post- 11/6/2020

In This Issue

Olivia Howe 2

Staying In, Coming Out

Ellie Jurmann 4

The Difficulty of Cultivating Good Taste in Music Danielle Emerson 5

The Cupboard of Memories Emma Schneider 6

Plansch Nicole Kim 6

Tea, Coffee, and the Dying Day

postCover by Iris Xie

NOV 6

VOL 26

— ISSUE 8

FEATURE

Staying In, Coming Out exploring sexuality in quarantine through tiktok

By Olivia Howe Illustrated by Chloe Chen

I

don’t think I had a single conversation with a friend during quarantine where I didn’t mention TikTok. And if I didn’t, TikTok was always perched somewhere at the front of my mind. This wasn’t simply because the app is addictive—anyone can tell you how they planned to watch just a few thirty-second videos only to look up from their phone three hours later—but because of the startling spark that flickered within me as I watched.

Specifically, the group of people that TikTok’s algorithm had instantly learned to show me: young gay women.

Through a screen the size of two tea packets, I was entranced by their swaggering dances, eyebrow slits, hoodie fashion—but most of all, their open pursuit of women. TikTok was the opposite of the closet. It was the place where gay girls unleashed thirst traps of chin stroking and body rolls, where they riffed on homophobic parents by dressing as “my daughter’s friend from cheer” and encapsulated the thrills and burns of liking girls through moody lip-syncs.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I often pretend that I’m not sentimental, but I’ve been starting to keep track of the things I love. At home, I love the shocking chill of the floors when I first get up in the morning, my mom’s weird sing-songy sighs the moment she enters the house after work, the mushrooms forever growing around the stump where my childhood treehouse once stood. At Brown, I love surprise FaceTime calls from my younger sister, ordering takeout with a friend on rainy nights, walks to India Point that can turn strangers into friends and, sometimes, something more.

Going through these tiny bulbs of joy has helped me get through particularly hard times. And, readers, it’s been a damn stressful week for many of us. I’m thinking of you, I’m thinking of the Providence community, I’m thinking of my loved ones from home and all over the world, and I am hoping we can find solace soon. No matter what, I’m grateful that most of the things I love will likely remain unstirred by what happens in the next few weeks. I know that’s not true for everyone—for some, the outcomes of this election and the assumption that everything will be taken care of if we just vote are a

flagrant insult to all they have had to weather through regardless of who has been in power. And I’m thinking of them the most.

In a stark contrast to the severity of our past few months, this week our writers turn to all sorts of media to reflect and reminisce. In Feature, a writer sees an increasing trend in people who are coming out during quarantine, especially on TikTok. In Narrative, a writer walks us through playlist curation and individuality, and another writer remembers her grandparents and childhood through VHS tapes. And in Arts & Culture, one writer explores her relationship with German and Austria through the band Bilderbuch, and the other reflects on immigration and belonging with The Namesake.

As comforting as it could be, it’s not enough to hold onto everything we love, not when the communities around all of us are still at stake. I hope you can find the space to think about where we go from here, but also take the time to heal and care for yourself after such a brutal week. We all have people, places, and moments that we love—it only makes sense that we each play a hand in protecting these things for everyone, too.

Take Care,

Amanda Ngo Editor-in-Chief

2 post–

Always visible under their bravado was a selfmocking element, a wink to the viewer that these expressions of gayness were a little bit of a costume, a way to figure out who they actually wanted to be.

With that wink, I felt launched out of the comfortable blandness of self-denial and into an alternate universe of rainbow fairy lights and Carhartt beanies.

I had been seriously questioning my sexuality since fall 2019, but that was only dipping my toes in the shallows. Going on TikTok during quarantine

Deadline Extension Requests 1. Off meal plan, ate my homework 2. I’m trying my best, can I please just catch a break?

3. My previous deadline extension conflicts with this deadline 4. Striking against college (electoral and otherwise) 5. My wrists hurt too much to type 6. Manifesting a post-work society 7. *an actual, articulate, well-reasoned request for an extension* 8. Internet troubles (wherein I accidentally turned on airplane mode and couldn’t figure out how to disable it) 9. I need one because of who I am as a person 10. Stupefied by the SNOW in OCTOBER

FEATURE was standing under the waterfall. I was showered with trends of gay women laughing over their past insistence that they were straight—with the pictures to prove it. My brain began pinging me with moments from my own teenage years, subtle gay awakenings I had constantly muffled. I played TikTok videos of selfacceptance over and over, mimicking the confident head nods and sly grins. Later, I’d catch myself slipping these mannerisms into conversation or, more often, into daydreams of my post-quarantine return to campus. I imagined myself dice-rolling and throwing it back on my walk between classes and, naturally, impressing the girls I used to only stare at from afar.

What a simp.

These mannerisms changed me in a way that wasn’t imaginary; by embodying them, I finally understood what it meant to take up space. I had always wanted to hold myself assertively—chin tilted up, hands in pockets, wide-leg stance—but associated it with maleness and worried I’d be ridiculed for trying.

My TikTok lesbians, with their khakis and undercuts, allowed me to recognize the grace in posturing, the beauty in cockiness.

But the more I related to (and crushed on) the Lesbian TikTok cohort, and the more I radiated my own gay TikTok energy, the more my suppressed memories and feelings crackled against the walls of my mind. In isolation, away from friends and meetings and distractions, I was helpless against these thoughts and where they led me, which was: You are gay, Olivia.

Go, say it in the mirror, bet you won’t. You. Are. Gay.

By the end of April, it was a joke: When I discreetly hit the whoa on our daily walk, they would sigh, “TikTok.” If I laughed at my phone, they’d roll their eyes: “TikTok.” What they couldn’t see under the teasing was the confusion that boiled in my chest, bursting hot fear all while we read books and rode bikes and cooked dinner together. Finally, as we drank in the starry air one evening on our porch, I made myself stammer out, “You know how I watch a lot of TikTok? Well, I actually only watch ones by gay girls.” My parents nodded, and the rest of my thoughts evaporated on my tongue. Did I really think I was such a big deal? But my new self-knowledge hammered on my lungs, so I added, “Uh, I like that, because it’s helpful—I mean, it’s made me see that I’m…like them.” And that was as far as I could get.

It was enough. This summer, my parents and I shifted our language. I could point out a pretty actress in a movie; I could finally open up about the something-mores in my past who my parents had thought were just friends. My mom would nudge me when we saw a cute girl in the grocery store, and in the last weeks before the start of school, my dad helped me craft a shoot-your-shot text.

Returning to Brown during the pandemic wasn’t quite the real-life thirst trap I’d imagined, but as I sauntered around on move-in day in my buttondown and snapback, with my parents smirking fondly at my sides, I knew that I had come out into something good, someone complete. ***

My TikTok lesbians, with their khakis and undercuts, allowed me to recognize the grace in posturing, the beauty in cockiness.

For the first three months of quarantine, this realization led to a daily shoving match in my head: “You knew you were gay when you were eleven and fell in love at camp.” “Okay, why have you never had a girlfriend then? See, can’t be gay.”

Then I would open my phone to another willthey-won’t-they-kiss video between two of Lesbian TikTok’s stars, and I knew exactly what I wanted. *** Coming out didn’t have to be scary, but I made it scary. I’m fortunate to have a family who makes me feel safe in my identity, but my self-denial trampled every effort to actually get the words out. Since before quarantine, many LGBTQ+ teens used TikTok songs like Jason Derulo’s “Get Ugly” to come out to friends and family, reducing the pressure of a formal announcement. I didn’t see this tactic working with my tech-averse parents, but as quarantine wore on, I increasingly worked TikTok into our daily conversations (and may also have aggressively practiced the “Savage” dance in our kitchen).

I quickly discovered I was far from alone in my quarantine-induced epic gay transformation.

Most of my female friends had spent their fair share of time on Lesbian TikTok, and many had also realized their lack of attraction to men. Talking about this phenomenon the other day, my friend said she realized she was gay within a few months of quarantine, something she thinks could have taken her years otherwise. According to Chicago Tribune sex columnist Anna Pulley, quarantine has given many of us a rare opportunity to “sit—sometimes uncomfortably—with ourselves ... and such openness can lead to surprising places.” Pulley’s observation echoes my own experience, having only gradually accepted my attraction to girls since first being smacked by the realization at age eleven. In quarantine, I was unprepared for the suddenness of realizing who I am actually attracted to.

Other LGBTQ+ people have found freedom in self-isolation to live their authentic sexuality and gender identities. Writer Sam MacKinnon describes how quarantine has “given me time to wear the

clothes that I want and put on makeup…just do my thing, without worrying about social expectations.

Because I’m not going out into the community, I’m not worried about how my work would react or how my parents would react.” I too used quarantine to experiment with style, trying on the classic “baby gay” look (impulse tattoos and doubled flannels, anyone?) to eventually find an equilibrium of something distinctly new but still me.

Quarantine’s state of apocalyptic timelessness, not to mention loneliness, has led some people to spend more of their time pursuing desire. TikTok serves this quest by providing ubiquitous thirst traps—suggestive videos that users often watch multiple times, boosting the poster’s account. But young LGBTQ+ people have also congregated on TikTok looking for a reprieve from unaccepting quarantine environments, a place to ask other young gay people questions about sexuality and express desires that are still treated as abnormal.

Though most of my high school and college friends now identify as LGBTQ+, I had never experienced queer community before TikTok. In less than 60-second videos, users candidly relate experiences from being disowned to having sex, stories that young gay people don’t often or easily get to share. Instead of serious monologues, these intimate moments are usually framed by colorful speech bubbles and song lyrics. With TikTok’s casual format, the discomfort I might have discussing these topics in real life fades. In its place, I find myself cackling—or feeling like I’ve just gotten a hug.

While the TikTok algorithm poses concerns for data privacy, it helpfully distills content to the user’s interests. Since my first minutes using the app, I’ve found myself embraced into gay TikTok and shielded from the usual barrage of straight content that dominates popular media.

According to one of my gay friends, part of what makes this representation so important is that it differs from lesbian representation on TV—which is known for queerbaiting or killing off lesbian characters, many of whom are much older than us. On TikTok, my friend said, we can see lesbians who are in high school and college, in happy relationships, who aren’t flirting with women for the male gaze. These young gay women share our daydreams (picking up a girl with the “Let’s Link” dance), concerns (Amy Coney-Barrett’s appointment), struggles (finding other gays), and humor (lesbians can’t sit in chairs normally).

This summer, floating dizzily on the quarantine sea, I would set aside TikTok time before going to sleep. The cascading videos of queer jokes, smooth dances, and sweet couples sent waves of happiness rippling over me. Thousands of miles from my heroines, and only a vague number on their screens, I felt myself somewhere out there in a big gay ether next to them, laughing as we tried once again to get our moves right.

“It was the worst experience of my lived experience.”

“Zoom says my internet connection is unstable. And I’m like, my entire existence is unstable.”

November 6, 2020 3

NARRATIVE

The Difficulty of Cultivating Good Taste in Music

how my hectically eclectic playlists echo the essence of my personality— and why that’s so frustrating

by Ellie Jurmann Illustrated by Jeffrey Tao I’m not typically one for envy, but oh, how I wish I had a knack for curating Spotify playlists: from the kinds that make you whip your hair back and forth as you fold laundry to those that assure you every little thing is going to be alright as you sulk in bed after a breakup. When I get ready to walk my dog each morning, I struggle to choose the music that will kickstart my day. I balance Billie Eilish with Florida Georgia Line, Adele with Usher, Celine Dion with Beastie Boys. Though, by “balance,” I really mean juxtaposing polar opposite genres to diversify my musical palette… What can I say? I really like variety. But the truth is that there isn’t a whole lot of variety in my playlists— it’s always the same formulaic blend of pop with country, pop with R&B, pop with alternative rock.

And while I wish I could branch out musically, I always find my way back to the sweet sound of Usher’s “DJ Got Us Fallin’ In Love.”

A few months ago, it dawned on me that it’s not the genre I care about when it comes to music—it’s the feeling that matters most. Having been stuck in quarantine for the bulk of this past year, music has become as crucial to my sanity as oxygen to my lungs. More than ever before, I was desperate to have my iPhone stuck on replay, to have the songs I knew like the back of my hand become the soundtrack to this chapter of my life. In an age of a novel virus, with global warming and political division reaching new heights, I wasn’t sure we would ever return to the reality we once knew. I felt like the world was a blind man walking along a tightrope between two cliffs, without a safety net below him. I yearned for stability—something familiar to sing along to that would transport me to a simpler time. Sure, “Call Me Maybe” by Carly 4 post–

Rae Jepsen may have been ridiculously overplayed when it was at its prime; maybe I wouldn’t think it was that great of a song if it had been released today. But nothing is better than the feeling of turning the music up high, tuning the rest of the world out, (even if only for three-ish minutes) and letting the music take me back to 2012, when the idea that the world was ending was still merely a conspiracy theory.

I often turn to my friends for help in alleviating the boredom and frustration I feel with my own Spotify picks. One close friend tells me all about the latest obscure rock bands he’s discovered and been obsessed with, from Rise Against to Five Finger Death Punch. Just within the last week, he’s listened to five new albums and mastered 10 new songs on the guitar. And what have I done, in comparison? Had the same Katy Perry album on repeat since 2010. I occasionally incorporate a song or two from an “indie” artist—a bold and brazen act for me—courtesy of my friend and his encyclopedic knowledge of rock music. Still, I wish I knew how to cultivate a music taste that’s entirely my own. Instead, the only place I know to venture is within my confusing, complicated, hypercritical brain as I deprecate my milquetoast music habits.

My “top hits” playlists of various genres and decades may drive me mad, but I somehow can’t seem to change my playlist-making ways. Maybe part of me doesn’t want to change. If I did, long gone would be the days of catching grenades with Bruno Mars and flying starships with Nicki Minaj. I’m desperate to define my music taste, even as I proceed to call it unoriginal, unrefined, and all-around chaotic. Still, whenever I open Spotify, I find myself helplessly gravitating toward these mixes. Music, just like the rest of my interests, is something that should bring me joy, and I’ve already wasted too much time feeling guilty about my tendency to listen to disorderly collections of popular songs—songs that, in all honesty, are some of the biggest bops of all time.

More than ever before, I was desperate to have my iPhone stuck on replay, to have the songs I knew like the back of my hand become the soundtrack to this chapter of my life.

Still, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me that I can’t venture outside my typical, yet random music taste. I can never create playlists that stick to a single genre; whenever I try to do so, I end up with my usual blend (mainly consisting of songs played at middle school dances). My taste in music is nothing short of basic—eclectic, yes, but not artfully so. It’s pretty much a carbon copy of me.

Just like my playlists, I can be a bit all over the place. I’m aware of the fact that I’m no master of any particular area of study: I’m a STEM nerd who loves to write, a philosophical thinker who loves doing math, and anything (and almost everything) in between.

Yet my appreciation for all genres of music reflects my greatest worry: What if, due to the sheer breadth of my interests, I’m unable to delve deeply into anything and thus succumb to mediocrity?

Usually, such a question prompts my friends to tell me that I’m worrying about nothing, that my incessant contemplation about whether or not I’m capable of delving deep into things already proves that I’m very much capable of doing so. Still, I can’t help but wonder if I’m stuck in a reality where I’ll never be the freethinking individualist that I claim to be, the one who “belongs” at Brown. And maybe my eclecticism is only superficial. I wear bright yellow rain boots, neon green Crocs, and hot pink sunglasses; anyone who knows me would vouch for this. But beyond these accessories, what truly sets me apart? If only I knew the answer.

I’ve always felt pressured to choose one genre of music, one area of study, and become an expert in it; this strict categorization has characterized my entire life. But I’ve never been one to box myself into any single set of interests, so there’s no reason for me to begin defining and limiting them now. I can claim my favorite type of music to be anything and everything that makes me want to scream and shout and let it all out with my friends in the car, while walking my dog, or wherever I am and whomever I’m with. And getting bored with my own music taste from time to time certainly doesn't make me boring. I do tend to judge myself for doing or liking anything that conforms to the status quo, let alone trending hits. But, hey, a catchy song is a catchy song, no matter who wrote it or exactly how many enjoy it. As someone who strives to be an individualist, my interests shouldn’t be contrary to what’s popular, but independent of such a notion. It’s silly for me to even think that I can’t be this individualist or belong at Brown for liking something mainstream; it’s inevitable that I’ll like a popular song if I listen to music on the radio often enough. No, I don’t think that my playlists are anything to write home about. But they’re mine, and that makes them special. They’re what I want to listen to when I start, go about, and end my days.

And maybe I should continue to expand my music repertoire—but in the meantime, I’ll keep doing my own thing, because if anyone should be marching to the beat of her own drum, it will be me.

NARRATIVE

The Cupboard of Memories (v)olumes, (h)indsight, (s)entimentality

By Danielle Emerson Illustrated by Gaby Treviño In the middle of the night, while staring at my dorm room ceiling, I suddenly remembered Digimon.

And no—before you ask—I don’t consider it a Pokémon knock-off. Though, like Pokémon, it does hold nostalgic value. Back in elementary school, my grandmother had an old TV and VHS set. She kept all of her VHSes in a small, unassuming cupboard: Its hinges creaked and dust coated the shelves, no matter how many times we cleaned it. There were eight VHSes in that cupboard: It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, A Charlie Brown Christmas, The Prince of Egypt, Cinderella, Pokémon: Poké-Friends (Vol. 4), Digimon Vol. 1, Toy Story, and 101 Dalmatians. My grandparents collected them over the years, and each of these videos played a prominent part in my childhood. I spent a good portion of that night in my dorm looking up links to Digimon episodes, uncovering, with warm enthusiasm, aged VHS memories.

We spent a lot of time with my grandparents, my younger brother and I, so we probably watched these VHS movies and TV shows over a hundred times. When school started in August, we spent even more time with them. Despite living in Shiprock, my brother and I attended school in Kirtland. I was told this was because Shiprock schools, though in the same school district as Kirtland, had reached enrollment capacity. We could’ve transferred the following year, but by that point my parents didn’t see the point. Instead, we lied about our address—my grandparents had a house in Kirtland, so guess whose address we put down—and continued to lie for the next 11 years. Every afternoon, the bus dropped me and my brother off near the neighborhood post office mailboxes. Soon it was October in New Mexico, and the still fairly warm weather made the walks back to their house pleasant. We’d watch as the leaves whispered in the wind, slowly—even quietly—transitioning into a deep yellow and orange. As fall and winter approached, the sun refused to back down; it raised its chin high in the morning, and smirked as it fell in the evening, vowing to be back the next day. Most of all, I remember that fall and winter were spent with my grandparents.

When we reached the house, we’d settle inside, slipping off our shoes and collapsing onto the couch. I’d do whatever homework I had while my brother, having no homework, reluctantly helped out with chores. After

30 or so minutes, I’d finish and lend a hand to whatever they were working on—be it dishes, weeding, sweeping, laundry, or loading and unloading hay for the cows. As nighttime approached, my grandmother prepared beef stew and frybread. The kitchen was small, but all four of us managed to fit around the wooden dining room table.

My grandpa was very particular about finishing our food.

We couldn’t leave the table unless our plates were clean, and if we couldn’t leave the table, that meant no TV. Both of my grandparents spoke Navajo as their first language.

They used simple English with my brother and I, but the Navajo words they taught us were generally shared around the table; dinner had a sound, a gentle weight, rough around the curves. After dinner, my grandparents sagged into the couch, while I chose a VHS from the cupboard—we all took turns—slipped it into the VHS player, and joined my brother sitting criss-crossed on the floor. Though it was nowhere near December, my go-to VHS was A Charlie Brown Christmas. My brother would groan, my grandmother would sigh; they both agreed we should only watch this after November, at the earliest. Only my grandpa smiled at my selection.

He didn’t say anything (at least, I don’t remember him saying anything), but I think he loved Charlie Brown more than I did. The soft piano and children’s choir warm my heart to this day—subtle, soothing, and sweet.

My father was a huge fan of the Sunday comics. My grandparents got them in the newspaper, and under my father’s recommendation, I'd read them relentlessly and draw earnest, heartfelt connections between the Peanuts comics and films. We each had our favorite characters.

My grandmother grinned at Lucy’s “bossy” personality, her bold statements, full of unflinching confidence: “That beautiful sound of cold hard cash. That beautiful, beautiful sound. Nickels, nickels, nickels.” My brother laughed at Snoopy’s easygoing, devil-may-care attitude: dancing on top of the piano, interrupting everyone’s iceskating. My grandpa claimed to have no favorite, but I noticed his eyes glinted with fond amusement whenever Charlie Brown threw his arms in the air: “My own dog gone commercial. I can’t stand it—aAAGHH!” Charlie Brown was my favorite, but my brother was more of a Pokémon and Digimon person. When asked why, his eight-year-old answer was always something along the lines of, “It’s cooler.” Whether “cooler” had to do with the thicker lines and bright colors, the distinct ’90s anime music, or the constant action, remains a mystery. I have no idea where my grandparents obtained Pokémon and Digimon VHSes—perhaps at the flea market, or maybe the thrift store. Nevertheless, they became a staple of their VHS cupboard. My brother and I both knew Pokémon was a series, but what we didn’t know was that Digimon was also a series. At the time, I paid no attention to Digimon’s opening sequence;

it all sort of meshed together in a bright, digital fever dream. Thinking back, I was nothing but confused while watching Digimon—perhaps it was because our Digimon VHS had only two episodes. My grandparents paid even less attention to the anime; they sat with us, but I could tell they were more preoccupied with the daily newspaper or mail. My brother and I weren’t particularly attached to the two series at the time either.

They were like Disney movies to us, entertaining and heartwarming enough, but nothing unconventional, profound, or even that memorable to us. But now, if you mention Pokémon: Indigo League or the 1999 Digimon series, the amount of heartening nostalgia I feel is overpowering. When I looked up Digimon back in July— being away from home and in quarantine provided the time—I didn’t recognize the original Japanese opening.

But the moment I heard, “Di-Di-Di-Digimon, Digimon.

Di-Di-Di-Digimon. Digimon. Digimon Digital Monsters, Digimon are the Champions,” I swear my heart stopped.

I was captivated, suddenly transported back to my grandparent’s snug living room. Fond recognition melted like frothed hot chocolate in my throat and pooled near my stomach. How could one two-minute opening sequence cause so much nostalgic affection— dare I say, nostalgic ache? Late ’90s anime typically had English translations of their openings, though this isn’t as common anymore. But the Digimon opening on our VHS was the English version, and though I’m definitely biased, it’s still a BANGER. As the days became shorter and the weather colder, we’d continue to rotate between those eight VHS tapes stowed in the cupboard. My grandmother loved Disney’s Cinderella. She’d laugh at Cinderella’s mice friends, comparing my messy hair to a tangled mouse’s tail. There’s a scene in the movie where an annoyed mouse untangles his tail in the morning.

Nearly ten years later, I still roll my eyes at the memory of her teasing. I’d like to think my hair has settled down since then, especially since I brush it daily now. My grandpa preferred The Prince of Egypt, which included certain scenes that terrified ten-year-old Danielle.

But twenty-one-year-old Danielle considers the film a masterpiece. At ten, I didn’t appreciate the delicate hand of storytelling, the beautiful, cool art tones, nor the amazing orchestrations. The Prince of Egypt is one of my favorite films now, right up there with Labyrinth and Coraline. These VHS tapes brought us together as a family during these cold winter months.

As we enter another November, I can’t help but fondly remember the times we slurped stew around a weary wooden table, eagerly eyeing the cupboard in anticipation of that night’s movie selection. We’d spread the VHSes on the floor to contemplate the decision, my brother and I hunched over, attempting to sabotage each other’s choice. After both of my grandparents passed, my aunt sold their house and those VHSes disappeared from my life forever. I didn’t think much of the tapes while in high school, but now, being home and re-experiencing the comfort and familiarity of New Mexico winters, I can’t help but wish I kept them.

In Navajo culture, you’re not supposed to keep a passed loved one’s belongings. It’s common to burn their things or give them away to those who need them. Culturally, I understand why I couldn't have kept them. But I do think about how the VHS tapes were a tangible, physical sign of my grandparents’ subtle affection—of the years we spent together, full of tender, loving memories.

Sure, they’d be useless with today’s technology, but I’d like to think the sentimental value would be more than enough. The VHS cases were dented, faded, torn in some corners, bought secondhand and given a new home in my grandparents’ dusty cupboard. Though I don’t have the tapes, the sense of home I found with my grandparents, their love and stories, live on in a stubby cupboard near my heart—hopefully with less dust.

November 6, 2020 5

ARTS & CULTURE

Plansch

taking the plunge into bilderbuch

By Emma Schneider Illustrated by Anna Semizhonova “This is called 'The polar bear plunge'/ Are you ready?/ If you don't jump on the count of three/ You do not get your five dollars.”

– Bilderbuch, “Plansch” The first Bilderbuch (translated: picture book) song I heard was a nonsensical song called “Bungalow.”

The next song I heard was “Plansch.” More than a hundred listens in, I now understand that the song is a critique of capitalism, the hope that money can solve all problems, with visuals of rich people lounging in their pools; but when I first heard the song I could only understand three moments: A sample of an American woman telling giggling children that they have to participate in the polar bear plunge, the words “jump, jump, jump”, and the word “Plansch”—the light hearted and silly word in Austrian German for “splash”—which I misunderstood as the far more serious “plunge.” The guitar, heavy with reverb, and the repeated and ethereal sounds of “Plansch” felt like they were connecting to my soul. Maybe I resonated so much with Bilderbuch because I didn't have to understand their words to understand their spirit, but what I could understand described my experience exactly. Less than a month before, I’d moved to Graz, Austria. I was racing at light speed through an experience that I couldn't fully understand. I was living alone in a foreign country. I didn't know German until a week before I moved. I had taken a massive plunge into the unknown—the most shocking thing I’d done to my system in all 19 years of my existence.

A man who would later become my boyfriend understood that I was a music fiend and that I was desperate for GOOD German language bands. Not just music in German that was listenable—my German classes had provided plenty of that already—but music that was good and also happened to be in German.

He’d seen Bilderbuch live at a festival a year prior and suggested them to me a week or two after we first began talking. The day after, I listened to one of their songs, then another, then a whole album, and then they became the only band I listened to for the next month.

They were alt-rock, psychedelic rock; their Wikipedia page told me they were art-pop, but none of those labels explained my obsession. I kept waiting for the initial charm to wear off, but three years later my relationship with that man is over and I still listen to Bilderbuch at least once a week, sometimes multiple times a day.

6 post–

Bilderbuch’s songs are sung in a peculiar kind of Denglish (Deutsch/English) where the German words are incomprehensible, and the random English words dropped in make no sense. Many of their songs have short phrases in English like “Sneakers 4 free” or “I <3 stress,” scattered throughout the mainly German lyrics.

Sometimes they throw in some French or Spanish as well. This kind of fragmented understanding that I grappled with in every single one of their songs was the same kind that I faced everyday on the streets, where people spoke German in heavily accented dialects that my beginner German courses had neglected to mention. Often people would give up on my seemingly failing German and address me in their flailing English, which was even harder to understand. It didn't help that the German spoken by young Austrians was peppered with English slang, and I sounded overly proper when I tried not to break into English every other word. In German, “cool” is pronounced exactly the same as in English, American accent and all. I didn't sound cool in German. Everything sounded out of place. But in Bilderbuch’s songs there was music that communicated meaning in ways where the words didn't matter, and the words I could understand were a balm instead of an added confusion.

Once I began to actually understand the words of Bilderbuch’s music, six months or so into my stay, I had to make sense of the fact that they are both a profoundly silly and profoundly serious band mixed into one. Many of their songs simply list consumer items: cars, prosecco, fancy watches, and so, so, so, much juice and soda (is there a band that sings more about soft drinks than Bilderbuch? I challenge you to find one). The chorus to “Softdrink” is simply a list of sodas “Coca Cola, Fanta, Sprite/ 7up, Pepsi, alright/ Alright, alright, alright, alright, OK!” When I started listening to them, their hit single was a song titled “Bungalow,” which begs a friend to come by in their Skoda (a cheap European car) and eat snacks that the singer’s mother has prepared—and of course there is plenty of soda to drink (would it be a Bilderbuch song without that detail?). But their other songs deal with long distance relationships, missing home, or the spiritual void of the internet. The song “Europa 22” deals with feelings of failure and freedom across borders. Maurice Ernst, their Eurotrash-looking lead singer, has described their song “Babylon,” which describes listening to Jesus and Mohammed while relaxing at a party, as very critical of religion. Another song, “LED go,” criticizes the Internet Age—dwelling on the idea of being infinitely connected and yet utterly alone.

On the six-hour train rides I’d take to Budapest to visit my uncle, a friendly face who spoke a familiar language (Hungarian is my mother tongue), I’d see the gorgeous mountains and cliffs and castles out of my train

window, hear the song “Gibraltar,” and burst into tears.

Despite the beauty of the country around me, I wished that my views would be of beat-up Bank of America ATMs or sagging New England architecture instead. I hung onto the words “distance, long distance” the only English in a song which mournfully contemplates a failing relationship, as my mind misinterpreted all the languages I heard—Hungarian sounding like German, German sounding like Hungarian that I suddenly couldn't understand. The music perfectly articulated the feeling of missing people and places that were out of reach.

Bilderbuch was the background of my new, independent life, the accompaniment to the feeling of having a space that was mine where I chopped potatoes and washed dishes and sang to myself in my own kitchen. It was the soundtrack to me losing my first job and crying as I wandered Graz’s streets trying to understand why. It was the music that played as Graz transformed from a foreign city to my new home. A year after I first heard them, Bilderbuch was also the sound of me leaving my new life behind. At the end of the year, as I left on a plane with the two suitcases that held my entire life, Bilderbuch’s “Investment 7” was playing in my ears. “Mein siebtes Investment bist du” they sing: my seventh investment is you. Whether the song was about a new shirt or a true love (I am still unsure), it rang true.

When I first started listening to Bilderbuch they made me feel homesick in a way that only a certain kind of electric guitar can. Now, when I listen to them, they make me homesick for the life that I left behind in Austria. If I listen to Bilderbuch with my eyes closed, I can see the streets of Graz, the grounds of the Karl Franzen University, the inside of the trams that rattled by my apartment. I can smell the coffee from the local chain TRInkBEsseresKAffe that I frequented often enough that the baristas knew my name and order— where a 35-year-old man named David would save me a seat and ask me if I was ok if I missed a day. I can see the bar that floats in the river and changes color at night, and the stupid art museum that is a lumpy eye sore, the pulsing blue alien heart of the city. Bilderbuch was my most listened-to band during my year in Austria and every single year thereafter. Since the first day I heard them, all of my walks, everything I saw and still see, has a song of theirs behind it. Just like my year in Austria, they have become part and fiber of my being. I took the plunge and Bilderbuch is my reward—my own five dollars.

Tea, Coffee, and the Dying Day

the namesake by jhumpa lahiri

By Nicole Kim ILLUSTRATED BY Joanne Han* Returning to the Bay Area in the midst of the global pandemic, I dedicated a weekend to decluttering my room. Unlike my college dorm, where every mug and plant pot had been carefully deliberated over, my room at home was a haphazard constellation of objects: a globular mess of pasta and dried glue (my physics bridge project from junior year of high school), the G-Dragon CDs my mom brought me from Korea in ninth grade (which I can no longer listen to, having donated my CD player years ago), and the paperback books I read and re-read in elementary school, smudging chocolate on the pages and spilling crumbs into the spine. This accumulation from my childhood and teenage years felt like the residue of previous lives I’d lived, lives I have since shed like skin. Dumping the papers from my desk drawers onto the floor, sorting everything into three piles—“keep,” “reuse,” and “trash”—I felt as though these

ARTS & CULTURE objects were picked up from another world and tossed into my present, as though I was encountering them for the first time again.

Reading The Namesake is like cleaning up my childhood bedroom. The Asian-American classic demands detailed attention and humble observance to its telling of a multi-generational immigrant narrative without Orientalist drama. The novel chronicles the life of the Gangulis, a Bengali-American family who immigrates to Massachusetts from India. Although the book covers a large expanse of time, it resists becoming a fetishizing tale of “the American dream” or a case study on “foreign cultures” for white audiences. Rather, Lahiri’s writing dedicates the necessary care and attention to each character’s story and the complexity of their beings.

The first half of the book focuses on Ashima, the wife and mother of the family, beginning with the day her son is born. Ashima and her husband Ashoke are taken aback when the hospital informs them that they must select a name for their son before they take him home. They had been awaiting the arrival of a letter from Ashima’s grandmother, which contains the “good name” they are supposed to give the child. Alarmed, the couple decide to give their son a “pet name” in the meantime—Gogol, after a Russian writer with whom Ashoke feels a special connection.

The way that Ashima misses her family and her life across the Pacific in these first months and years feels so familiar to me. For example, she imagines her family’s evening routine back in India as she is at the hospital about to give birth: “In the kitchen of her parents’ flat on Amherst Street, at this very moment, a servant is pouring after-dinner tea into steaming glasses, arranging Marie biscuits on a tray. Her mother, very soon to be a grandmother, is standing at the mirror of her dressing table, untangling waist-length hair…Her father hunches over his slanted ink-stained table by the window, sketching, smoking, listening to the Voice of America.”

I love the array of textures at work in this scene. I can smell the fragrance of the tea, feel the steam lightly rising onto my face, and taste the quiet contentment of the evening. In moments like these, immersing myself in Lahiri’s descriptions, the reading experience becomes a kind of remembering, filled with unfamiliaryet-familiar colors and flavors. There’s both pain and sweetness in this memory, which is also a longing for a wildly different everyday existence. As someone who lives in a different country from most of my relatives, I can relate to Ashima’s imagining of her family’s everyday life, missing and grieving for a mundane existence that is so different from her own (what would it be like for visits to be casual and frequent, instead of feeling like stolen time?). I watched the characters with a sense of loss, as if watching an old film where I already knew the ending. I became acutely aware of the

simple habits and objects that create the contours of an ordinary life.

The second half of the book follows Gogol as he grows up, goes to college, and falls in and out of love.

When he leaves for Yale, Gogol changes his name to Nikhil, wanting to assert a new identity distinct from the one his family has given him (although Nikhil is the “good name” his parents decided on—they just never called him by it). Against his parent’s wishes, he becomes an architect and dates a number of white women before ultimately marrying––then divorcing–– Moushumi, a childhood family friend.

Gogol is taken aback when he initially falls in love with Moushumi, having always been seeking the unfamiliar in his previous relationships. It’s their shared experiences of growing up as Bengali immigrant children, however, that allow them to be their most comfortable selves in one another’s presence, not having to explain or justify anything. But only a year into their marriage, Moushumi becomes restless, thinking about what could have been with her former lovers. Despite the overall pleasantness of her marriage with Gogol, she grows tired of the smallness of their life and compares their lifestyle to some of her artistic white friends who buy organic meats and host dinner parties.

The couple travel to Paris together as Gogol struggles to hang onto an intimacy that is slipping away from him. On the last day of the trip, he is overcome with nostalgia as he takes a photo of Moushumi in a café: “She looks beautiful to him, tired, the concentrated light of the dying day on her face, infusing it with an amberpink glow. He watches the smoke drift away from her.

He wants to remember this moment, the two of them together, here. This is how he wants to remember Paris.”

I’m struck by the active way Gogol chooses to preserve this moment to represent this person and this place.

There are moments when I, too, become acutely aware that this present time will only be a memory in a matter

“In growing into the shell of my ‘adult’ or mature self, I had begun to confine myself to the edges of existence: I was constantly losing track of myself, often becoming Sorry instead.”

—Anneliese Mair, “a brief history of sorry” 11.1.19

“The uncertainties about the future that brewed inside me while traveling would dissipate once I embarked on my new journeys after landing. The knots of feeling would stay with the clouds, leaving only optimistic traces that might revisit me in the future.”

of weeks or months or hours. Rather than allowing that awareness to make him desperate or anxious, however, Gogol allows the moment to die away without fuss or strain, leaving behind a pleasurable memory.

The Namesake shows that there is beauty in the ordinary, and courage in survival—a comforting notion to me. It paints the immigrant narrative without fanfare or extravagance, but rather, with quiet introspection. Reading these passages, I am reminded of my nostalgia for each of the three locations that triangulate my life: Brown, San Jose, and Korea. Brown is the rich nitro cold brew served on tap at the Blue Room, the late nights of karaoke and hard cider in the lounge, and hours of furious typing in the Hay, in the company of white figureheads. San Jose brings to mind an ivory-colored dog with lemon ears licking my knee in passing, sharing sour cheese crackers straight from the bag with my sister, and the bright effervescent green of trees at golden hour. My most full-bodied memories are of Korea: the salty fried potato-and-leek patties my grandmother serves with soy sauce and rice, the burning in my thighs as I struggle up the hill on my grandfather’s “light” morning walk, and the sticky hands of my cousins as they lead me to the next game (me hiding my exhaustion, them giddy with excitement).

There are different parts of me that come in and out of the shadows as I transition into each mode of existence, like switching the game cartridge on a Nintendo DS. None of these places carry the “true me” and none of them are completely unblemished by sad or painful memories. And in moments of loneliness, like Gogol and Ashima, I sometimes mourn “what could have been” and find myself wrapped up in my desire for other lives. However, I am lulled into a hushed contentment by remembering the places I carry with me and the memories they have left. I choose to believe that it’s these stolen moments—ripe with longing, pleasure, and sweetness—that make immigrant lives like ours rich and complexly beautiful.

*Original cover art for the namesake by Philippe LardY 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

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Jasmine Ngai

COPY CHIEF Mohima Sattar

Section Editors Siena Capone Minako Ogita Christina Vasquez

Copy Editors Laura David Kyoko Leaman Aditi Marshan Eleanor Peters

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney

SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

—Holly Zheng, “thoughts in the clouds” 11.2.18

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Joanne Han Iris Xie Layout Designers Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen WEB MASTER Amy Pu

STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Editors Siena Capone Julia Gubner Eashan Das Kyra Haddad Danielle Emerson Jolie Rolnick Jordan Hartzell Chloe Zhao Nicole Kim HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Gus Kmetz Elliana Reynolds Gaby Treviño Victoria Yin

Want to be involved?

Email: amanda_ngo@brown.edu!

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