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Post- magazine, September 27, 2012

Post- magazine, September 27, 2012

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Published by: The Brown Daily Herald on Sep 27, 2012
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11/29/2012

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   V  O   L   U   M   E   1  4  -    I  S  S   U   E    2  -   S   E   P   T   E   M   B   E   R    2   7
   i  n   t   h   i  s    i  s  s  u e...
   b  e  e  s ,    n  u  d   i   t  y  ,    p  a  r   k  s ,    r  e  c  r  e  a   t   i  o  n
 
2
upfront
Editor- and Editrix-in-Chief
Clayton AldernJennie Young Carr
 Managing Editor of Features
Zoë Hoffman
 Managing Editor of Arts & Culture
Alexa Trearchis
Managing Editor of Lifestyle
Rémy Robert
 Features Editor
Kathy Nguyen
 Arts & Culture Editors
Claire LuchetteBen Resnik
 Lifestyle Editor
Cassie Packard
 Serif Sheriff
Clara Beyer
 Large Plaid Asian
Phil Lai
 Staff Writer
Lily Goodspeed
Staff Illustrators
Marissa IlardiMadeleine DenmanAdela WuSheila Sitaram
our illustrators
dress rehearsal for nudity in the upspace.
 We’re sick. Not like ph-sick, either. It appearsthe majority o the campus is with us. TeBrown plague has struck, everyone. Te Brownplague has struck everyone.Trough our blubbering eyes and congestedeverything else, we oer you this week’s
Post-
. We have shaped it rom our blood, sweat, tears,and miscellaneous other uids. (oo much?) We want the magazine to be everything to youthat it is to us. Use it as a coping mechanism asyou lay alone hacking in bed. Use it to strike upa conversation in Health Services: Maybe you’llend up hacking in bed with someone else. Writea response paper. Use it as tissue. But only ateryou’ve memorized the articles.So curl up with your copy, stir a heaping spoon-ul—or three—o honey into your herbal tea,and get the buzz on Brown’s Beekeeping Club. Yep, there’s a Brown Beekeeping Club; and ithas a larger membership than
Post-
. (So start writing or us, you lazy beekeeping *cks.)I you are not, by some miracle, sick, don’tbother reading us this week. We don’t even likeyou. We are coughing spiteully in your direc-tion. Tere’s nothing or you here.Passionately and perunctorily,
 jennie and clay editor’s note
contents
3 upfront 
lying and the female pickup artist //cara dorrisspeechless in central europe //mintaka angell
4 feature
a glimmer of knope // tonya riley
5 arts & culture
the secret strife of the brown bee-keeper // claire luchettetasteful nudes // gopika krishna
6 arts & culture
waffles and beets // adam davis
7 lifestyle
the girl who ate everything // rémyrobertbreast protest // MM
8 lifestyle
crossing the threshold // tanya singhpost- it notestop ten
Cover
Phil Lai
a glimmer of knope
 Elizabeth Berman
speechless in central europe
Adela Wu
waffles and beets
Emily Reif
tasteful nudes
Sheila Sitaram
the secret strife of the brownbeekeeper
Madeleine Denman
the girl who ate everything
Marissa Ilardi
 
3
Tis summer I visited a small-town barand met a 27-year-old ex-law student. He wasangry and lost. He said his university educa-tion was a waste. He said he was saddled withendless loans, trapped in a low-paying job ina miserable town—araid he would never getmarried. He was counting down the days un-til he could leave: 59 days, only 59 more days.I listened. I said my name was Emily. I was23 and also out o college, a ashion writeror a non-paying online magazine. My Eng-lish degree was impractical; my our years ata tiny Midwestern college let me expendable.My hobbies included Bikram yoga and hot wax painting. I hoped to eventually becomea ight attendant.Tese were all complete lies. In act, I am19. I am an undergraduate student at BrownUniversity. I can barely operate a hot glue gunand once sprained my ankle slipping on a yoga mat. My ashion sense is subpar. I havebigger dreams than serving instant coee touncomortable passengers.I am not Emily.Te things I told him were white lies, stu-pid lies—lies that prevent a hookup rom everturning into a relationship.So why lie?I lied or the same reason many girls lieto guys: ear. I was araid I would seem toohappy, too witty, too naïve, too needy, toosel-assured.I’m not the only one. Economics concen-trators pretend they study visual arts. Girls who like rap pretend they love rock. DevoutChristians insist they are biannual churchgo-ers.Sometimes I think a woman’s greatest earis being too much.So I made sure I wasn’t. I laughed at hiscynical jokes and quietly replied with smallquips o my own. I made mysel unavailable,disappearing when he returned rom smok-ing a cigarette and only reappearing to talk toother people. When I returned, I made sureI didn’t touch him. I didn’t brush his arm orhands. I didn’t talk about mysel unless asked.I really wanted to tell him that he was justanother victim o the lost generation—notthe one that drove Hemingway and Ger-trude Stein to Paris, but the one that’s driving graduates toward jobs as baristas and cashiers.I wanted to tell him that a college degreedoesn’t mean much anymore, that marriagemay not be the norm or a generation terriedo commitment. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone.Instead I avoided the sentimental lan-guage. I didn’t want to sound too emotional.“You need to stop getting so down onyoursel, dude. You’re smart. You’re hot. Youcan do anything you want.”He then whispered in my ear the bleakestpickup line I have ever heard: “Are we going to your place or mine?”“How good is your air conditioning?”His air conditioner was broken, so we went to my apartment, where the thermostat was locked at 68 degrees. Ater it was all over and we ell asleep, he wanted to be the little spoon. He took all theblankets and hid himsel in a cold, blue co-coon. At 9 a.m. he got dressed and came to thekitchen to say goodbye. I continued typing onmy computer, eigning disinterest. He pacedthe room and opened the ridge. apping hisngers on the countertop, he nally asked,“So do you want my number?”I wanted to say yes: Yes, o course I wantyour number.Instead I asked, “Do you want to give itto me?”He scribbled something on a arget receiptand let.Te number was useless. It belonged toEmily, not me. And Emily didn’t have timeor that—she had to write another blog postabout this season’s most stylish socks.I know many girls who lie. Sometimes it’sor un. Sometimes it’s a relie rom Facebook and witter, rom the eeling o constant ex-posure.But sometimes it’s not un. Sometimes wedo it because we’re genuinely araid that ourpersonalities and desires will be too weird,that we’re too heavy or taking up too muchspace. We take note rom celebrities. We see e-male models with male comedians, attractive women with doctors and lawyers. For a girl,being unny or smart is not enough—some-times it’s even too much. So we caricature oursimplicities and mute our complexities.But you can only lie or so long. One nightI called the number on the receipt, not sure what to expect.“Peter? It’s Emily,” I said.“Emily?” A voice greeted me. But it wasn’t Peter’svoice. It was a little girl’s voice. And then I wondered i he was lying too.
speechless in central europe
hungary for words
“Ummm ….” I drew out the sound asI desperately ipped through my 
Lonely Planet 
pronunciation guide. My decisionto only barely learn the International Pho-netic Alphabet or my Linguistics examlast semester now seemed criminal. “
Seep.Oz seep eet.
” I accompanied this with a vague gesture toward the Hungarian coun-tryside serenely passing by outside the car window, hoping that my absolute butch-ery o my host mother’s language wouldsomehow come across as endearing.Te apologetic smile she gave me inreturn probably mirrored my cornered ex-pression in its awkwardness. ime to drag out my patchy knowledge o a smorgas-bord o languages. “
Schon
?
Belle 
? … Beau-tiul?
Seep. Seip. Seeb.
She sells sea shellsby the sea shore. I ail as a human being;I’m sorry—I swear I’m not normally thisincompetent at lie.”She craned her neck—alarmingly, as she was still driving—to look over my shoulderat my translation book and then grinned.“Ah, beautiul.
Szep
.
 Angol 
: beautiul.
 Mag- yar: szep
.” Tus my education in Magyar—the Hungarian language—began.Charlemagne once said that to know another language is to possess another soul, which I nd to be a gorgeous statement—and unortunate proo that he would ndme utterly unimpressive. My embarrass-ingly long-standing monolingualism cameto haunt me this summer when I traveledto some small villages in Hungary and Slo-vakia to teach English or six weeks. Faced with the prospect o living with host ami-lies who didn’t speak my language, I naively didn’t consider it a great concern. Nor didit ever cross my mind that no one else in thevillages would speak English either.It was then a shock to step o the trainin Bocölde, Hungary, to nd that or therst time in my lie I was unable to com-municate with anybody at all. Immersionin Magyar was a brutal wake-up call.First, I sounded like a complete idiot. Iquickly discarded the idea o learning theendishly dicult grammar and devotedmysel to expressing concepts in the con-tinuous present tense. I concentrated onlearning the words or everyday objects,emotions, and interactions, as well as, o course, or teaching—
ul 
(“sit”) and
 gy-eli 
(“listen”) were two o the rst wordsI learned. When mastering the phrase
szeretem porodiczam
(“I like tomatoes”) was the pinnacle o a day’s work, I had toadjust to taking things a little slower thanI was used to in English.Second, with this more gradual pacecame the understanding that it was impor-tant to learn not only the words themselvesbut also the context and nuance that colortheir meaning and use. Magyar pronouns,or instance, do not dierentiate betweengenders. My initial ignorance o this actled to complete disaster when I tried toplay a game o “I am/you are/she is/heis” in a class with my younger students.Surrounded by gleeul, riotous children,I recognized that language clearly shapes worldview. How could Iexpect to teach the Eng-lish words or genderdierentiation withoutexplaining the concept inthe rst place?Tird and most impor-tantly: Communicationinvolves vastly more thanmerely speaking words.Learning a language in a classroom consists o lists,tables, and tests. Learning a language in its home en-tails cooking with localsand laughing over eachother’s native words or“our”; or playing soccer with screaming, exhila-rated kids; or sitting at a barbeque and letting acestell the stories that thesteady stream o words cannot.Ultimately, learning another languagerequires valuing both eort and silence.Eort: Because nothing beats talking topeople in their own language and interact-ing with them on their terms. Tis meanttaking the plunge and speaking Magyar whenever I could, even though I stumbledover its sounds and clumsily wielded itsgrammar like a heavy club. Silence: Asduring one evening when a Hungarianriend and I walked along a lake at sun-set. Placing one hand on my shoulder, shepointed with the other to the water andtold me, “
Oron-hid,
” which transliteratesto “golden gate.” It took me a moment torealize that she meant not the lake itsel but the glistening column o light on itssurace. We stood together in shared si-lence to appreciate the beauty o the sun’sreection.Tere was no speech barrier, no orcedpressure to talk. Charlemagne was right.Something had moved between us: not theunctional sounds o communication, butits natural spirit.
Illustrated by Adela Wu
mintaka angellcontributing writercara dorriscontributing writer
upfront
lying and the female pickup artist 
a girl by any other name

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