post- 02/01/19

Issue

In This Dear Nicole Naomi Kim 4

A Winter Break Told Through Food

Abbie Hui 3

My Year of Adulting

Caroline Ribet 2 Julian Towers 5

What's Coming After That?

Danielle Emerson 6

Reservation

Young Adult

postCover by Rémy Poisson

FEB 1

VOL 23 —

ISSUE 13

FEATURE

My Year of Adulting

Gerunds and the Journey of Growing Up

By Caroline Ribet

M

Illustrated by katya labowe-stoll

y year of "adulting" began when I moved into my off-campus apartment in June, and I realized I needed wifi. When I signed the lease, I was thinking about affordability, proximity to campus, and whether or not the rooms had natural light—not so much about how I would check my email, access Canvas, or stream Netflix.

When I texted a previous tenant to ask him about the wifi, he sheepishly responded that he had been logged into the downstairs apartment’s network all year. I called up the landlord, wondering what tenants normally did in my situation. “Tenants figure it out themselves,” he said and hung up the phone.

My parents were in China, my roommate was somewhere else, and no one was going to bail me out. I didn’t even really know what wifi was,

but I refreshed Brown Buying and Selling (on my mobile network) and purchased a router from some graduating seniors. I called Verizon, and they put me on hold. I gave my account number to an electronic voice and talked to a customer service representative who had a heavy Southern accent.

It took several hours of navigating a complicated phone tree, being asked again and again if I wanted the premium package with cable and landline and wifi and me insisting over and over again that, please, I really just need a wireless network, please, can you come install it soon?

The top description of "adulting" on Urban Dictionary includes the phrase: “to carry out one or more of the duties and responsibilities expected of fully developed individuals.” I figured that being

on hold with Verizon definitely counted. Another definition says the word is used exclusively by “immature 20-somethings who are proud of themselves for paying a bill.” My favorite describes "adulting" as “[post] adolescence when the light in your eyes fade[s] away and dies.”

Urban Dictionary suggests many millennials share the privilege of being sheltered from responsibilities as children. Our parents take care of us, and then if we are lucky, the university takes over.

At Brown, my full-time job is to be a student and to learn as much as I can.

In fact, I found out that my difficulties were rather widespread. Many articles point out that privileged millennials go through so-called "life stages" later than the previous generations. One

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Welcome back to another semester of post- magazine!

To the staff, both returning and new members, thank you for your hard work in producing our first issue of the semester. An especially warm welcome goes out to Feature section editor Sara Shapiro ’20, Arts & Culture editors Griffin Plaag ’20 and Emily Teng ’22, and social media staffers Caleigh Aviv ’21 and Camila Pavon ’21! We are all so excited to see how our publication will grow with the help, perspective, and expertise of our new members.

Things Colder than the Polar Vortex

To the reader, in this issue, you will find stories about growing up, letters, food, and rap—all things we hope you enjoy reading about. We on post- wish you some warmth in this time of wild schedules and frigid weather.

Please, make some tea, take a seat, and have a glance through our magazine. We hope you find something you like.

Anita

editor in chief of post-

1.

The HR reps who rejected me

2.

The SciLi basement

3.

My heart

4.

My ex’s heart

5.

As Albert Camus would no doubt agree, man is an alien to himself.

6.

Blue Room water

7.

All of Smitty B

8.

Your feet—like, wow, are you a lizard?

9.

Bud Light®

10.

My professor who would not give me that override code

2 post–

NARRATIVE Medium blog post about "adulting" cited the statistic that more than 32 percent of millennials live at home. Researchers report that the average age for grown-up activities, like purchasing a house, getting married, or experiencing financial independence, is trending higher; and cultural, social, and financial developments are often pointed to as the cause of these changes. To give one example, young people increasingly value educational success above, say, starting a family—a cultural shift that has numerous implications.

The Urban Dictionary page also reveals the politics of the word "adulting." Its definitions mock millenials for thinking of normal responsibilities as major milestones. If you search the word online, you’ll come across a number of articles that echo these sentiments. One WordPress blog by mom Lisa Sugarmen suggests, “The very nature of the word "adulting" implies pretty heavily that growing up is a conscious choice rather than just a natural evolution.” Her comment reflects the inherent privileges of those who, like me, have been able to not partake in "adulting" up until this point in my life. "Adulting," it seems, is not everyone’s favorite concept.

Those who participate in "adulting" often find themselves frustrated. (I don’t get irritated that easily, but the Verizon phone tree definitely tested the limits of my patience.) And Haruki Murakami, one of my favorite writers, points out in his memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, “When I was younger, it wasn’t as if I had as much free time as I wanted, but I didn’t have as many miscellaneous chores as I do now. I don’t know why, but the older you get, the busier you become.” When I first read this passage, it didn’t make much sense to me. Now, I find I can relate more easily.

Critics of the word "adulting" argue that the gerund-ification (adding -ing to a verb to make a noun) of the term adult makes growing up seem like a hobby. Only the very privileged, some argue, could have survived more than 20 years having never done anything without help. Even those who use the noun are shamed by the media. I’m tempted to shame them too; when I see articles entitled “Why ‘Adulting’ Is Hard And Millennial Burnout is Actually a Thing,” I feel like rolling my eyes.

But despite the critique (that I occasionally participate in), I actually like "adulting" as a term. I appreciate the way it reveals politics and privilege. It suggests that daunting responsibilities can be faced with good humor. At least in my experience, phone trees and travel delays become less frustrating when I make fun of Delta airlines for never leaving the airport. As gainful employment and independence materialize, I try to keep on laughing.

The "adulting" continued for the rest of the summer. My job required that I wear business casual, so I played dress-up in ballet flats and a pencil skirt.

My apartment presented all kinds of problems that needed to be sorted out, and I had a subletter to deal with and a landlord to call. In doing so, "adulting" grew more and more complicated. I wondered, is "adulting" going to the bank and picking up quarters for laundry? Is it writing budgets and packing lunches? Washing sheets, scrubbing bathrooms, and

vacuuming once a week? Going to the dry cleaners and using a drying rack for clothing because the $1.75-per-load dryer doesn’t work very well?

Little by little, I realized that I was growing from my experiences, even in small ways. At the end of August, I went on a trip to Burlington, Vermont, with a close friend from school. An old classmate of hers kindly let us stay at their apartment for a night, and I slept on the floor between a rug and some blankets.

After a lousy night of sleep, I felt like I might be getting too old to crash on a friend of a friend’s floor.

In high school or my early years of college, I would not have blinked at the opportunity to save a few dollars, even at the cost of discomfort. Now that I’ve held my first jobs, choices that were once easy have led me to experience more mixed feelings.

Taking on these normal responsibilities have been the markers of my transition out of college.

After all, I’m graduating in a few months; I will need employment, a place to live, access to transportation, and appointments with local doctors and dentists.

When I think about managing an adult life, I’m forced to admit that my parents and Brown have sheltered me. Even though I like to take pride in my ability to cook well-balanced meals, my parents still handle my taxes and insurance. They deal with my cell phone company. They are in charge of my healthcare.

With only one semester left at Brown and the future looming over me, I have spent hours and days putting together applications with lists of references and writing samples and cover letters and resumes (my parents still edit every draft). I cold-email the employees of interesting companies that I have no connection to, and I chat on the phone with family friends and Brown alums who generously agree to talk to me about their career paths. I put together search queries with cities I might like to live in and job titles that sound good. I check listings on Glassdoor, Handshake and Indeed. I write sentences like “Thank you for your consideration.” I narrate the experiences in which I was an effective problem solver. I sigh when I come upon positions that seem perfect, but require fluency in Spanish or three to five years of relevant work experience.

When I’m in my more optimistic moods, I tell myself how qualified and accomplished I am. After all, I am about to receive a degree from the one and only Brown University. I can do these jobs, I think, as I scroll through my spreadsheet of employment opportunities and application deadlines. Other days, I’m amazed that anyone writes me back. What am I qualified to do? Think critically? Promote diversity and inclusion? Write lengthy papers about the liberal arts?

When I think of "adulting," what I really think of is figuring things out without help. My friends at Brown have become a second family. Together, we get groceries, call insurance companies, and "adult."

With graduation on the horizon, I secretly worry for the day when we scatter all over the world to follow the exciting opportunities that we are all finding now. Will some of us end up in the same place, or will I build a new community in a city by myself? When things go wrong, as they always do, who will be there to help me? Are these fears a kind of "adulting," or are they childish? Am I ever going to grow up?

A Winter Break Told through Food Exploring Hong Kong's Food Scene

By Abbie Hui Illustrated by Stephanie Wu

W

inter break may be over, but the fond memories of the food I ate during it remain.

Nearly every winter break, I travel to Hong Kong to visit family and friends, recover from my mental exhaustion, and recuperate with a variety of authentic, delicious foods.

My family lives close to a fresh seafood market (imagine a fresh-out-of-the-ocean smell and many stalls of fish laying on ice beds, shrimp swimming around in their tanks, abalone sitting on small metal plates, and many more seasonal creatures I rarely see). After my dad gets off work, we go there and pick up ingredients to cook dinner at home. We pay for our food at each stall as if each were a miniature grocery store. There are also fresh meat and vegetable stalls in the market, and the convenience and affordability of purchasing quality ingredients from them make eating at home so appealing. However, sometimes we want to treat ourselves to restaurant food or entertain family and friends outside of our home; so this break, I got the opportunity to revisit some of my favorite places to eat and explore new ones, too!

One of my favorite dim sum places in Hong Kong is called Choi Fook Royal Banquet. I am a fan of two of its dishes in particular—the tender chicken feet with abalone sauce and the XO sauce rice noodle rolls, which come in a hot stone pot. I start drooling when I imagine reliving this complete experience: I ate the delicate skin of the chicken feet first and then dipped the sizzling rice noodle rolls in the deliciously sweet and salty abalone sauce, realizing that the two dishes complemented each other perfectly. We also ordered other dim sums, and every dish somehow felt more delicate and flavorful when paired with the restaurant’s bustling energy and lively atmosphere.

I also explored more traditional cuisine, namely Shantou and Beijing dishes, during my first week there. Whenever I go to restaurants that serve Shantou food, I unfailingly order the deepfried yams for dessert. I always end up burning my tongue, too eager to take a bite into the crispy-yetfragile sugar crust coating the hot, soft steamed yam. This time was no exception. I savored each sweet, powdery bite and sipped bold Chinese tea in between, treasuring this indulgent way to end the meal. The next night, I decided to try China House Tai Po and its Peking duck wrap dish. I made and easily devoured a couple of these wraps—perfectly crispy-yet-tender slices of duck with just the right amount of fat, dipped in a sugary, thick soy sauce with sliced scallion, all wrapped in an extremely thin pancake. I took a bite, and my senses immediately

“I’m here at Brown…the armpit of the Ivies.”

“He seems soft...like a soft-shelled tortoise.”

Febryary 1, 2018 3

NARRATIVE

Dear Nicole On Writing Letters

By Naomi Kim Illustrated by Molly Young

went into overdrive from the sweet and savory flavors, crunchy and tender textures, and overall perfection of this finger-licking moment.

When I wanted some Canto-Western cuisine and drinks, I ventured out to the Hong Kongstyle cafes. My go-to order became the Hong Kong-style milk tea; I could happily sip and relish its smoothness and strong aroma every day. Sometimes, I had it with condensed milk for a sweeter experience or got a mixture of tea and coffee for a hard-to-resist caffeine boost.

This was the perfect afternoon pick-me-up along with a plate of mouthwatering Hong Kong-style French toast. Imagine peanut butter sandwiched between two pieces of toast, fried, and served with condensed milk and butter—trust me, this is French toast on another level. Cha chaan tengs, or Hong Kong-style cafes, are really the places to go when you want authentic comfort food and fast, efficient service that reflects Hong Kong’s hectic lifestyle.

In the midst of this industrialized city with endless cultural cuisine offerings, I do not have to worry about finding appealing food choices—take, for example, the velvety smooth matcha ice cream!

My favorite place for matcha dessert is called Sweets House Cha Cha, and I made time with my mom to go there three times during the break. I can never decide whether to have just the strong matcha ice cream in a cone, the half-and-half with Hokkaido milk ice cream for a lighter matcha experience, or the dark chocolate for a super rich ride. Choosing between these flavors is nearly impossible because they are all so delicious!

Daydreaming about matcha dessert got me thinking about the variety of French desserts I shared with my family and friends after our amazing French dinner at Scarlett Cafe & Wine Bar. For an appetizer, I tried beef tartare for the first time ever and found the taste of the buttery raw meat not as strong as when it’s cooked, rendering me awestruck. I wouldn’t have minded trying a bigger portion. The soft sourdough bread and crispy potato wedges were great to nibble on before we moved on to the main courses of perfectly roasted prime rib and creamy mashed potatoes, creamy lobster spaghetti, and the unique, tasty egg white ravioli filled with crab meat. We thought we couldn’t stuff ourselves with more delectable food, but somehow, we still managed to order desserts—a tangy lemon meringue tart, hazelnut tart, cream puffs drizzled with smooth chocolate sauce, and chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream. This was one of the best meals I had in Hong Kong: full of fantastic food, wonderful company, and interesting conversations.

For me, winter break was a time spent over tasty food, both at home and in restaurants with friends and family. I want to bottle the revitalizing energy I experienced in Hong Kong to help propel me through this semester. My fellow peers, I hope your break was a period of rest, love, adventures, laughter, and food. Spring semester, we are ready for you!

4 post–

Dear Nicole, Every time I drop by the mail room to pick up one of your letters sent all the way from Ohio, I finish reading it before I get back to my dorm. I blaze through your words, eating them up too quickly.

I walk out of the building tearing the flap of the envelope open, gloves shoved into my pockets and hands exposed to the cold. The wind tries to wrestle the pages from me, making the papers flap and flutter. I read as I make my way down Waterman Street, side-stepping people on their way to and from class, and always end up grinning like a fool over the simplest, smallest things—your classes or your lab work or the movies you saw. Your roommate or your swimming or the Stephen King book you’re working your way through. I’m eager to hear all your little news. The last time I saw you was well over a year ago, when you and your mom flew back down to Georgia to watch my high-school graduation. It was your first time back since you moved away to Virginia our sophomore year. (Remember sixth grade, when we first met? I named my lunchbox Tootsie for its shape, and you named yours Blueberry for its color.)

I finish reading your letter before I reach Ruth Simmons Quad. I fold the stapled pages back up the way they always come, in thirds, and tuck them and the envelope under my arm as I head to my dorm. I think of you while I climb the stairs up to the fourth floor. I think of you riding your bike to the store and bringing your pumpkin back to campus. I think of your contraband candle with its cozy autumnal fragrance. *** Dear Nicole, I have to confess that I have not kept up with all your letters as well as I should have —some of them are in a shoebox in my closet, others stashed into folders and desk drawers. There are a handful of letters from high school, after you moved, and piles of pages from freshman year of college up until now.

I should line them up in chronological order and slide them carefully into a folder. A single folder, in a single drawer. That way I will be able to file through them later and piece together what our lives were like. I will kneel on my bedroom floor, reading letter by letter, remembering my walk down Waterman, smiling.

Sometimes I think about famous letters.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s letter from Birmingham Jail; letters sent between Abigail Adams and her husband, John; “letters” Anne Frank wrote to her diary, Kitty; epistles of the Bible. In museums

and online, I pore over pictures of old, thin paper scrawled with spidery cursive that is impossible to read. I can hardly imagine the whole world reading through a postcard I sent ages ago, searching for clues about my personal life—all the ups and downs, joys and sorrows—in an attempt to figure out the kind of person I was.

I suppose anyone who saw the letters I sent you would first notice how much time elapsed between each response (I confess that I sometimes put off replying for so long, I'd have to reread your letter when I finally sat down to write back). Anyone would notice that I write with a hurried, messy hand (although you assure me you have had no trouble deciphering it) and that I write mostly about books and classes. I suppose no one would find my letters to you all that fascinating or useful as artifacts of the early 21st century. Who are these two college students sending letters back and forth like 18th century spinsters? Maybe we’ll confuse the historians and anthropologists of the future.

I read as I make my way down Waterman Street, sidestepping people on their way to and from class, and always end up grinning like a fool over the simplest, smallest things.

Dear Nicole, I take that back, actually. I do think people—I mean people nowadays, our peers—might find our letters fascinating, if only because people don’t write these kinds of letters much anymore. They write open letters on Facebook, emails, and ultra-long texts, but not letters with pen and paper, envelopes and stamps. Letters that get driven or flown across state lines and sometimes across national borders and oceans to be dropped finally, safely into a mailbox, somewhere.

Everything is so digital these days. Maybe that’s why I feel like there’s something special about a tangible, physical thing to hold and feel: the creases in the paper, the envelope you can lick or glue shut and rip open. The familiar handwriting and ache in your forearm when you’ve been writing for a while.

The stamps you peel off the slippery backing. There’s something about sliding your stamped envelope down the mailroom chute, picking up a letter you’ve been waiting for, walking down the street with the wind in your face while you read and grin.

ARTS&CULTURE

What's Coming After That?

Future Hndrxx and His Misery

By Julian Towers Illustrated by Gaby trevino Because we live in a malicious free market economy and I have decided to make my living in print media, I find it therapeutic to imagine that all rich people are secretly miserable. If Gossip Girl taught me anything, it’s that you can’t locate happiness in the diamond section of Vera Wang (or whatever they sell—I don’t actually know).

Essentially, if I see you strolling down Thayer with Sperrys and a Fitbit, I‘m going to assume that you’re basically Jay Gatsby—dying a slow souldeath in search of something money cannot buy.

Sure, it’d be nice to own notebooks and a seventh pair of socks—nice for a little bit—but I’m thinking about my soul here.

As I’ve spent much of my life starving myself and not bathing, perhaps it’s surprising that I’m also a longtime fan of hip-hop sensation Future Hndrxx (net worth: $30 million). In all fairness, most pop-rappers are more relatable than Wall Street assholes. They’re prosperous, upwardly mobile citizens who’ve worked diligently to escape some truly depressing backgrounds. Though I may look at, say, Quavo, and find his 250-karat diamond grillz indulgent, I can’t deny that it’s his right—and perhaps even socially necessary—for him to broadcast his success. But Super Future’s different: he’s about the only guy making music about the moral cost of a high lifestyle. And I mean that two ways… because drugs.

Now, this is not to suggest the mind behind “I ain't got no manners for no sl*ts/I’ma put my thumb in her butt” is some kind of moral conscience; like those of his peers, Future’s songs describe a life of luxury hedonism mostly by way of absurd braggadocio. “I just f***ed your bitch in some Gucci flip-flops” is perhaps his most quoted line. No, what makes Future special is

that his music just kinda sounds…miserable. Like he can’t help it. His slurry sob of a voice will set even the most basic hip-hop scenarios wild with melodramatic intensity. Consider the outro of “Monster”: “I don’t be trusting these hoes/I just be smashing these hoes.” That’s basically just hooking up, right? Essentially describes my experience. But Future yelps the line over and over like an SOS—he really wants to trust somebody. And when he’s not screaming, his voice sounds drained—numb and monotone. In the occasion he runs out of stuff to say, he’ll sometimes just list the expensive things he owns; often, they sound like all he has.

Nothing

about

the

Future

experience

seems like fun: Wealth and status bring only paranoia, promiscuous sex is emptily athletic gamesmanship, and drugs are the only love of his life, with cough syrup especially receiving more romantic attention than any actual human. The song “Fresh Air” would suggest he takes his shots of codeine straight, no chaser. Speaking in my official capacity as a magazine editor, that is weird and sad.

It’s likely that this description obscures the reasons for Future’s broader popularity. In simple terms, the songs are catchy and the beats bang.

He’s not Adele. The sadness emanating from his best work is faint, even doubtful—like a teardrop in the rain. For a true emotional response, you have to bring Future’s tragic backstory to his

music. Indeed, children—the rapper wasn’t always so miserable, though that can be difficult to hear.

His voice has always sounded like a walrus holding back tears.

So, here’s your history: After coming up through the Atlanta scene as a blatant, if quite skillful, Gucci Mane wannabe, Future gets scooped up by a major label who inexplicably hears something romantic in his Auto-Tuned drug narratives. They stock his 2012 debut album full of awkward, corny love songs to position him as trap music’s answer to T-Pain, and (supposedly) score him an engagement to R&B superstar Ciara to position him as trap culture’s answer to Jay-Z. But Honest, the crucial sophomore album, stalls at 50,000 units; as it’s full of Ciara love songs, this is embarrassing, though less embarrassing than when Ciara gets fed up with Future’s infidelity and splits, taking their baby with her. Cornered, he rushes back into the studio to refocus on his old lyrical themes: success, drug use, and mid-Manhattan fashion houses.

But his voice can’t lie; it’s become a hollowed-out, dried-up croak. Though the subject matter hasn’t changed, Future’s life no longer sounds like an enviable place to be.

Miraculously, in bottoming out, Future hit his artistic high. The three-mixtape run from 2014’s Monster to 2015’s 56 Nights is easily the most definitive, iconic music of his career. An entire sub-genre was born from Monster’s hazy warble, though the critical catch-all used to underplay its hip-hop innovations—“mumble rap”—is a disgrace. It’s Future’s excess of passion, if anything, that blurs his words together. And if his flow— lifted by heartbreak, slowed by over-the-counter medication—falls off beat, it never lets go of a catchy hook.

That this dude sounded so far gone during his creative peak added a curiously relatable layer of sadness to what was, already, kind of sad music. Though people listening to these songs to find literal versions of themselves are probably sociopaths, there’s stuff in the subtext that I think Brown students could relate to. Even when every aspect of our lifestyle is superficially on fleek, many of us still find gathering self-esteem to be a difficult proposition. Though it frustrates and

upsets our parents, we simply cannot count up our grades and exchange them for happiness. So Future—a guy who literally has it all and still feels nothing—is good to have around when you want to feel less abnormal. For best usage, I’d recommend taking 2015’s Beast Mode each morning, like a Percocet.

Unfortunately, Future’s best (i.e. worst) days are behind him. Like a bizarre reverse-victim of his own anti-success, the dude’s just kinda happy now.

His kids are growing up, he has been thoroughly canonized as a genius, and Ciara hasn’t had a hit in years. Though still rapping primarily about drugs, around 2016 he began admitting that he wasn’t actually using them anymore. This, of course, raises conceptual issues as old as hip-hop. If we argued that the greatness of his old stuff came from its gritty synthesis of real life, logic would dictate his new, fake music must be bad bourgeoise swill. But that’s just untrue; on the level of pop presentation, Future hasn’t lost a step. Last month’s The Wzzard is surely one of his catchiest, most polished efforts. When I say it’s not as good as Monster, am I really saying that Future should get back to being miserable on drugs? That’s… not so ethical.

Still, his newest music is not as good as Monster.

As early as 2015’s DS2, Future was already getting self-conscious and cute about his unglamorous lifestyle—you could tell he wasn’t actually living it anymore. Not to fetishize drug abuse, but no actual addict writes punchlines about peeing codeine. By Wzzard’s “Overdose,” he’s chirping about how his “wrist on drugs!” his “chain on drugs!” which is either deliberate self-parody, deeply pandering, or both.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a new kind of sadness in this work—the happy artist struggling to pretend he’s sad. But if anything, it’s screwed with the old sadness. Monster’s “I’m living this life of sin, what’s coming after that?” used to be one of the most chilling lines I’d ever heard, whereas now I just listen to it and flash-forward to Future performing on Ellen. He’s just an exceptionally catchy rapper now; there’s no meaning left.

Me, though? I’ll always be authentic. I haven’t showered in three weeks—seven, if you think shampoo’s important.

Febryary 1, 2018 5

ARTS&CULTURE

Young Adult Reservation

Why We Need More Native American Writers

By Danielle Emerson illustrated by Ashley Hernandez A member of the Navajo tribe, I grew up hearing the traditional tales of my people. In these stories were people like me who spoke my language. There were stories of our deities, such as Changing Woman, The Twin Warriors, and the mischievous Coyote, stories of horse riding and sheep butchering, of the stars and the animals—stories of my culture told from the perspectives of those who had lived it.

As I entered the public school system, I became more adept at reading print books. But the people in these stories neither looked like me nor lived like me. Though upset, I decided not to say anything to my teachers, opting to avoid confrontation. Instead, I assumed that my own cultural tales were less important than those in the books being presented to me.

Curiosity drove me to creative writing. I played with the pen, testing out the sounds of words, running them over my tongue. But the Americans in my stories did not look like me. They had green eyes and blond hair. They were white-skinned and welldressed. Little girls with ruffles on their shirts and bright bows in their hair. Fathers who played catch with their sons, always calling them by endearing names like "sport" or "kiddo." Mothers who sang lullabies to their children at bedtime.

I strayed from topics I’d experienced in my own life and focused on the picture-perfect families I’d read about in books. These were families I felt my own could never compare to. These were people I could never compare to. Young adult books made me an “other” in my reading experiences, so I became an “other” in my own writing. In college, I looked back at all of my previous short stories and realized I didn’t recognize any of my characters.

They read like fillers, dull and uninteresting. I had never felt so different—or so alone.

But experiences like this are not uncommon.

All young children are impressionable. The types of stories we read in our youth leave lasting impressions. They reinforce majorities while obscuring traditional minorities. Many creative writers of color have suffered under this influence.

Novelist Chimamanda Adichie, for example, shared her experience with this so-called “perpetuation of

the norm” in her TED Talk, “The Danger of a Single Story.”

"I wrote exactly the kinds of stories I was reading,” she said. “All my characters were white and blue-eyed. They played in the snow. They ate apples. And talked about the weather."

In high school, I accepted the curriculum I was taught as fact. I read books like Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, and Tom Sawyer. These books are childhood classics. I won’t deny that, and I don’t regret that I read them.

But I wish these weren’t the only children’s books available, because early literary experiences are extremely impactful. I had little access to books reflecting my experiences. It was only after high school that I had the opportunity to read some.

We need more voices.

Allow me to recommend some favorites— The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

by Sherman Alexie, Hearts Unbroken by Cynthia Leitich Smith, Crazy Horse’s Girlfriend by Erika T. Wurth, If I Ever Get Out of Here by Eric Gansworth, and Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson.

These are books written by Native authors telling

“Now, I know there are plenty of young upstarts in the world who paint a masterpiece at age four or compose a symphony in utero, but I’d always seen them as exceptions to the norm.”

Bianca Stelian, "I’m Too Old for Spider-Man" 2.2.1

“We’re brave and we’re young and we only have so many free pizzas left.” post- Editorial Staff, "we asked 42 posteditors what the meaning of life is" 2.4.16

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their stories. These are books I wish I had been given access to while growing up, for they would have taught me that my experiences are nothing to be ashamed of.

According to an analysis by the Cooperative Children's Book Center, of the 3,200 books received from US publishers in 2016, Native American authors only wrote 0.8 percent—that’s a total of eight books. African Americans wrote 2.8 percent, Latinx Americans wrote 2.9 percent, and Asian Pacific Americans wrote 6.1 percent of books. Compare that to the majority: 87.9 percent of books were written by white American authors.

This lack of representation hurts the traditionally marginalized. Though there may be fewer Native Americans than white Americans, our stories are no less important.

We need more Native writers writing about Native matters. We need more diverse life experiences in literature. We need more voices.

I write about my own experiences proudly now. I revel in my voice as it comes alive on the page, expressing without boundaries, rushing the horizon. But there are still hundreds of voices waiting to be heard, waiting for their chances at roping the moon.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Anita Sheih a FEATURE Managing Editor Sydney Lo Section Editors Kathy Luo Sara Shapiro Staff Writers Sarah Lettes Caroline Ribet

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Celina Sun Section Editors Liza Edwards-Levin Jasmine Ngai Staff Writers Danielle Emerson Abbie Hui Naomi Kim Anneliese Mair Kahini Mehta

SOCIAL MEDIA Caleigh Aviv Camila Pavon

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Julian Towers Section Editors Griffin Plaag Emily Teng Staff Writers Rob Capron Kaela Hines Pia Mileaf-Patel

Want to be involved?

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