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New Normal

Ellison Mucharsky
March 24, 2023

Normal. It’s what makes all days gloss together into one. It doesn’t necessarily refer to something right or humane or a day that anybody would be happy to relive. Normal means what is expected, but just like expectations, normal can change. And now normal will never mean the same thing again. Sure it was always on the news. But who watches the news when they are 13 years old? I sure didn’t. So all I heard were the whispers. The teachers in my middle school who would cluster together speaking in hushed voices, their eyes darting nervously around making sure that no students were coming. And if one wandered too close to their huddle they would dart away, picking up whatever task they thought would look the least conspicuous: stapling packets of paper, running to the printer, or calling, “Oh no I must have forgotten my lunch in the fridge, how silly of me!” So all I heard were wisps of the truth. “Did you hear?” … “those poor kids” … “the parents” … “mourning, grieving community” … “our hearts go out to you.” As though being told the true horrors of these acts was too much weight for our innocent ears to hold. As if shielding us from the horrific reality of school shootings could protect us as we all prepared to enter high school, ready to begin the next chapter of our lives.

The BDW Guru

Ellen Yoo
March 24, 2023

When you walk into the Brown Design Workshop (the BDW), there is a soccer ball with an image of a man’s face taped to it. He wears a wonky not-quite smile and black-rimmed glasses, and even on a crumpled piece of printer paper, you can see the sparkle in his blue eyes. In the School of Engineering, Chris Bull is a name many have often heard, but not a person that many have actually seen. Even as his student advising partner, he’ll often vanish before my very own eyes. The Brown Design Workshop was born in 2013, out of a desire for a student-led makerspace “which aims to make the practices of design and creation more collaborative, open, flexible, and accessible,” according to the website. In the BDW, anyone can sign up for workshops such as Intro to Woodworking, Laser Cutting, and 3D Printing. With the help of several others, Chris Bull transformed what was originally storage space for equipment into the BDW, which now employs nearly forty paid student monitors with hours from 2pm to midnight, Monday through Friday. There are many machines in the space, including a laser cutting machine, nine 3D printers, woodworking tools, and at least six different types of saws. There are also classrooms, larger-than-life robots, a Formula SAE race car, and abundant wood, metal, and hardware for building. The BDW is expansive—with ceilings over 20 feet tall and over 10,000 square feet of workspace, you could fit 40-50 school buses in it, theoretically. During the day, students work on projects such as laser-cutting earrings, and others lead tours and group activities. You can build whatever your heart desires in the BDW—whatever your mind can dream—given the time and energy to do so. Chris is there to help.

chicken stock

Alyssa Sherry
March 17, 2023

I. my grandma sold her leather armchair last week. i don’t live in new jersey anymore so no one told me that it was leaving until it left, until i came home for the holiday and there was just a wide gaping hole in the corner of the living room like an open wound, bleeding and raw. II. i am seven years old dangling my legs off the kitchen counter and she is teaching me how to make chicken noodle soup. my favorite part is adding in the cubes of chicken stock because i can plop them into the roiling pot and watch them melt apart. the kitchen smells sweet as a memory and my grandfather is dozing in a leather armchair in the living room. his foot is broken. i bring him medicine and he pays me two dollars, conspiratorial smiles, eyes bright, don’t tell mom. i’ll tell her anyway and he’ll laugh and say you’re a great nurse but you ain’t a secret-keeper and this will begin my long career of never knowing how to shut up.but right now i am seven with two dollars in my pocket and now i can almost afford the calendar that i’ve been eyeing at the card shop on route 23! and i’m watching the chicken stock dissolve in the greedy throes of the soup like a sandcastle washed away by a rip current. and i’m thinking that sometimes it must be good to give yourself away as long as it makes the soup happy…III.when i was seven i crouched behind the armchair to hide from monsters in a dream

Thursday

Deeya Prakash
March 17, 2023

Dedicated to Michigan State University, the most recent location of the hundreds of mass shootings that have paralyzed the classroom. There’s snow on the ground on my way to school. It’s Thursday, and my cheeks are pink, the color they get when Nani has just pinched my cheeks and said something about me looking just like my mother. My mother, oftentimes crazy and paranoid, calls me on the way to school because she wants to make sure I haven’t been hit by a car in the five minutes it takes me to cross the bridge. You’re okay, right? Yes mom. I’ve done this a hundred times. Okay beta. Have a good day at school. I love you.

Linear Regression

Libby Dakers
March 3, 2023

A gentle feeling of sleep tugs at my eyelids and I lie down. I focus on the sounds, on laughter and conversation mingling, until they become contorted, moving at an irregular pace, hanging densely in the air like honey as it pours.My eyes snap open and I stand in the basement. Our paintings cover the walls from the week before, so when the house sells, something will be left behind. I widen my eyes because I cannot see. My skin stretches over the curve of my brow and I try desperately to pull my eyes open, but I continue to stand in darkness. I feel a tug at the corners of my mouth and I start to sob. Her voice is calling to me, so I make one last, panicked attempt to see. The dim light against the shapes in the basement register, but when I turn to face her, her eyes are ablaze. My stomach falls because her mouth lies closed, but I still hear her voice talking to me. What if I am tripping, and I trip forever?They are rubbing my back and the pressure is cutting in and out like radio static. Numbness settles over my skin. Every second I feel more conscious. I wake up over and over again. Days after The Event, my body sits tight with anticipation, waiting on lagging vision, numbness and muffled hearing. My mind feeds me whisperings, convincing me that I died that night, until death became a coma, and instead I had made a home for myself in my vegetative brain. I will live here for the rest of my life, walking on a line where nothing is real and I will never know the truth. But that thought soon grows old, unrealistic, even. Instead, I’m convinced that my anxiety will spiral into schizophrenia. As I’m falling asleep, I hear voices calling me into my dreams. Pieces of everyday conversations making way for phrases out of place. “Let’s go swimming outside. Let’s go outside before lunch. Make lunch for school! Elizabeth, wake up, it’s time for school!!” Distorted like dreams with circular timelines. I jolt awake. Soon after The Event, I started the anxiety medication. As I drove to school, something broke in my head and a chill washed over me. I felt like the passenger seat was going to sink to the asphalt and I was going to turn to dust. I developed a daily fear that the walls would melt away until I was alone in a bright white room for eternity. Or that any second I would drop dead. Or wake up in a lab. I come to the same nursing home where I visited my great-grandmother ten years ago. I remember her in shapes: her wiry hair curved around her head like a pear, and the bulky outline of her recliner. The miniature Shasta Cola can from the fridge down the hall, where my brother and I would venture when my great-grandmother needed privacy. She called us “the boys,” which always made me a little sad because I was proud to be a girl from a thin line of women. Proud to be my mother’s daughter, my grandmother’s grand-daughter, and my great-grandmother’s great-granddaughter.The nursing home has become the synthesis of my wild fears and reality. The world condenses to a small cream-colored room where the syrupy voices of nurses call you to the next place you are due. In the clean hallways, you may run into another traveler. Their faces warp the picture of gentle tranquility into the force of a tranquilizer. Now, ten years later, I come to visit my grandmother. The halls see how I have aged. I notice that pills come with meals. Pills come with waking and sleeping. When I swallow my one pill, I feel a crushing dread of the effects to come—mornings of clarity followed by paranoia as the day drags on. How come no one else is concerned by the way the light is poking through the curtain? My fears are accompanied closely by sadness. A profound sadness, an unanswered question. Why am I no longer the person I once was? Am I dissolving into my lineage, into a trail of women who eventually lose their minds?One night, I listened to my mother describing my grandmother’s dementia to my uncle. She is not blissfully forgetful like most dementia patients. My mom describes her hallucinations, paranoia, psychosis—words that make me feel like the air is tightening. Words I fear will stretch towards me and weave themselves through my nostrils to my brain where they can plot my decline. My eyes stiffen as I obediently watch for straight lines to sway, in case it starts now. She sees people coming from the walls, from closets; dark people. I am never there when my grandmother is having an episode. But I know that whenever my mother leaves the house in the middle of the night to see her, it is to ease her paranoia and disarm her thoughts. During stretches in which my mother has to stay with her for a few days at a time, I know that when I visit her she will tell me made-up stories about cars driving through buildings and trips she has planned for the week. About a month after The Event her dementia is wavering at a peak. Each day is like a splotch on a graph climbing higher, and I am the regression line trapped between them all, mapping the upward trend. My magnitude shifts with her changes. My anxiety and her dementia are tethered. I hold her when she cries. I watch one of the women who raised me live through my biggest fear. The fall following The Event, things begin to change. She’s coming down from the peak, the points falling steadily downward. She has moved to a new facility where the nurses speak to her like she’s a grown woman. I have grown tired of thinking I am dead, or planning how I will wake myself from a months-long dream. When I think of her old house, I think of the scent of lake water on my T-shirt, the birds trilling and the rustling of afternoon leaves. I think of the sun hovering over the water. We float on the lake, pulling up weeds from the sand. I am afraid of fish, the snake I saw last summer and the feeling of mushy leaves on the bottom. She isn’t afraid of anything.‍

Shoes

Stella Kleinman
March 3, 2023

Ballet shoes are made to be destroyed. Professional dancers go through hundreds of pairs a season. After purchasing each new pair, they take an entire toolbox to them: stomping, slicing and stabbing. This process softens the shoes, making them easier to dance in. Mine are pale pink and rough canvas, ribbons and rips and tape. When I force my feet into them, they flush and peel, like sweet, ripe fruit. Blisters spring up and flower. The perfect fit. I’m four years old and can finally touch the kitchen counters. I decide it’s the best idea in the world to hang off of one, sliding my socks across the tile floor. My mom sits at the table, watching me and her crossword puzzle with a wary eye. When I trip over the air and fall on my face, my mom sighs, laughs and scoops me up into her arms.“That’s it. You’re going to ballet lessons next week!”In class, every girl wears a pink leotard with a white skirt. I could rip the ensemble apart with a hangnail. I’m wearing my first pair of ballet shoes and two Bandaids. I feel like I could flutter away, or be swept up in a gust of wind. Years later, I audition for The Nutcracker, a ballet about Christmas, magic and candy. For my part, I have to dye my ballet shoes green. They look wrong in my hands, but perfect on stage. My mom does my makeup for the first time and my skin glows under the stage lights. The older dancers, none of whom I know the names of, hug me after the performance, chattering on and on about how beautiful it was. The Sugar Plum Fairy compliments my pointed toes, saying they stood out in my green shoes.I sit in the basement, smashing my next pair of shoes against a cinderblock to mold them to my feet. After ten hits, they are soft. After twenty, they are flimsy. After thirty, they are broken. So much destruction in the pursuit of perfection.‍

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Anna Hurd
February 24, 2023

TW and Editor’s Note: This piece includes graphic depictions of sexual violence. We feel that this sort of story needs a platform where it can breathe and be seen, but also recognize that sexual assault is a complicated and triggering topic for many people. We want you to be safe while reading. If this is not the kind of subject matter that you feel comfortable reading at this moment, we encourage you to save this piece for another day. The “night sea journey” is the journey into the parts of ourselves that are split off, disavowed, unknown, unwanted, cast out, and exiled to the various subterranean worlds of consciousness…. The goal of this journey is to reunite us with ourselves. Such a homecoming can be surprisingly painful, even brutal. In order to undertake it, we must first agree to exile nothing. -Stephen Cope There was a man. Let’s call him Man 1. I never kicked him. I never screamed. I never really fought back. I just cried, two tears, while he beat me between my legs; while he shoved his thumb inside my cheek and held my head to the passenger seat of his car with the rest of his hand; while he choked me, once with his hands and once while he forced my mouth onto his lap.1 He wiped away my tears, asking, Why are you crying? Advertisement He leaned in, whispering, I am not a pedophile but I know a pretty girl when I see one. I was 17. He was 23. He called me names. Mean, degrading names. He said, You need to learn. When he entered me, I thought of my best friend’s advice after she had sex with her boyfriend for the first time. The more you relax the better it will be. It will hurt at first, but then it’ll feel good. I could not relax. It hurt at first, it hurt during, it hurt after; it hurt the whole time and still does. And then there was the dad. Let’s call him Man 2. Man 2 was a manipulative motherfucker. Truly, I do not believe Man 1 ever thought he committed rape against a minor. I would like to believe that. I would like to believe he simply wanted to act out what he had seen in porn, how he saw women treated, how he thought he could treat women like that too. I believe this because he continued to text me, When can I see you again, baby girl? He continued to ask if he could pick me up. If he could get a hotel room for us. When he could see me again. I would like to think that society failed Man 1. That he did not believe his actions constituted the rape of a minor. That he didn’t know it was not, actually, hot to hit a woman (who was a girl) like he did. I would like to believe he didn’t know it was not, actually, hot to choke a woman (who was a girl), to call her names, to leave bruises like he did. Not Man 2. Man 2 could smell it on me. He knew exactly when, where, how to take advantage of an eighteen-year old girl. An 18-year-old girl, who, in the eyes of the law, was a woman, an adult. An 18-year-old girl who worked with his 12-year-old daughter. An 18-year old girl who did not know the type of manipulation 46-year-old men were capable of. Advertisements REPORT THIS AD And, oh, how he made me think it was all my fault. That I was the one asking for it. That it was not assault when I said no, and that he could simply rub my back, hold me on his lap, continue to sneak his hands deeper and deeper in and around me until I stopped fighting him. How he made me think that because I stopped fighting, it was all my fault. How he made me think the town would hate me. How he would twist my words around his slimy, grimy, crooked, tobacco teeth to make me think I wanted it, that I signaled to him that I wanted it. And of course there was money involved. Because I just graduated high school and because he was 46 and financially stable he could give me AirPods and an iPad and Tiffany earrings and shopping money for college clothes and all of these things all in exchange for my body and my silence. Because I was worth nothing, and dinner and a car and a club membership was worth something, I took the gifts and gave him me. Does that mean I’m guilty? Does that mean I’m twisted? Does that make me responsible for my manipulation? Because, after all, I got something out of it. How the money made me so confused. Well, now I know. Now I know, at 19, what 23-year-old men are capable of. What 46-year-old men are capable of. What men are capable of. What the world is capable of. When should girls and women know better? When they are 7? 17? When should we know what terrible things can happen to our bodies? Post-traumatic stress disorder. Advertisements REPORT THIS AD I stare back at the woman. I stare back at the licensed, professional, very kind woman, and replay the new words she gave me to describe my reality (?). Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder. PTSD. Four little letters that describe the nightmares, the cold sweats, the panic attacks and seizure-ish episodes, the inability to trust in the love of the people that love me, the constant triggers, the mood swings and the tears. Post. Does that mean it’s over? Why do I see it, then, on the back of my eyelids every time I close my eyes? Why do I feel another pang in my chest every time I see my younger cousins, high school girls, thinking, When I was their age…? Why do I feel the hands on my body when I finally manage to drift off to sleep? Why do I dissociate while having terrible sex with terrible men instead of walking out?2 The event, that period of time, has ended, yes. But, really, it will never be truly over, truly post. Traumatic. But, I didn’t go to war. I didn’t watch my comrades perish by bullet fire. My parents, my brothers are still alive. My house didn’t burn down with the people I love inside. I have never had to flee a country to avoid persecution. Does my experience, do I, really deserve to use traumatic? Advertisements REPORT THIS AD Stress. My heart constantly trying to contract, hide further and further into my chest. Waking up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat, wading, grasping for anything to ground me, prove to me I am real and I am alive. Hitting and hurting the person I loved while we laid in bed together after having a sudden flashback. Bearing moments when my entire body shakes, my neck whips back and forth, my eyes roll back in my head and I can no longer speak, when I am overloaded with flashbacks and my body no longer wants to stay present, to cope, can no longer bear another moment of trying to hold it together. The weight I bear down on those who know; I can feel it on their shoulders, feel when the burden gets heavier under their own personal stresses, too; I can feel when it’s nearing time to stop talking, time to rotate to the next ear, time to get better already, to be stronger for them; after all, they have their own weights, too. The three friends I still talk to about what happened, who still show up for me when I am crying, alone in the dark, who are probably just as tired as I am, who probably think, What more is there for her to say? What more can I say? What more might there be to listen to? 3 The ears and the hearts and the bodies that have saved my soul from disappearing into a vacuum. Disorder. Did he win? Did they win? Did they truly break me? Am I finally disordered? Now, I end pretty much every single sexual experience in tears. Either in tears of joy, because I was not hurt, because I felt loved, seen, appreciated, or in tears of dismay, because I had a flashback, because I could not contain my anxiety about my body being touched. I survived, but I am not a survivor. They took things from me I will never get back. I am not brave. I am terrified all of the time. I rarely feel moments of true safety, and in those moments, I usually cry. I have so many things I want to explain to the people around me. To hold up my pain and say, Here, this is why I am so broken. This is why I am me.4 Advertisements REPORT THIS AD Between and since, I have felt love, I have felt loved. That gives me a glimmer of hope. But this is not a hopeful story. This is not me coming out victorious on the other side, of fighting the good fight, of going to therapy and feeling healed and whole and ready to be loved by the world. I tried, very, very hard to be that girl, that woman. That who needs no one. That survivor. On my good days, I win that battle and I convince myself that I have overcome the past. My bad days, then, hurt that much more, when memories come back at me like knives aimed at my chest. I survived but I am a bad survivor. I need people. I need people to need me. This is me in the trenches. This is me in the trenches. Footnotes 1 “I contributed nothing but an open cavity.” Lisa Mecham, Only The Lonely. (from Roxanne Gay’s essay collection, Not That Bad.) 2 “I did not care about my body because my body was nothing. I let men, mostly, do terrible things to my body. I let them hurt me because I had already been hurt and so, really, I was looking for someone to finish what had already been started.” Roxanne Gay, Hunger. Advertisements REPORT THIS AD 3 Bless the hearts of these friends. 4 “It’s hard to admit, but part of it has to do with the need for an audience. We don’t exist without other people; therefore, our pain isn’t real until somebody else looks at it and goes, ‘Damn, that looks like it hurt.’… the antidote to losing your mind is to have a handful of people around who know your wound and will verify its existence.” Nora Salem, The Life Ruiner. (from Roxanne Gay’s essay collection, Not That Bad.)

Becoming a N(on-) A(thletic) R(egular) P(erson)

Nicholas Miller
February 24, 2023

College club sports have grown exponentially since the 1990s, according to a New York Times article by Bill Pennington. A significant factor is what Pennington refers to as “America’s outsized youth sports culture.” He writes, “With more than 40 million children playing organized sports—often on first rate travel teams—more students are graduating from high school with extensive athletic interest and skills than ever before.” That figure is now 60 million with over 3 million children playing youth soccer.It was this scale that I began to partially understand when I arrived at the Brown University field and saw all the kids with gray Under Armour T-shirts, white Nike socks, and backpacks of their previous club team, stretching and juggling and passing.The tryout itself went fine—I made a few good plays but certainly didn’t stand out among the hundred-some others. We would’ve been emailed if we were invited back the next day. As I expected, I never received an email. It didn’t quite sink in immediately that my competitive soccer career was likely over. It happened slowly over the course of the semester as I walked around campus realizing I didn’t have a thing, something people connected me with, something I connected myself with. I remember hypothesizing to my parents later that semester during Parents’ Weekend: “I don’t think our brains are capable of comprehending how many people are in the world.” The experiences I had on the soccer field as a kid were joyful, terrifying, invigorating, painful, and undeniably special for me and for my development, but I had to realize they were not unique. It was a frightening realization that dislodged a fixed and crucial part of my identity that had existed for almost fifteen years. My intramural soccer team won the championship, providing a brief moment of glory that reignited the memories. But other than that, I had become a Non-Athletic Regular Person, or a NARP. I started wearing my glasses more, abandoning my black trainers in favor of my beige Vans, and devoting time that I previously used to workout to writing and learning Portuguese and thinking about the inadequacies of breaking news journalism. It was an unsettling transition, but I have come to see such a degree of change as a necessary part of college. The average American university population size is 6,354, according to U.S. News and World Report, while Forbes says the average high school has 850 students. Incoming college students are not just away from home for the first time or in a more rigorous academic environment, but also in a community far larger than the bubble they are coming from. They must reevaluate the size of the world and reconfigure their place in it. And they will have to do so again when they study abroad and meet people who don’t understand what it means to be a quarterback or the student government president or when they graduate and lose the figurative brightly colored nametags of fraternities or university email addresses or ultimate frisbee teams (Post-Graduation Depression does get its own page on Healthline after all.) Or again when they apply for a new job and realize that there are a lot of people who have interned for a congressperson and not everybody can be a diplomat. As one’s world grows, one’s identity shifts, potentially landing one in apparent mediocrity. But such a change is also a chance to come to terms with that averageness and the size of the world in relation to oneself. Unmoored from the specific activities and accomplishments that previously made them unique, people find new hobbies or develop new skills, or even choose to no longer use such external metrics to determine their self-conception. They become free to appreciate the many things the world has to offer outside of the rigid identities of their youth.Because thankfully, life is a lot bigger than an eight-year-old soccer field.

Collections: The Favorite Words of Sole Magazine

Words by Deeya Prakash, Libby Dakers, Pooja Kalyan, Navya Sahay, and Riley Stevenson
February 17, 2023

This article is the first of several collection pieces we will publish this semester, in which we ask some of our staff writers to each write a short blurb in response to a prompt. This week’s prompt was: Write about your favorite word. We received a wide range of responses, about words that were silly, graceful, violent, sophisticated, imaginary. We invite you to take a stroll through these mini word exhibits, starting with Deeya Prakash’s presentation of “diaphanous,” and seeing where you end up. DiaphanousDeeya Prakash‍Diaphanous. It sounds like the name of an eternal goddess, her body slim and sleek, eyes drawn closed, skin glowing in the evening air. It sounds like a clear breath at high altitude, open sky and streaming sunlight and “Mom can we please go…” It sounds like the meadow. It sounds like my sister.Say it. Whisper it. It feels like something you shouldn’t know. It means delicate, light, the way the wind blows raindrops off the side of our moving minivan, tears streaming down cheeks until you’ve cried so much that all there is is silence, a gaping mouth and a beating heart and no sound but the echo of what once was.It means sheer. Transparent. Cover it up and we’ll see right through.It means that you know I can’t stand living at home anymore but I come back to school and cry because there will be a time in my life when our parents are no longer alive. Diaphanous. -ous. us. You and me. Do you miss when it was just you and me? Jack and Jill bathrooms and sidewalk chalk smiles and pajama pants too short? Let’s go watch the stars together. Nobody braids my hair like you do.Diaphanous. -phan. phone. I’m sorry I sometimes don’t pick up the phone. Tell me about your day. How was school? How’s dad?Diaphanous. Di-. Die. Unthinkable. It’s a little scary how diaphanous this life can be. It feels like something you shouldn’t know.‍Bleeding‍Libby Dakers‍Everyone knows the drama of bleeding. Rich red, morbidity, beating hearts. What about the bleeding that means settling into a new position? The bleeding that describes how one thought, one sliver of wind, one bold spot of ink, runs into its next opportunity? Bleeding demonstrates the unity of two becoming one, as my time bleeds into yours, and yours into mine when we walk side by side down the street. Bleeding describes life, though not in the way of warm blood running thinly. An unmistakable feeling; I bleed when you cry.Bleeding is the word that pulled me closer, urging me to place words where they may not typically go. In my first poems, the wind would not tousle the leaves and the tension in the air would not throw pebbles at my window if the blue sky did not bleed to dusk. Bleeding pushes me through boundaries, like blood pours through open skin. Think beyond the heart, because so much pulses around you.‍UbePooja Kalyan‍Ube. Not pronounced how you might think at first glance, but rather, “OOH-BAY.”U, for unexplainably delicious.B, for beautifully purple.E, for exquisitely flavorful.Say it out loud and you’ll experience the wonderful way the word bounces off your lips. Feel your mouth open for the “Ooh,” quickly close for the “Beh,” and open again, but a little less this time, for the “ay.” It’s kinda like bouncing on a trampoline—how the lips quickly bounce together, then apart to say the word.It’s wonderful.Almost as wonderful as the taste of the starchy root vegetable itself. I remember the first time I tasted ube. A sweet, nutty flavor blended perfectly into a naturally purple ice cream. My taste buds came alive for a brief moment, as if the ube was begging me to try another spoonful. I couldn’t resist.I still can’t.Ube. Picture purple yam. Still sweet like plain sweet potatoes, yet even more moist. Coco-nutty, with a hint of vanilla. Soft and moist when boiled. Creamy and smooth in a scoop of ice cream.Delicate and light as a pot de crème.Yes, ube is a word. But it is also an experience:An experience to say it.An experience to eat it.An experience to see itsbeautiful purple color.You won’t resist.‍ElusiveNavya Sahay‍Elusive. Roll it down your tongue, lingering on the “l” like it’s your true love but playing hard to get—which fits in well with the word’s meaning: a thing that’s there briefly, fleetingly, before escaping to somewhere beyond your reach. It’s ice melting in your hands. A deer you glimpse in a quiet forest that bolts as soon as you try to get a better view of it. A shimmering reflection in a pool of shifting water that vanishes with the slightest change of angle. It’s something that is never fully there, but which makes its presence felt, becoming all the more valuable because of its infrequency. It’s a rarity, a word that exists in abstract realms of hypothetical thought, a word to quantify the unknown that one can’t catch. As a word, it is subtle just like what it describes—it is sleek, sophisticated, and mysterious. It isn’t like those chunky, obvious words like happy, delicious, magnificent, horrible, or splendid. It calls to mind clouds or mists in the moors that one can never quite touch or dreams one can never fully remember. It’s an introspective word, something that makes you stop and think, “Wait a minute, what is in there?” A secret that no one knows but everyone longs to find out. ‍BEEBAHBOORiley Stevenson‍My favorite word is not exactly a word. Rather, it is a nonsense collection of sounds, which came to me straight from the mouth and mind of a six-year-old. It’s not a word but a memory, really, forever ingrained in my mind. It was the second-to-last day of summer camp. I was on the water with two six-year-old boys, facilitating their now-typical routine of jump, splash, climb. Floating in the water, I waited as the boys launched off the dock and into my arms, then flung them back toward the dock, where my co-counselor sat, helping them in and out of the water. Time and time again we repeated this routine, all splashing and giggles and bright sunlight reflected in flying water droplets. In one of these cycles, B, on his way into the water, gazed at me with a wide-eyed, big smile, and said, in his little-kid manner of never-ending monologue: “I can’t wait to be alive!” I instantly cataloged this, recognizing the way it so perfectly described his ethos: Each moment was more exciting than the last, each instant one to be savored before galloping onto the next, even more breathtaking second. Moments later, he shouted, of all things, “BEEBAHBOOOOO!”A series of nonsense sounds, exclaimed into a glorious summer day, all yellow and green and blue, warmth and noise and sunshine. He could have said anything at that moment, but when he said it, these two ideas––B’s zest for life, and the phrase itself––were instantly and eternally linked in my mind. In that moment I thought, unexpectedly, of every second I’ve ever spent on a trail, all of the miles I’ve walked on my own two feet, the trees I’ve seen, the mountains I’ve climbed. I felt a moment of intense, blinding gratitude—I can pull myself up hard trails and howl at the sunrise from rocky outcroppings, and I get to be here, present in this moment of slinging a child onto a paddleboard while he shrieks with delight. Now, when I am on mountain summits, approaching tumbling rapids, at the top of ski runs, and skating on frozen ponds, it is my favorite thing to scream, to remind me that I am alive and lucky: “Beebahboo.” This is it. I think of B each time, of how well he knew that nothing has ever mattered more than this single moment, and the next one, too. I think often of those two blue, waterlogged eyes staring straight at me, and my two feet strong beneath me as I stand atop the world. Beebahboo. I can’t wait to be alive. ‍

What’s a P-Funk?

Elysée Barakett
February 10, 2023

Sometime during the first days of classes in 2021, I met a girl named Nora who could make entire facial expressions with just her eyes. She was good enough at Introductory Level Chemistry to help me when I was stuck, but not too good to avoid Thursday Night Optional Problem Solving Sessions—we went together every week. She always layered her shirts: a tank top over a white tee shirt or a gray graphic tee shirt over a black turtleneck. Sometime during the second set of exams, I stopped seeing Nora as much. She tried out for Ultimate Frisbee and made the team she wanted. She stopped coming to Thursday Night Optional Problem Solving Sessions and started wearing her brown hair in pigtails. Whenever I saw her later in the semester, she’d be wearing a polyester long sleeve and white sports glasses with ear grips and reflective lenses. The world of Ultimate Frisbee had slowly consumed her, and I had lost a friend in the process. How could someone completely disappear—into the World of Frisbee? Was Nora even on campus still? Maybe she was somewhere else—floating through space on a massive purple frisbee and talking only to frisbee-shaped aliens. I decided to explore what draws people so far into Ultimate Frisbee that they are never seen again. To do this, I had to ask the people on the other side. I thought of the frisbee players I knew and reached out to all four of them: Henry ’25, Daniel ’24, Aaron ’25, and Bella ’25, who have all been a part of the frisbee program since their first year at Brown. I spoke to Henry inside the lobby of the Nelson Fitness Center before his Sunday afternoon practice. Henry wore a flat black cap with a logo of a distorted frisbee and a purple athletic shirt with a cartoon of a frisbee slicing through a mushroom. Henry explained that wearing merchandise from past tournaments or old teams gives you clout. He explained that someone who amassed a lot of merch over the years was called a “FCG,” which stands for “Frisbee Cool Guy.” A FCG is basically a “frisbee sweat.” From his appearance and description of a FCG, I believe that Henry is your textbook Frisbee Cool Guy.Henry was first drawn to frisbee at the Club Fair. The frisbee team placed a frisbee on top of a high pole and challenged kids to leap up and grab it. It was a fun challenge to test people’s jumping abilities and draw them in—if they could retrieve the frisbee off a pole, maybe they would be exceptional at Ultimate. Henry, who is from Nebraska where the sport is more or less “nonexistent,” accepted the challenge. Standing at 6’4”, he easily retrieved the frisbee with a graceful leap. He has been hooked on Ultimate ever since.I met up with Daniel and Aaron at Jo’s. Although Jo’s is known for its cheeseburgers and spicy chicken sandwiches, Daniel and Aaron are vegans. Both opted for salads with every topping available, and a hot cup of classic minestrone soup on the side. Daniel likes to wear athletic shorts to practice, and he brings both a light and dark shirt to change into for team scrimmages. He also always sports his navy Brooks brand visor when he plays. The Brooks logo, once white and reflective, is a bit yellowed and peeling off. From Middletown Springs, Vermont, Daniel played frisbee frequently before coming to Brown—he played pickup with friends and his school included Ultimate as a part of gym class. He entered the world of Ultimate Frisbee on campus during the 2nd semester of his first year. Aaron said that he wears standard athletic shorts and a shirt to practice, but that on Halloween the players dress up into costumes, such as furry animal onesies. He started playing when he was 10 years old at summer camp, and he joined his first Ultimate team when he was 14. He says that he spends most of his time with the team, as they are his closest friends. Bella, who is from Brooklyn, also started playing Ultimate in high school. At practices, she likes to wear a pinny and whatever you would wear to soccer, while also usually sporting skinny tortoise shell glasses. She said that people can wear whatever they want because the sport is so inclusive. The funky fits people wear are called “Flair,” which is less of an adjective and more of a noun. Bella noted that she has seen people play barefoot and in “Cow Hats,” which she logically described as “hats that look like cows.”Ultimate Frisbee is a noncontact sport—you can box people out, but you can’t push them. The game starts with a “Pull” which is basically a kickoff, but it’s actually just a throw because kicking a frisbee would probably be impossible unless you had super-high toe dexterity. There are two end zones, like in football, and seven players on each team, like in touch football. Of the seven players on the field, two are “Handlers” and the other five are the “Stack,” explained Daniel. The Handlers are the passers—like the point guard in basketball. The Stack lines up down the field from the person with the frisbee. They cut back and forth to get open and catch the frisbee when it’s thrown to them before passing it to someone else, eventually, moving the frisbee down the field in this way (you cannot run with the frisbee.) There is a Vertical Stack Formation to move up and down the field and a Horizontal Stack Formation to move across the field. Teams can choose to use Person-to-Person Defense or Zone Defense, also like in basketball. On defense, Aaron likes to do a “Layout D” which is similar to a slide tackle in soccer, with the defender diving toward the frisbee. When the frisbee touches the ground, possession changes—it is now time for the team that was on defense to get a chance at offense. Sometimes when the frisbee touches the ground it rolls about for a bit and players from each team chase after it wildly.Players can choose from a bunch of different throws. There are forehands and backhands, like in tennis. The backhand is the more common throw with the back of the hand facing outward. It is similar to the shooing motion. The forehand is where the palm faces out. It is similar to slapping motion. There are more spicy throws as well. Henry likes to use a “Scoober” which he described as a “floaty throw.” This toss gets the frisbee over the defenders, with the disc staying in the air longer. To do it, you grip the frisbee as if you were throwing a forehand, flip the disc upside down, and throw the frisbee as if you were throwing a backhand, but with your arm twisted a bit. Depending on how far you want to Scoober the disc, you should try tossing at different angles. Daniel likes to use the “Hammer” where you wind up over your head and throw the disc as if you are playing the High Striker game at a carnival. Aaron added that the Hammer “can lead to a magic trick” where you act like you are going to throw the disc but you don’t actually do it. He compared this move to when you play fetch with a dog and pretend to throw the ball. He quickly added that he doesn’t know if he wants to “make that image” because most people already connect frisbees and dogs. Frisbee teams typically have quirky names as a way to counter typical sport culture. Brown’s teams have been around since the 1970s. Henry’s team is called “Brownian Motion,” better known by its nickname: “B-Mo.” Brownian motion is a physical phenomenon in liquids and gasses in which the particles randomly and spread out evenly. The phenomenon was named after Robert Brown, a Scottish botanist, who was the first to study it in depth after he noticed microscopic pollen grain particles spreading out while researching the fertilization of clarkia pulchella, a purple flower whose four petals look like reindeer antlers. Aaron and Daniel play for “Polyester Funkadelic,” better known by its nickname: “P-Funk.” There was a funk band in the 1970s called Parliament Funkadelic, that was abbreviated to P-Funk. The American band has released multiple albums with names such as “Maggot Brain” (1971) and “One Nation Under a Groove” (1978). The team’s name is a nod to the band, Aaron explained, and he guesses that adding “Polyester” to the name is a reference to polyester being a common material in athletic clothing. Bella plays for “Cosmic Rays,” better known by its nickname: “Co-Rays.” Galactic cosmic rays are high energy atom fragments that come from space. They can be created in supernovas (a star exploding), when particles within the explosion crash into each other.B-Mo’s logo is a Hellfish curled up to look like a frisbee. The Hellfish is actually not a real fish. It is the name of a World War II military unit in the television show The Simpsons that had members including Abraham Jebediah “Abe” Simpson II (the grandpa in the show) as well as Charles Montgomery Plantagenet Schicklgruber Burns (also known as Mr Burns, the evil guy who runs the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant). The frisbee slicing through a mushroom on Henry’s shirt is the logo for P-funk, the team he was on last year. The mushroom, probably a psilocybin (magic) mushroom, is a reference to the psychedelic themes of the band the team is named after. The logo for Cosmic Rays is a sting ray with constellations covering its back. The ray is curled up, presumably in the shape of a disc. I asked Aaron why it is called Ultimate Frisbee, and he said that he had a story that he felt was “pretty true.” He explained that “Frisbie” was the name of a pie tin brand. People started calling the game Frisbee, but the name was patented, so they switched to just calling it “Ultimate,” without frisbee in the name at all. But, he added, “they” didn’t want to seem like they were trying to be too cool, so they went back to calling it Ultimate Frisbee. Henry thinks that the frisbee disc was invented before the game, and that random high-schoolers from New Jersey were the ones that invented the sport. Upon creating the game, they called it “Ultimate” because it was the best way one can play frisbee, Henry said. To me, Ultimate also means final. I’d like to think that perhaps this form of using a frisbee is the final stage in the game’s evolution. Other records suggest that Ultimate Frisbee was created in 1968 by eventual American film producer Joel Silver after a one-year stint at a prep school in Massachusetts. He learned of a game kids were playing in Amherst, the site of the Frisbie Pie Company, called “Frisbee Football,” in which they threw around the metal pie tins. Silver then moved to Columbia High School in New Jersey, where he successfully advocated for the game to be added to the school’s curriculum. Kids played in the school’s parking lot, and Silver, along with his two friends Bernard “Buzzy” Hellring and Jonathan “Jonny” Hines, developed rules for the game. Ultimate Frisbee became a hit, and students at neighboring schools started to play.Over 100 people tryout for Brown’s five teams. There are three open division teams and two women’s and gender expansive teams. B-Mo is the top open division team. Last year, it was the second best team in the country. Some of the people on the team play professionally or play on club teams during the summers. P-Funk is considered the open division B-team. It is still competitive like B-Mo, but “more chill,” according to Daniel. The open division C team is called Mo Ship. Shiver is Brown’s women’s and gender expansive A-team and Cosmic Rays is the B-team. Both Mo Ship and Cosmic Rays do not require tryouts and accept all players regardless of their skill level. On these teams, anyone can join at any point during the season. They allow for a wide variety of commitment and skill. Teams compete in various tournaments in different regions depending on their conference. Henry went to Maine a few weekends ago and woke up at 4 am this past Friday to fly to Georgia for a competition. This past weekend, P-Funk went to New York for a tournament and stayed at their captain’s grandma’s house. By winning tournaments, the team gets trophies, medals, merchandise, and “cool frisbees,” Henry said.To recruit new members, the teams advertise themselves at the Club Fair, host pick up games through their Falltimate (Fall Ultimate) League, or do a Dorm Storm (print out flyers and distribute them in every first-year dorm). Daniel added that most kids on the higher level teams came to Brown knowing they wanted to play because they had done it previously. Off the field, the teams come together for program-wide functions. These include casual scrimmages and parties, which mix with other teams in the program, allowing players to meet each other in a different way that is not focused on actual frisbeeing. Bella said that Frisbee People tend to live together, and that although there is no official “Frisbee House,” there are different groups of frisbee players all living on Pitman Street. As Daniel put it, frisbee draws in people who “tend to be cool.”Each Halloween, there is a program-wide party called the “Big Bang,” where all players from all teams can come party in their costumes. Another all-program party tradition is the “Yule Ball.” The concept of the Yule Ball comes from the Harry Potter movie series. In the movies, it is a formal Christmas party for students from three different wizarding schools. Prior to the frisbee event, players self-select into one of the four Hogwarts Houses and attend a pregame with their respective house. Bella was a Gryffindor. She noted that there is “lots of interteam dating,” and that during a party with alumni present, she heard from many of her frisbee peers that there was a lot of tension in the room between past lovers. Bella explained that some teams have their own traditions such as Chicken Finger Fridays where a whole team goes to the Ratty and eats chicken fingers on Fridays. “Everyone who does [frisbee] loves it, which makes it such a great community,” Henry said. Aaron explained that nicknames are a big part of college frisbee culture. Every person is given a nickname by the rest of the team. “People pride themselves on people not knowing their real name because people only know their frisbee name,” Aaron said. Daniel’s last name is Graves. His older brother John is on the team and received the nickname “Bones,” so kids on the team gave Daniel the nickname “Stapes,” which is the smallest bone in the body, located in the middle ear. Aaron is called “16.” That was his number on his high school’s team and he wore his old jerseys to practices. People started calling him “16,” and one day someone joked that calling him “16” was funny because “he looks like he’s 16,” and the nickname stuck. This year, Aaron asked to get a new nickname because he wanted to move away from being compared to a 16 year old, but “someone was like ok, what about 17?” so now he has two nicknames: 16 and 17. Aaron said that he doesn’t think about where the name came from or what it means. “It’s the same way I’m Aaron,” he said. There are a bunch of cheers and chants that teams do in between points. Daniel said that these are never taught; players instead learn them on the fly. “They are nonsensical and amp you up,” he said. I asked him to give me an example of a cheer, and Aaron and Daniel began rhythmically chanting. Daniel made a fist and started hitting the table to make a beat. I am unsure of how to spell any of the words from the chant or explain what they meant. I can say with confidence, however, that the cheer did hype me up. Aaron said that there’s no varsity level of the sport, no official recruitment, and no referees. The lack of referees puts the responsibility on players to make the right call. The game relies on people trusting one another’s judgment, which is very different from other competitive sports. Aaron said that the lack of institutional hierarchy makes the sport anti-authority and therefore more inclusive. This somewhat countercultural aspect of the sport is one of the reasons why he loves it so much. It also lacks many of the skill barriers that other sports have. It is physically less taxing than other sports and Henry said that in order to play Ultimate, all you really need to know how to do is throw a forehand or backhand. Henry added that he only knew how to throw a backhand for the first several months when he began playing on P-Funk, and now he is competing on the second best Ultimate team in the country. To Daniel, frisbee is an activity, a community, and an escape. Aaron explained that the sport adds a break in his day, which has been good for his mental health. The practices are a great opportunity to workout while hanging out with your friends, he said. Today, it’s mid-November and I’m watching a practice on the Berylson Family Fields where the football team practices. Some of the players are wearing knit hats and gloves to keep warm. In between plays, one player pats another on the back. They look at each other and smile between rosy cheeks, then turn back to the game. I’m not sure if I’ll ever enter the black hole of Ultimate Frisbee, but after talking to Henry, Aaron, Daniel, and Bella, I can see why Nora never returned. Perhaps she is learning new throws, enjoying chicken fingers on Fridays, or signing the lease on a new Frisbee House.

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