post- 11/16/2023

In This Issue

3

emily tom

audrey wijono

2

Triptych of Bathroom Haircuts

Our First Lives Eleanor Dushin 6

Sean Toomey

5

Alaire Kanes

liza kolbasov 4

Notes on Coats

Writing ‘Around’ Am I Still Your Type?

Playing Home 7

TiFfany Kuo 8

Which Independent Providence Bookstore Are You?

postLena He Insta:@liquidbutterflies

NOV 16

VOL 32

— ISSUE 8

FEATURE

Our First Lives

my mother was a girl once, too

tw: body image, disordered eating/body image, some mention of gender dysphoria By audrey wijono illustrated by Emily Saxl I do not know what my mother looked like as a child.

I grew up in my father’s childhood home, surrounded by his side of the family. Sometimes, as a treat, my grandfather would pull out the old photo albums, the ones of my father in his youth. Then we’d flip through them together, both of us cross-legged on the ground, and point out the ones that stuck out.

I can picture my father at every stage of his life.

Newborn, red and crying. Then again as a little kid, cheeks puffed and frowning at the zoo. As a middle schooler, in the pool. At a birthday, bothering his older brother. With his younger sister, smiling. A moody high schooler, with his hair all wild and grown out.

But my mother—I can hardly picture her at all.

The earliest photos I have of her are wedding pictures, the few framed around the house. White dress, baby-faced, beaming like she had the world in her hands.

She is gorgeous, stunningly so.

Then the photos skip to her in motherhood. And she is beautiful, still. But she is a mother, the weight of it in her eyes, her stance, the strain in her smile.

I’m in every photo. In her arms, by her legs, making a fuss in the background. Inescapably, irreversibly, there, as young children tend to be.

Who was she before me? *** My mother is beautiful. Many say this about their mothers, which quite diminishes the word’s effect. But my mother is beautiful in a way that is impossible to put to paper; in a way I have tried—many times—to capture, but have failed again and again and again.

Our household is full of my attempts, drawings of my mother scattered on cabinets and across the walls, none

more successful than the last.

Growing up, I didn’t like when she came to school.

She drew too much attention—not just to herself, but to me. “Your mother is so pretty,” kids would tell me, their words a hushed whisper. Then they’d glance at me, squint at my features. “But you guys don’t look anything alike!”

Even now, well into college, the comments have stuck. “Damn,” I remember one friend saying, running his hand over a photo on the wall. “No offense, but what happened to you?”

“Fuck off,” I said, without much malice.

I grew up with these comparisons, the acknowledgment that she and I were nothing alike. She was perfect. I wasn’t.

Where my mother was graceful and womanly, I was stocky and awkward. Uneven eyes, big nose, fat cheeks, crooked smile. I’d stand by the mirror and jab at my flaws, pinching the fat around my wrists, analyzing the droop in my right eye.

I could list my flaws to eternity, but could name so few, if any, for her. *** She worked hard for her beauty. I’d seen the ways she’d eaten, across the years, and I’d seen the exercise habits that had come with. She’d wear her workout clothes throughout the day, so she could continue her workouts later.

Sometimes I’d watch her at the mirror. “I’m so fat,” she’d say, hand on her stomach, “so bloated.”

Sometimes I’d put a hand on my own.

They say the first daughter is her father’s child. I liked this sentiment—because I certainly wasn’t my mother’s. I think she sensed it, these insecurities of mine. And she’d

try, I suppose, to guide me through it.

“You’re a girl,” she’d remind me.

“Uh-huh.” I’d try not to engage her.

“Come on. You need to start dressing properly,” she’d tell me, handing me dresses and skirts. “Here, put some blush on.” She’d run the brush over my face. Dab lipstick on my lips. Beg me to do my brows. “Don’t be so tightlipped. Just smile.”

I’d force a smile. She’d chastise me for an attitude.

Rinse and repeat.

For a kid that struggled so intimately with gender— with just being a girl—having a mother who was the epitome of femininity was a curated hell. Because if this was womanhood, this polished perfection she wore with ease…

Well, I’d been doomed from the start. *** There was, inevitably, a distance between us as I grew up. I couldn’t relate to her, nor could she relate to me.

My insecurities mounted as I grew older, and I had a breakdown in my senior year of high school—as one does.

I lay in bed, days and weeks on end. Stopped eating. Grew pale and thin in the way I’d always been told was beautiful.

My mother watched, at first from afar, unsure how to intervene.

I’d never learned to confide in my mother, never learned to accept her help. Even still, she tried; came into my room and sat by the foot of my bed, silent while I wailed.

At a lull, she cleared her throat. “You know,” she said, so quietly I nearly missed it over my own tears. “There’s a photo of mama from when I was much younger.” I listened, keenly. “But when I saw it in high school, all I could think about was how big my butt looked.” She chuckled. “How fat I was.”

I looked up at her. Saw myself in the reflection of her eyes, big and round. “I hated it,” she admitted.

I’d never heard much of her childhood. She’d never let me in. But there, as I cried, she laid herself bare: everything she was, in her youth. Same insecurities, same fears.

“But, you know, baby,” she says, rubbing my legs.

“When I see those photos now, all I can see is how much I’m smiling.” *** I do not know what my mother looked like as a child.

But in that moment, I could picture her: my spitting image, growing pains and all.

My mother was a girl once, too. *** I think I’m surviving.

“I’m proud of you,” my mother tells me. “Do you know that?”

I haven’t yet told her—but I’m proud of her, too.

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, Happy Thursday! I say that with a strong emphasis on Thursday; as in, T-minus five days until I’m outta here. Or maybe four? Three? An alarmingly low percentage—roughly 25%, give or take—of my classes record their lectures, and the fleeting remains of my high school do-everything-all-the-time self still shudders at the thought of missing any potentially enlightening content. And all of this is remarkably ironic to my present day try-my-hardest-but-just-get-by self who is really just trying to make my way home. On one hand, I’m angry about the way my young spritely self overcommitted and burned me out a little, but I’m also grateful for all of the refreshing pools, like Brown, that he pushed me into. In a deeply roundabout way, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I regret that I don’t take enough time to say thanks for the home I’ve been lucky enough to

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create here. I can’t lie though, I still can’t wait to head back to the home I’m from.

homey than a nice little word game?

The other day, I had a crit for my Digital Photography

This week in post-, the writers are looking towards

class, and I had to share my photographs of small people in

home, and all the comfort and uneasiness that home

a big world—predominantly strangers in vast Providence

induces around this point in our twenty-something lives. In

landscapes. I’ll admit, my images were remarkably unin-

Feature, our writer reflects on the similarities but mostly the

spired; what was originally an exciting look into the quirks

differences between their youth and that of their mother.

of my little college world had become a played-out motif. All

Meanwhile, in Narrative, our writers think about the homes

I had to explain myself: “I’ve got to get out of Providence.”

that exist in their memories, whether those be of their

Thankfully, I shall soon. Wherever you choose to spend

mother or of the haircuts they have given and received. Our

your break, whether you are traveling far, staying near, or

A&C writers are looking towards all that makes them what

just floating in between, I hope you get the chance to pull up

they are, be it the type of person they are labeled as, or the

the most recent issue of post-. Maybe share it with whoever

feelings they have been floating in and around for years.

reminds you of home. :)

Finally, in Lifestyle, our writers think about the homes you can find in unconventional places, namely big, enveloping coats and your favorite bookstores. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to check out this week’s crossword; what’s more

Homeward bound,

Joe Maffa

A&C Managing Editor

NARRATIVE

Triptych of Bathroom Haircuts and other intimacies By emily tom illustrated by Emily Guan In one of my earliest memories I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet, wearing pajamas, a trash can between my feet. My mother is holding scissors as if she has just discovered what they are. She is a woman of many talents, but cutting hair is not one of them. Still, I let her try. Over and over, I let her try.

As a child, my hair was straight and never frizzy.

Blunt bangs over my forehead, a China-doll bob. Every two or three months, when my hair grew into my eyes, my mother would take the scissors out from behind the bathroom mirror and attempt to trim them. Every time, it would end with me in tears and my mother insisting It’s not that bad! It’s not that bad!

When I started middle school, I asked to go to a real hairdresser. My mother didn’t argue, which was surprising, because around this time, it felt as though every conversation we had turned into some sort of argument. I think this tends to happen to most mothers with daughters who remind them of themselves. To have a child, after all, is to spend a lifetime staring down the worst parts of yourself, then seeing them reflected in the very thing you’re meant to love.

The hairdresser was the only thing we agreed on.

My mother drove me to the salon. It was objectively better. My hair was smooth and evenly cut. My bangs fell perfectly, just above my eyebrows. I did not cry at the sight of myself.

Now that there are years between these moments and miles between my mother and me, I realize that the salon gave me the same haircut that my mother had. In photographs, we look almost identical from behind.

Maybe this is why I liked the way I looked more. To be a child, after all, is to be young enough to look up to your parents.

To tell the truth, there were times when I missed it—my mother’s hands tucking hair behind my ears, her fingers tilting my chin forward, the way her touch felt when my eyes were closed. I don’t know the last time my mother touched me that way. +++ I have inherited many things from my mother, but perhaps the most destructive is an unjustified confidence in my ability to cut hair.

My sister’s hair has always been a dream. It falls in

waves down to her waist. She’s been a hula dancer her whole life; when she moves, her hair flows behind her, effortless as a refrain.

The day before my sister was set to move to New York for her freshman year of college, the salon canceled her appointment. All she wanted was curtain bangs. We drove to the drugstore and bought a pair of scissors. As we stood in the checkout line, I told her, with complete conviction, It’s just a trim. It can’t be that hard.

I was wrong. There my sister was, hair wet from the shower. The bathroom light was surgically bright. I tried to walk around her to grab the scissors and I tripped over her feet. I tried to pin some hair out of her face and I poked her in the eye. I didn’t think I was nervous but my hands were shaking. I cut off about four inches, then asked, How short did you want it again?

She shrugged. Just a trim, she said.

Oh, I said. I tossed a clump of hair in the sink. I think I’m done.

My sister looked at herself. Her bangs were two inches long, a harsh black hyphen over her forehead. Oh my god, she said. What did you do?

Before I could respond, our mom walked in. She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide as saucers, as if she had just walked in on a murder scene. My dad came in next. He did what we all do in times of crisis—he started laughing. And the house was filled with the sound of my sister saying ohmygod and whatdidyoudo, and I kept saying It doesn’t look that bad! and my mom kept staring at the hair in the sink with her mouth open, and my dad kept laughing for so long that he needed to hold the door frame to keep from falling over.

I spent the rest of the night saying sorry, but I also could not stop laughing, and it’s hard to apologize sincerely when you’re smiling. I did feel bad, though. My sister was about to leave home for the first time, and I had given her the same haircut she’d had when she was five.

1. Your post-grad plans 2. Hamilton Roblox Simulator 3. Roe v. Wade 4. Physician-assisted suicide 5. Your new piercing 6. Your aunt’s ex-husband 7. Switching from pre-med to Medieval Studies 8. Your favorite class, Pornography 9. Telltale signs of a failing marriage 10. Lil Nas X

Yet I knew that this was the sort of story we would all find ourselves telling years from now. Her hair would grow back and we would grow up and one day we would be seated at a dinner table together, not at our parents’ house but at my own (because in this future I am an adult with the money to live in a house and host a dinner party), and my dad would turn to my sister and say, Remember that time Emily ruined your hair right before you left for college? We would laugh, and then someone would ask who was ready for dessert.

But that night my sister just fumed on the couch. The four of us watched When Harry Met Sally together. Every time the screen went dark, my sister caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection, and she’d start complaining all over again. My dad just laughed. +++ After the diagnosis, my father told my mother that, if she lost her hair to chemo, he would shave his head too.

My mother looked at him, horrified, and said, Honey, I love you, but you would look so bad bald!

In another universe, maybe both my parents lost their hair, my mother to her illness and my father to his devotion. But neither of those things happened, and this, I think, is why I’m able to find the story funny. Still, whenever I tell it, no one laughs but me.

I’ve never cut my own hair, but I’ve stood in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of scissors and stared at myself until my face was no longer my face. I’ve imagined the sound of the snip, the hair falling past my eyes, the strands wilting in the sink like a rotten bouquet.

But when the time comes to make the cut, I never do.

I have never trusted myself enough, which is to say, when things go wrong I don’t know how to forgive myself. It’s easier when my redemption relies on someone I love, and I don’t know if I’ve ever loved myself. I would rather be the one with my eyes closed. I would rather let someone else hold the blade.

“I could probably euthanize you tonight, if you wanted. I have a lot of drugs.”

“He’s my boyfriend AND he’s a YuGi-Oh champion.”

November 16, 2023

3

NARRATIVE

Playing Home

searching for roots as a secondgeneration transplant by liza kolbasov Illustrated by Icy Liang

My mother’s childhood was full of plants made into toys. The last time I was in Moscow—11 years ago now, the memories are growing rusty—she shared them with me, introducing me to the many plants that could become playthings, even in a big city. There were the “touch-menot” plants, “nedotroga,” which had thin, caterpillar-like seed pods that exploded into ribboning swirls when touched, spraying seeds everywhere. I would search everywhere for a ripe one to tap with my finger, squealing as I watched its exuberant release. Apparently, they’re native to the Himalayas and considered an invasive species in the EU. I’m not entirely sure how they made it into the Soviet Union during my mother’s childhood all those years ago or if Russia considers them invasive.

I surely did my fair share to spread their unwanted seedlings in every city park and square, as did every other child pleased by the pop of a seed spitting itself to pieces.

Then there were the seed pods of the acacia, which my mother showed me how to de-seed and turn into whistles by twisting the green flesh. Those, too, I looked for everywhere, although I never really mastered that art to the extent that she did. For her, they’d make a sharp, shrill sound, while for me, they barely whispered. And then, of course, the woodland adventures. We’d take the elektrichka commuter rail 40 kilometers or so out of the city, and spend the day weaving through the woods, gathering raspberries and mushrooms. California is full of beautiful national parks, and we’d go hiking often when I was a kid, up and down the hills on carefully marked and delineated trails. The trails in the Russian woods, though, are different, not outlined with painted signposts but laid out by years and years of adventuring feet.

Once in a while, while running through the woods pretending to be a fairy or in search of the perfect raspberry bush, I’d invariably stumble into a patch of nettles and emerge with my skin burning and red. Children in Russia—cruel little things, like children everywhere— even have a trick named after the nettles. They grab your arm, twisting the skin on it hard in either direction until it stings, yelling “krapivka!” Kind of like “Mercy,” putting 4

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the other in pain until they beg you to stop, inspired by summers spent playing in the woods.

Nettles were a different beast, and when I stumbled into them, it was a rite of passage. Like how I would come back to my grandmother’s one-bedroom in the city—the one my mother grew up in, rooms stuffed with motheaten clothing and trinkets collected from a lifetime of scarcity, knowing to never throw anything away, just in case—with ankles covered with mosquito bites. I’d wake up in the morning and spend a blissful, damning 10 minutes scratching at the red welts until they bled. This was the cost of collecting edible treats from the forest floor: mushrooms my mother would sauté with sour cream and onions, berries I’d cram into my mouth, wood sorrels that tasted sour and delicious. In California, we never ate anything from the woods because it’s hard to tell what’s poisonous and what’s not. But this was my mother’s home turf. She knew what mushrooms we could eat, the names of all the plants. The streets, the metro stops, how to get around. Lots of things had changed in twenty years, but she could still find her way more easily then than she could back in California.

I’ve never had a good sense of direction, and I don’t think there’s any place I could find my way around without looking at a map. Plus, I’m a very cautious person: When we go hiking in California, I take care to stay on the trails, to avoid any unidentified plants. Going to summer camp as a kid, when my parents would drop me off at a farm in the woods for two weeks, served as my yearly foray into nature. I was scared of the farm animals, the poison oak, and the sounds that came from the middle of the night.

When I think of home, I think of the rolling hills with their dry grass, and the way the sun tints the sky purple at 5 p.m. in late November. I think about the palm trees growing incongruously over the strip mall parking lot outside the Peet’s Coffee where I studied for every high school exam. I think of the winding paths down from the Foothills, and the dried-out canals, and the sky—blue and stretching itself sparse. Nature, too, I suppose. Nature, not playful and approachable, but vast and sunny and

California-esque.

I’ve never been to Moscow in the winter, so for me Russia exists only as an oppressively hot, muggy place—a metropolis from which you can only escape into the comfort of an air-conditioned museum, or else into someone’s summer house in the shady woods. I know the rest of it only from stories: the ones where my parents, as children, would buy ice cream on their way home from school in December. They ate at lightning speed to avoid getting caught by their parents, who would be furious at their kids for eating ice cream in the freezing cold. The ice skating lessons my mother hated so much she simply refused to put on her skates. Woolen winter school uniforms, and frozen red noses, and all the other things that come with growing up in a place where it snows.

Moscow is home for my mother. Despite the fact that it’s been over 20 years since she’s actually lived in my grandmother’s one-bedroom, with its tiny blue kitchen and violets growing on the balcony. Despite the fact that the brief hope for a better political environment after the ’90s faded away like a mirage of colorful smoke. Despite the fact that reading the news hurts and she’s not even sure, anymore, that she could set foot in the country and get back out again. She doesn’t know how, or if, she’ll ever see her mother again. I think, sometimes, about the way this home country has been wrenched away from her grasp, made into a place she can no longer visit. Invariably, when she talks about this home now, I feel a twist of guilt in my chest.

I don’t know that I can feel this level of love, of home, of commitment to California. I don’t know what to do with our native plants—besides the fact that you’re not allowed to pick California poppies—and I rarely feel a yearning for our sky in my chest when I’m away. I certainly feel no connection to America—or, for that matter, to Russia. Is it something I should feel, this dreaming of home? Has my parents’ uprooting made me, also, rootless?

Maybe it’s enough to just twist my fingers into the grass, wherever I am, and breathe in the scent of whatever floats in the air.

ARTS & CULTURE

Writing ‘Around,’ as Guided by Jensen Mcrae’s “Good Legs” an exercise in three parts

by Alaire Kanes Illustrated by audrey wijono Serendipity is not a feeling I’d expect to experience often, but somehow, I do. Songs, words, and people seemingly come into my life right when I need them most.

Last week, my playwriting instructor imparted some words to me that I’ll never forget. “I know what feeling I want to convey in this piece,” I said tentatively, censoring myself as I spoke, “but I don’t really know, like, how to actually do it?”

I’d been having writer's block, too deeply submerged in a depressive episode, too detached from reality to feel any feeling besides general malaise. I couldn’t quite identify my emotions precisely enough to write; it became difficult to identify the exact location of my pain—which is, unfortunately, my usual starting tactic for most creative processes.

Kathy, with grace and wisdom, scribbled on her notepad, quickly holding up a drawing of a solid dot in the middle of a few roughly drawn circles. “If this here is the core of an emotion,” she said, pointing at the dot with her pen, “you can let yourself write around it, like these circles. You don’t have to write through it.”

Like clockwork, later that day, a cherished friend (with a helluva good taste in music) shared a song recommendation: “Good Legs,” by Jensen McRae, a song which manages to work around a range of coming-of-age emotions. Her deeply emotive lyrics become inextricably intertwined with her rich, disarming tone. In “Good Legs,” McRae writes with impressive authenticity and candor, pairing point-blank observations with keen metaphors. Her words and melodies evoke emotions strong enough, specific enough, nostalgic enough to make you stop whatever you’re doing and think—think, remember, and feel. We might be hearing her music, her vulnerabilities, but somehow, she is seeing us too.

“Good Legs” is sonically reminiscent of the Sheryl

Crow songs my dad used to play in the car on the ride home from soccer practice as a kid. It moves with a slow yet steady pacing. The song is nostalgic of simpler times, like something out of an early 2000s romance movie, when girls fell in love, against all odds, and were probably also praised for their really tiny legs. As someone who has ordered more than a few pairs of extra wide calf boots in my life, someone who has slowly grown out of my unrealistic and misogynistic romantic expectations, I anticipated that this song might be hard to relate to. I was wrong.

Although “Good Legs'' is colored with the strain of a confusing, achingly bittersweet relationship (and perhaps undertones of performing gender and the unsettling feeling of accepting, even praising, male objectification), it’s a song about appreciating the was, the is, and the could bes, all at once. McRae takes her listener through various temporal lines, situating us in the past, present, and future of our relationships. Although we return to iterations of the same chorus, her verses jump from moment to moment, skipping around in time and space, circling around, around, and around the emotion until we, the listener, are aptly situated within it.

How to write around a feeling, then, is the question, the challenge, the thrill. I have only begun to attempt here.

With the help of McRae (and Kathy—thanks, Kathy!), of course.

— The bolded lyrics below are from “Good Legs.” Highly recommend listening to the song as you read!

1. “I think I learned from you / I think I love the girl you made me / Bled out what hurt from you / It’s worthy work but now I’m dizzy.”

One time, you told me I wasn’t very observant. The thought made me dizzy because you were right. I’m not

the most observant person, am I? I didn’t notice the color of the shirt you were wearing, or how many people had passed us by on the street, or, as you pointed out that particular day, the rich color of the bricks on the campus buildings I walked by each day on my way to class. “‘I dunno. I guess I’ve just never noticed the architecture.”

I shrugged. “You’re not a very observant person,” you responded. You were the first person, and hopefully the last, to tell me that.

I couldn’t even pretend to disregard your comment.

I immediately peppered you with questions about your perception of my perception of the world, pretending I found it funny, when in reality, I was deeply rattled. It’s not that you were wrong, or being mean; in fact, I think you were actually onto something. I just didn’t expect an honest call out from you of all people (what a brash assumption that was, that your gentleness precluded your honesty). I felt bare, standing on the side of Thayer Street, with you a few steps ahead, looking up—at the bricks of a building, of course. I wasn’t ready to be seen fully, by you, especially not for what I viewed then as my faults. I was unmoored seeing myself through your eyes.

It took a while, after things ended, to find myself back in my own view.

I’m observant in other ways. Perhaps in interpersonal ways, or in introspective ways, in ways that focus more on the interior world than the exterior world. Only when walking down Thayer the other day, past those same bricks you ever-so-aptly noticed a year ago, did I notice something about myself, about us: it was worthy work, being with you. Hearing that sentence from you was worth it to reconcile with my imperfections.

Experiencing heartbreak from you was worth it.

(At least I can observe that.)

2. “Kissed me with a nervous tongue / Neither of us had chewing gum / I had almost sobered up / But your laughter got me drunk.”

The second time we kissed, I went straight from kissing you to…touching your eyeball—admittedly not the sexiest of make-out moves. I was so excited, talking to you, telling you about my night, gesturing so wildly, that I poked you, hard, in the left eye.

I’m surprised I didn’t scratch your cornea or blind you. I think we did blind each other—obscuring our mutual judgment with the fact that we weren’t very good

November 16, 2023

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ARTS & CULTURE together. We didn’t make a very good couple. No, even though you made me laugh harder than anyone else could, even though you made me feel like myself (a rarity in high school), we just weren't good together. I tell myself that, at least.

I had been at my friend Amber’s house that night. When you texted me saying you were down the street from her house, I ran outside, quickly placing that second kiss on your mouth. My breath probably smelled bad—neither of us had chewing gum, though, but it didn’t really matter, anyway.

We had our first real kiss a few weeks earlier, sitting on a splintered wooden bench in the park beside my house. I lied to my friends, telling them you had been the first one to lean in, when in reality, it was clearly me. I remember your laugh.

I used to think it was the most glorious sound I’d ever heard. Even when I messed up or hurt you, you’d always laugh, sometimes with me, but most of the time, at me. I had the safety of knowing your making fun of me was out of love; I reveled in the comfortable knowledge that nothing I could do would change your opinion of me. Even poking you, really fucking hard, in the eye.

We giggled, walking in the middle of the empty suburban road, pavement slick with water from the neighborhood’s overactive sprinklers, laughing so hard we stumbled around like drunk teenagers.

3. “I don’t mind missing you / I don’t mind building up the muscle / It was an honor risking you / A losing bet but you were worth the trouble.”

Apparently, I have a really enlarged left masseter, the muscle that you engage when you chew. The oh-so-charming jaw specialist who judged my asymmetrical facial appearance like it was his job (it was!) was shocked by how intensely I had built up that one particular muscle.

To me, though, asymmetry is a sign of life, a sign of the perfectly imperfect. My asymmetrical jaw, besides being the cause for occasional TMJ related pain, is kind of an awesome quirk, an unpredictable element of life that reflects that something has been of use. This muscle has helped me to eat and enjoy and savor and live. How beautiful is that!

When I told you this story, a long while after it happened, you laughed, really, really hard. We were walking so fast down the park that I didn’t even have time to stop and look at you. The words bubbled out of my mouth impossibly quickly; I was just giddy to be there with you, to be talking with you, after so long. We’d broken up years and years before, but I was stuck in the past, and as usual, I was too selfindulgent to start focusing on anything else but the before. But I didn’t mind, and I still don’t mind, the muscle I have built up over time, the one that is used to missing you, to thinking of you, to remembering moments of you.

It was a losing bet, you and I together. We didn’t work out, after all. I think you were worth the trouble; I’m not so sure if you’d say the same about me.

— I’ve been orbiting planes of emotion that I can’t quite identify. In practicing writing around those feelings—learning from McRae’s circular storytelling techniques—I’ve become comfortable with the haziness. I circle around my past loves, around past versions of me, of you, of us, catching scattered memories in the way you cup fireflies on a sweet summer’s evening. Somehow, this practice, a serendipitous gift from Kathy, is even more healing than writing through could ever be.

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Am I Still Your Type? on trends and types of people

by Eleanor Dushin Illustrated by Caroline Houser Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time with the people who love me. I watch the date change on my

likes Van Gogh and the color yellow. We are constantly pushed in and out of trends, forcing us to reinvent our

phone as 11:59 turns to midnight, wondering which day they’ll decide that I’m not their type of person anymore. I think I’ve found my people: they know me, they love me, and they make this known. But there’s something about being 19 and online that makes all my neuroses fall off the shelf. I think I’m approaching some expiration date. Surely, the day must come when they realize I’m not quite what they want. The clock turns to 12:01 and I hope I remain loved for the next 1,439 minutes. +++ I consider technology a net positive force, but its catalyzing impact on trends is undeniable. Recently, we’ve replaced decade-long trends with microtrends that last just a few months. Information moves quickly, and it no longer comes solely from Vogue or local influences. Since the advent of social media, information comes from millions of people. Platforms designed to share opinions seem to be telling you what to wear, what to listen to, and what to read.

From the mid-2010s’ grown-up “normcore” to 2020’s tennis skirts and House of Sunny dresses to 2023’s “blokette” (bloke + coquette) style and Margiela Tabi revival, they come quickly, they go quicker, and we forget about them in due time.

Today’s trends aren’t limited to fashion. As with subcultures of the late 20th century, certain trends and aesthetics signal interests and identity. The way someone dresses speaks to the media they consume, and that media becomes a way to define them. These definitions exist regardless of whether the person

perceptions of self. Not only do we exist as types of people, but we only exist as a certain type of person for a limited time until we expire and move on to the next box.

Artists, musicians, and authors seek to instill a certain beauty in their work. By defining ourselves by our interests, we signal the self as the object of aesthetic admiration and value. It’s easier to be seen as beautiful (either outwardly or inwardly) or interesting because you like Wong Kar-wai films rather than for your values, beliefs, and behaviors. True expression undefined by abstract ideas, media, and art puts us in a vulnerable position: when we sever identity from external sources of beauty, judgments become more personal. +++ Even admitting to true interests can be an act of vulnerability. Post-COVID-19 fashion mimics the trend of bright and energetic comebacks from national tragedies (see also post-9/11 optimistic patriotism, post-WWI flappers), but combined with the push for individuality and sustainable consumption as a response to the climate crisis, there’s been a recent move towards personalized and “true” senses of style. Users like @ tinyjewishgirl and @myramagdalen promote “dressing how you want,” but such individualized outfits face relentless criticism on the internet. Comment sections contain as many compliments as remarks calling them “disgusting” and “delusional.” Free expression, in the case that it does not fit neatly into a pre-existing box, faces the threat of animosity.

When these boundaries to authentic and individualized expressions of interests exist, how do we expect to accept authentic expressions of ourselves?

truly enjoys that media; they’re based on reductive patterns and extrapolations. That girl wearing Levis and smudged mascara is now a femme-fatale-GoneGirl-cigarettes-The-Virgin-Suicides-Fiona-Apple type of girl (incidentally, this is also how I describe my roommate’s cat). Your friend is no longer just wearing lace camisoles and red lip gloss—now she’s a coquetteLana-Del-Rey-Mary-Janes-Lolita type of girl. But as certain physical trends go out of style, these “types” follow suit. As cuffed jeans and Fjällräven Kånken backpacks went out of style, so did the “art hoe” who

When disclosure of the self exists within a superficial sphere of dressing in a way that’s true to yourself or being proud of the music you listen to regardless of what others think, how can we turn the focus of expression to personhood? +++ Entirely media-based definitions of people remain largely on the internet (although I’ve definitely called someone “the Carhartt-single-stitch-T-shirt-filmphotography-Underground kind of guy”), but the idea

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of the existence of a type of person reverberates into everyday life. We define ourselves by interests, hobbies, jobs, and schools. We distinguish people we know based on our perceptions of what “type” of person they are. These categories come from the way we see them through their surroundings and interests, not how we may see them as people. Identity sometimes seems to circle around everything but who you actually are.

Beneath layers of superficiality lie the real essences of being human: unique thought patterns, emotions, hopes, fears, and values.

A week ago, I was talking to a friend about how I conceptualized him. I struggled to find the words to describe him singularly because we were only speaking relative to other people. I’ve been so trained to compartmentalize people, even people I’m close to, as types of people rather than individuals. I couldn’t just describe him as kind or put-together or confident—I felt that I wouldn’t have described him well enough if I hadn’t told him who he’s similar to or what media he seems like he would consume. At the same time, I didn’t think that just telling him he seems like the type of guy to paint his nails and listen to Radiohead would capture him fully. +++ I worry about everything these days. I worry about the way people see me. I worry that I’m not seen as a person. When someone tells me that I’m the same type of person as someone I admire, I don’t know if I should take it as a compliment or consider that maybe they just don’t know us that well. We might both wear big jackets and knitwear and listen to Big Thief, but I don’t think that means much.

I worry that I’m only in style right now. There’s nothing I can do if I’m just seen as a type of person; that much is out of my control. But what if I’m just seen as a trend? Maybe everything I like will be considered terrible in two years. I’m tired of watching the clock.

I suppose that when I worry about other people changing faster than I do, my issue isn’t with remaining one type of person as they change to another. My issue is with being a type of person at all.

I don’t want to be a type of girl—part of a category. I don’t want to market myself based on what I like. I don’t want to exist solely in relation to others. I don’t want you to think I’m cool because I like Elliott Smith and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I want you to know me.

Notes on Coats a guide to winter coats for campus

by Sean Toomey Illustrated by Ella Buchanan I imagine many of you have been hunkered down in your dorms throughout the neverending slew of midterms, surviving solely off of acerbic Ratty coffee and 1 a.m. Jo’s runs. But, if you’ve had the time to peek your head out of your window and onto your respective quadrangle, I’m sure you’ve noticed that it’s really damn cold all of a sudden. Personally, I’m not complaining. It’s my seasonal chance to show off my cold weather layers, which is exactly what we’re talking about today. It’s 2023—the Roaring Twenties—and a black North Face puffer layered over a gray Champion hoodie isn’t cutting it anymore. What you need is a great big overcoat, and I’ll be going over a few of my favorite options that I hope to see around town.

Before we start, I’d like to get some details out of the way: Don’t go for a tiny lapel overcoat that ends before the knees; those days are over. Instead, go for at least knee length or calf length if you’re cool like me. Similarly, for fit I recommend a looser fitting, more comfortable coat.

Remember that overcoats are meant to be worn with layers underneath so don’t go buying one that’ll make you look like a particularly appetizing hot dog. Without further ado, your options: Camel hair polo coat: It seems like I mention this coat in every other article, but it’s such a classic item that I can’t help it. Made from camel hair and featuring long lapels, patch pockets, a back belt, and double breasted closure, the polo coat is a timeless piece of American style. It can essentially be worn with any outfit, both formal and casual. I would recommend this coat with anything you have in your closet, from suits to sweaters, from jeans to literal pajamas for an early morning Ratty run. If you’ve seen me around campus, chances are I’m the guy with the giant tan coat. A thing to keep in mind while looking for one of these is that they’re pretty rare and rather expensive (unless you’re willing to spend $2500 on a brand new Ralph Lauren one). All the classic, preppy menswear guys have come around to them, so the demand is high for a pretty small

supply pool. Your best bet is to keep an eye out for cheap ones from estate sales on eBay or get lucky at a vintage market or Goodwill.

Belted overcoat: Another favorite of mine, and particularly good for the cozy hot chocolate vibes we all covet, is the belted overcoat. These come in many shapes and sizes, but the best are the big, 80’s style double-breasted coats with belts, or wrap coats that just remove buttons from the equation entirely and function as a giant wool robe.

These coats are the best because they make you feel like you never actually got out of bed that day, and really encourage those intrusive thoughts about bringing your comforter to class. These coats trend more on the casual side so I’d primarily wear them with other cozy layers like thick tweeds, shetland sweaters, weathered jeans or chinos, and really beat up loafers or sneakers. Look out for raglan sleeves—attached in one piece to the coat with no padding—for maximum comfort and a slouchy silhouette.

Duffle Coat: Popularized during WWII, a duffle is a large and roomy—almost sack-like—coat, fastened by wood and rope toggles across the front instead of buttons. If the belted overcoat makes you feel like you’ve never left your bed, the duffle coat is like wearing a living mattress store. A good one is generally made from very heavy wool, roomy enough to take however many layers you might need for the cold, and has a large hood. Personally, I like it because it makes me feel like Paddington, and who doesn’t want that? The most common colors are tan and navy blue but if you look, you can find vintage ones from Polo Ralph Lauren in fun rustic patterns, occasionally even made of leather and shearling. The duffle coat is a very utilitarian garment; I find it goes best with items like sweaters and jeans rather than blazers and suits, unless they are made of a very casual or sporty fabric. It’s best to wear the duffle for early morning classes when the idea of waking up early to look your best is too much for a Tuesday at 9 a.m..

The only downside is that most duffles are knee length or shorter so your legs might be a little cold if you’re not packing warm socks.

There are so many more coats I could recommend— trench coats, alpaca hair, the classic tweed balmacaan, navy guards coat—but with any of the three discussed above, you should be warm and stylish enough to make it through the cold and windy Providence winter. Don’t forget to tag me when you find your perfect coat.

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Which Independent Providence Bookstore Are You?

When it comes to shops around Providence, most of us know about restaurants, cafés, and thrift stores. But how many local bookstores have you been to? (The Brown Bookstore doesn’t count.) Here in PVD, there is an amazing selection of independent bookstores with unique themes and beautiful decor. Take this quiz to see which you should visit next weekend to bring home some new books!

don’t judge a bookstore by its popularity

by Tiffany Kuo Illustrated by Emily Saxl

vibe. b. Andrews: It’s quick, convenient, and has predictable options. c. Ivy Room: I like that it always serves smoothies—I come up with a different combination every week. d. Ratty: It’s big, it’s got options, and it’s where I see most of my friends.

Center—right across from Kow Kow! They have a diverse, carefully-curated collection of contemporary literature, though you can also find children’s books and nonfiction.

The owners are extremely knowledgeable and have read most of the titles they sell—I highly recommend striking up a conversation with them!

1. What library do you usually study at? a. I don’t study in libraries: I prefer prettier places like Rhode Island Hall, Leung Family Gallery, etc. b. The Hay: I love how fancy and majestic it looks! c. The SciLi: The brutalist design and intense environment—being surrounded by stressed CS majors—really force me to focus. d. The Rock: How could you say no to such a classic college library?

4. What genre of music do you listen to?

Bedroom Pop: I love soft girl music—I’m always chilling to Men I Trust and Clairo.

Indie Pop: This label is cringey but I love artists like boygenius and Kevin Abstract (and all other former BROCKHAMPTON members, of course).

Shoegaze: You’ll see me listening to depressing music like Have A Nice Life and Slowdive while I study.

Rap: I love hype music that gets me going— Kendrick Lamar and King Von are some faves.

If you picked mostly B: Symposium Books Symposium is your typical indie bookstore— it’s got beautiful decorations, a great variety of books, and comfy chairs for you to sit on while you read. It’s downtown near Kennedy Plaza, so you can make an afternoon of your trip by visiting nearby thrift shops and cafés (I love Small Point Coffee).

2. Which book is on your to-read list? a. Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado: Contemporary feminist literature is my type of beat. b. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides: I’ve got to read this Pulitzer-winning novel by an alumni author! c. Dune by Frank Herbert: Sci-fi and epic adventure stories are so exciting to me. d. Emma by Jane Austen: I am a classics lover at heart.

5. Where would you go for a Saturday afternoon off campus?

Thrifting: Whether it’s the Savers nearby or the more pricey Urban Thread, I enjoy digging for gems in a nearby thrift store.

RISD Museum: A free afternoon surrounded by beautiful art sounds ideal to me.

India Point Park: I love to go on walks to reconnect with nature.

Coffee Shops: I’d hop on the RIPTA to try out all the cute cafés around Providence!

3. Which dining hall would you go to on a Wednesday evening? a. VDub: I’m willing to make the trek for a Shawarma bowl and the classic dining hall

If you picked mostly A: Twenty Stories This indie bookstore is run by two owners who hand-pick 20 books to highlight for the month and is only a 15-minute walk from Grad

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8. If you picked mostly C: Lovecraft Arts & Science Did you know that H.P. Lovecraft was from Providence? This eerie bookstore celebrates all kinds of “weird fiction,” including sci-fi, horror, and fantasy. Don’t be intimidated by the huge statue of Medusa staring you down— the workers are always up for a conversation!

9. If you picked mostly D: Books on the Square Books on the Square is the kind of local bookstore you wish you could grow up in— it is family and dog-friendly, sells Jellycat stuffed animals, and hosts author events. It is a classic local independent bookstore in every way—there are soft carpeted floors and customers who have visited for decades. It’s only 20 minutes away at Wayland Square, so I recommend taking a nice walk over there with friends!

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Additionally post- mini crossword 19

by Aj wu

1

2

3

5

4

6

7

8

Down

Across

1 Bone that's a bit of a tease

1 When he ___ what he sows

4 Units of an excel sheet

2 Minnesota representative Omar

Faith that follows the Báb and the

6 Universal House of Justice 7 Big name in shapewear 8 Mid-semester regret over not choosing this grade option

3 Sauvignon ___ 4 NBC Rival 5 Half a dozen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kimberly Liu

“The reality of life—as distressing and unsettling as it may be—is that very little happens for a reason. There is no irrepressible plan or automatic response, as we observe in biological processes. There are often events for which we can find no justification, no sanity or sense. Bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people.”

—Zoe Creane, “Facing Death” 11.19.21

“Green thumbs are not green but a dark, sunkissed shade of brown, speckled lovingly with sunspots and creased deeply and irreversibly with age.”

—Audrey Wijono, “King of Fruit” 11.18.22

Section Editors Emily Tom Anaya Mukerji

FEATURE Managing Editor Klara Davidson-Schmich

LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Tabitha Lynn

Section Editors Addie Marin Elaina Bayard

Section Editors Jack Cobey Daniella Coyle

ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Joe Maffa

HEAD ILLUSTRATORS Emily Saxl Ella Buchanan

Section Editors Elijah Puente Rachel Metzger

COPY CHIEF Eleanor Peters

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Katheryne Gonzalez

Copy Editors Indigo Mudhbary Emilie Guan Christine Tsu

SOCIAL MEDIA HEAD EDITORS Kelsey Cooper Tabitha Grandolfo Kaitlyn Lucas LAYOUT CHIEF Gray Martens Layout Designers Amber Zhao Alexa Gay STAFF WRITERS Dorrit Corwin Lily Seltz Alexandra Herrera Liza Kolbasov Marin Warshay Gabrielle Yuan Elena Jiang Will Hassett Daphne Cao

Aalia Jagwani AJ Wu Nélari Figueroa Torres Daniel Hu Mack Ford Olivia Cohen Ellie Jurmann Sean Toomey Emily Tom Ingrid Ren Evan Gardner Lauren Cho Laura Tomayo Sylvia Atwood Audrey Wijono Jeanine Kim Ellyse Givens Sydney Pearson Samira Lakhiani Cat Gao Lily Coffman Raima Islam Tiffany Kuo

Want to be involved?

Email: mingyue_liu@brown.edu!

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