As a first-year from across the country, I had no idea where to begin running. I knew I couldn’t run through campus—people looking at me? Being perceived? Absolutely not. But I had just gotten here and knew nothing about the city of Providence, aside from the fact that there once was a mayor who ...
My first two years at Brown have been characterized by late-night Jo’s runs and painfully long lines for a Saturday-morning Andrews burrito bowl. As much as I cherished those days, I don’t really miss stomachaches from suspicious macaroni and cheese or flavorless chicken (no shade though—I love ...
Little girls' brains are sticky as flytraps. When you're young, every facial expression you see, every word you read, and the smallest fragments of information all collect in the back of your brain. These details combine to form a kaleidoscope of beliefs that color everything around you, distorting ...
I am jealous of every single first-year. It’s a sad truth, but an honest one nonetheless. Sitting in an English seminar, populated by everyone from grad students to seventeen-year-old first-years, the range of ages jumps out, refusing to be subdued by the equalizing experience of the classroom. Despite ...
Pieces of praise. Type of poem. Flattering lines. Homage in verse. Ode!
To love is a beautiful ability. To hold another person’s life as more precious than your own, to stir at night remembering the warmth of their touch: there’s little in life we value more.
After hundreds of years of disruption, displacement, and colonial violence in Indonesia, I’m learning Dutch. Rudimentary, garbled Dutch, but Dutch nonetheless.
I know a girl who dances as easy as breathing.
There is no showcase for one’s carefully crafted aesthetic quite like the fall season. Fall is when the nice little leaves fall off the nice little trees and we all get to wear our nice little outfits before giving in to the sludge of winter. With that in mind, I’m dedicating these next few articles ...
I fumble with my keys as I try to juggle my umbrella, lanyard, and packages without dropping everything. I finally get a grasp on my green-nail-polish-spattered key, and sigh with relief as I slide it into the keyhole. I turn it to the right. The door doesn’t budge. I try again; the door remains shut. ...
“And the winner of poetry interpretation is…”
I. KNOWN FACTS ABOUT MY FATHER
While spiders have always paralyzed me, my greatest fear appeared when I least expected it, looming over me during moments of great happiness and great pain.
As I cast one final glance around my room, disappointment seeps into my heart. The unfulfilled part of me is saddened to feel nothing more than a single, temporary drop in my chest when thinking about moving away. It’s hard to miss something that has already been tainted by the notion of change, such ...
“‘I dream backwards now. You won’t believe how backwards you’ll dream someday.’”
