On our Minds
Written by Isabel Ames, Diana Sanchez, and Adelle Drake
Illustrations by Poppy Thomas
Isabel Ames, Editor
Luna
I have a friendship that could be its own little functioning economy, an abundant flow of goods and services. We realized this the day the election was called, when we exchanged vows to read all the best-known feminist theorists and then promptly marched ourselves to the library. We each checked out a copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Second Sex” and rejoined in her apartment later that evening to begin reading.
I sat on the carpet in between her knees while she sat just above me on the sofa, combing my dirty brown hair. I read aloud to her like that for a while. We mused at our mundane moment of reciprocity, at how it has always been this way between us. Like when I brought over my drill and we taught ourselves how to wield it, securing heavy wooden shelves to her bedroom wall. Like how she fed me congee with chili oil afterwards. Like how many of my clothes are her old ones. Actually, I find it a bit embarrassing that on any given day, probably something I’m wearing used to be hers. Like in our pooling of ingredients to make cookies. I bring the sugar and the chocolate chips, and a pair of my sneakers with broken soles for her to please fix.
That copy of “The Second Sex” is still sitting on her wooden shelf, collecting late library fees. Even still, here in our borrowing, bartering, owing each other and never keeping track, I consider it to be something like resistance.
Diana Sánchez, Editor
Elena Ferrante’s “Neapolitan Novels”
Since November, I’ve been completely absorbed by Elena Ferrante’s “Neapolitan Novels.” The series follows the lifelong friendship of Elena and Lila, two girls raised in a small town in southern Italy. As Elena narrates their history - from their childhood and the beginning of their friendship to their adolescence and beyond - we see how they both construct their identities in relation to each other. I am fascinated by how one can so easily see themselves through the assumed lens of another while simultaneously placing that person on the highest pedestal.
Through her novels, Ferrante defines long-lasting female friendships almost as a first love. She places great emphasis on the codependence young girls develop, trying to experience every “first” together - a childhood boyfriend, a kiss, falling in love, sex, marriage or academic success. Their friendship illustrates how one can be known so deeply and the complications that it entails. Last semester, I would talk to my therapist more about my female friendships than I would about my boyfriend, and she would look at me funny and say, “It’s funny - you talk about this as if it were a relationship.” Yes - what else could it be?
My best friend has known me since I was five years old. In many ways, she knows me better than I know myself. She has witnessed every stage of my life and understands everything I’ve been through - no foreword or explanation needed. How can one even begin to compare that bond to any other?
Adelle Drake, Co-Creative Director
Silence
It was 8:00 a.m. in Hallstatt, Austria and the town was as still as the water before me. I sat on a wooden bench and gazed in awe of the endless jagged peaks that tightly hugged the crystal lake. I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I enjoy silence - moments where I listen to my surroundings only to hear nothing at all.
As my hands rested on the weary planks of the bench, my mind wandered to the quiet meadow I encountered on a hike the day before. The grass was covered with a thick blanket of snow, delicately painted with patterns of animal prints. Yet the vast forest was entirely silent, not a leaf rustled or bird chirped.
A dog barked distantly from the east side of the lake and I was abruptly brought back to the worn bench beneath my legs. The sound pierced my ears, and for a moment I resented that dog for breaking my sweet silence. The dog’s voice quickly traveled to the west side of the lake, and the sound was returned to his ears through an echo. Alas, he barked again in response to his own call he heard from the west.
Upon hearing the dog talk in circles with himself, I couldn’t help but think of the silent meadow again. I am accustomed to listening to what I create, constantly responding to the human sounds that exist in the echochamber of my daily life. Without these familiar sounds, the pounding steps of my steps or the vibration of my voice, I hear silence. Yet, a silent nature is not a complete one.
When I think about the meadow at sunset, I imagine sounds of the wilderness settling in for the night. The black woodpecker flutters to its nests in a towering evergreen tree, and the red deer searches for thawed vegetation under the thick coat of snow. I am drawn to a new practice of listening - attuning myself to difference as a way to connect with the natural world.
