want to be involved?

Email: amanda_ngo@brown.edu!

COPY CHIEF Mohima Sattar

HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Gaby Treviño

Copy Editors Laura David Kyoko Leaman Aditi Marshan Eleanor Peters

LAYOUT CHIEF Joanne Han

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

WEB MASTER Amy Pu

Editors Julia Gubner Kyra Haddad Jolie Rolnick Chloe Zhao

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STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Eashan Das Danielle Emerson Jordan Hartzell Nicole Kim Gus Kmetz Victoria Yin

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