Dear Readers,
Déjà vu floats among us today. At the top of my mind is the fact that this is the fourth, fifth, tenth time that I’ve sat down to write about my family this year. In an attempt to reconnect with the literary half of my brain that had been exercised solely on Wednesday evenings for the past couple years, I embarked on a journey into two writing workshops this semester—for those keeping track, that is two more writing workshops than I have ever taken in my life. One of these deals exclusively in weaving stories about those who we call family, the traumas that break us apart, the ties that bind us together, and most compellingly to me, the way that these relationships flourish and buckle when they are exposed to a reader’s eye. The main takeaway from today (perhaps an obvious one): it’s really hard to write about family without writing about other people. The ethics and morals of writing about other people is such a weird and wonderful web to be tangled within; how do we reduce these intricate, complex, vibrant people, often those we care the most and know the least about, to characters in a story?
It’s a challenge that our writers are brave enough to take on this week for our special Family Weekend edition. In Feature, Alissa thinks through the places she has called home and nesting instincts, the avian desire that overtakes us and urges us to share our homes with others. In Narrative, Benjamin introduces us to his grandparents through a trip around Providence—a juxtaposition of his origin and where he is now. Meanwhile, Emily’s piece shares vignettes of Hawaii, the paradise that us mainlanders know as a vacation spot but she knows as her home. In Arts & Culture, Isa reflects on her mother’s love that she inherited and which has blossomed into an innate desire to look out for others. In the other piece, Eleanor catches the train and hears all the sounds of this journey, from the rickety rails to the music her brother introduced to her. Lifestyle writers Nina and Michelle explore what it means to care, respectively sharing their love for letter writing and hugs, intimacies that communicate worlds and pierce deeply. Finally, post-pourri is focused on definitions as Rchin interrogates the meaning of bread and how communities form around these arbitrary distinctions.
This task, capturing the beautiful nuances of the people that shine so brightly in our lives, is no easy feat, yet it remains a noble one. It’s what I love so much about post- Magazine, this family that I’ve had the honor to call my own during my time at Brown. I’m feeling an extra special helping of déjà vu today as we print our first full edition of the magazine since the pandemic first disrupted our operations. The post-ghosts of yore—all of my brave and inspiring former EICs (shoutout Olivia, Kyoko, and Kimberly!), the animated, dynamic editors that taught me what community looks like, the writers and illustrators that have bared their souls to the world every single week—look upon us favorably today. This is the family that has created this tangible capsule of our hearts and minds that we can pick up and cherish and share with our friends and share with our family and request back and fold and bookmark and frame and read again and again and again. I implore you to do all of that and more with your very own copy of post-.
Part of the family,
Joe Maffa
Editor-in-Chief
