the Father, the son, and the spirit of performative feminism [A&C]
By Sofie Zeruto | March 19*Spoilers for The White Lotus Season 2
*Spoilers for The White Lotus Season 2
“It’s my fault / The way I broke the Earth / It’s my fault,” ANOHNI yearns repeatedly over a blanket of mellow guitar riffs. It’s an intimate moment that comes straight from the soul, exploring her positionality in society through music. The sultriness of her voice finds shelter in the acceptance ...
I take a rest on the oily, heat-stained seats of the L Train to Brooklyn. My feet tingle after the long summer walk to the station, buoyancy enveloping my limbs. I feel the body heat of a close friend from Brown next to me. She sports jorts. Classic. A navy tank top and rose-gold jewelry, too. She is ...
I’ve been meaning to get my screen protector changed for months now. It’s cracked beyond belief—still usable, but the unevenness of the glass skews the front camera’s lighting. I’ve never put one on myself, though. I wait for my dad to do it. Maybe I haven’t bought one yet because I’m ...
1.) Find a piano.
1.) Find a piano.
Make two wishes and say one of them aloud.
I practice curling my tongue, enunciating, moving my mouth in unfamiliar directions. The sounds of the spoken language ring true—I grew up listening to my mother tell me Chinese folktales of a woman stranded on the moon for infinity, or hovering above my shoulder to reprimand me for my poorly drawn ...
Palm to forehead, mouth agape, and wiping away my tears with a blanket, I have never had such a physically emotional response to a television show as the first time I watched Fleabag. The mini-series is a one-two punch: What begins as a comedy about the owner of a guinea pig cafe twists into a meditation ...
Fish don’t exist. It’s quite a simple concept, though I suppose I should elaborate.
“Do you wanna see his finger?” My friend reaches into his pocket to grab his phone, grinning like we’re talking about high school drama.
In the basement of my house are stacks of boxes full of my family’s precious photo albums. These cardboard treasure chests contain records that chronicle the histories of my parents, my siblings, and me, yet I’m not privy to them. They’ve remained sealed away, safe but untouched, for as long as ...
In my Intro to Creative Nonfiction class, I wrote about my grandmother for my first piece. I wrote about her because she was dead, and nothing comes more naturally than remembering a person who no longer exists.
Houses are living things. Maybe not quite as sentient as Encanto’s Casita or the literal living house in Monster House, but they have hearts—a pulse beating through the pipes, a unique personality built into the walls, memories ingrained in the foundation. There's credence to the saying, home is ...
In the midst of midterms, it’s always nice to take a break and hit up one of Thayer’s many beloved restaurants to unwind. Whether you’re looking for a boba break, a quick bite, or something more upscale, this street’s got you covered.
I stand in the kitchen of my off-campus apartment, staring at the lumpy sack of Japanese sweet potatoes on the counter. The shape is wrong. They are smaller than the ones Mom buys from the Asian Food Markets back home, their skin covered in little scabs as if they’ve made a hard journey to get here. ...