Traveling alone is so over-romanticized. Instagram travel bloggers tell stories about the charming men they meet in Italy, the wondrous views from the mountains of Peru, and the endless adventures to be found in the streets of New York—not about the pickpocket in the Milan metro who stole your phone, ...
As we once again approach the great ouroboros of pant width and shoulder padding—the kids are trending wide—I am beginning to notice an aesthetic rumbling up from the edge of retrospective fashion: Everyone is dressing like it's the ’90s. Call it fashion, call it Instagram mood board accounts ...
The trumpeter swan pokes his nose through the water’s surface. Staring back at him, a wavering mirror radiates from his small, pointed beak. As he takes one step in, ripples ricochet from his thin legs to the tip of the shore. He delicately situates himself on top of the surface, admiring the dancing ...
I am single, and I am married. While seemingly paradoxical, both of these things are true. There is no husband, nor a spouse to whom I am married. I alone comprise the happy couple.
In nearly all the fairy tales of my childhood, the beautiful princess was always forced to choose between the princes, and the story could only end when she had chosen. When I grew up and graduated to young adult novels, the plucky heroine now had to choose between two boys with jawlines so sharp you ...
I found out recently that my favorite coffee shop in Providence will be closing in less than two weeks. This is both heartbreaking and, in some ways, strangely fitting.
Glory to the words once rehearsed and the feelings once known
O lieb, solang du lieben kannst!
Every year, the tulips on my front lawn grow. Even after we cut down the small, short tree with the hanging arms of leaves you could climb underneath, and even after we covered the dirt where Grandma used to sit with us on Sundays to plant flowers (small pink and orange garden-ready ones and tulips, ...
The year was 2008. I still remember the golden glow of Taylor Swift’s Fearless gleaming on the rack like a homing beacon for little girls across the country as I strolled through the Target CD aisle with my mom. “Love Story” was a smash hit on the radio, a song we both already knew and loved. ...
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.
Solutions by The State News
