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The Virtual Issue
The Virtual Issue
The
NASSAU
LITERARY
REVIEW
Spring 2020
"The Virtual Issue"
Dear Readers,
Spring 2020 is a semester without precedent in the history of Princeton. Because of the
COVID-19 crisis, many of us have had to pack up and leave campus with little time to
say goodbye. Others, with homes across borders, have been forced to stay with little
indication as to when a return home might be possible. Some, with summer positions
cancelled and no safe home to return to, have been thrust into housing insecurity, having
to negotiate on short notice how to afford to remain on campus over the summer.
The Spring 2020 issue is also unprecedented in the history of the Nassau Literary Review.
It will be the first issue published in full online (though eventually, we still intend to
go to print). For this reason, we are titling this issue “The Virtual Issue,” highlighting
not only its launch on a virtual platform, but also the many ways in which Nass Lit
staff collaborated virtually to bring the issue to life. This second half-semester was one
experienced almost entirely online, and though we are apart, we’ve done our best to
stimulate learning and togetherness. Still, a semester that was only virtually a semester
pales alongside a physically present one.
Although our submission period ended before most students were required to leave
The Nassau Literary Review is published semi-annually by students of campus, the work you will see here resonates eerily with our present experiences as well
Princeton University. Reproduction of any material in this magazine, except as with the concept of “virtuality.” Many of these pieces struggle with a deep sense of
for purposes of review or with the written permission of the editors, is strictly “almost” as they navigate daily life and relationships, searching for a completeness that
prohibited. cannot be found. Many depict characters wandering and returning, as if on difficult
journeys, as in Kadence Mitchell’s “glimpses, toward knowing and unknowing,” and
Copyright © 2020, The Nassau Literary Review, Thomas Dayzie’s “borne back.” In others, characters struggle with identity, wandering
ISSN 0883-2374 within themselves. As we travel across this issue, we find characters who transform into
foxes (Natalia Orlovsky’s “Fox Studies”); who gaze out of train windows for answers
Cover art “LET YOUR HAIR FLOW LIKE WATERFALLS OVER THE (Ayame Whitfield’s “stop me if you’ve heard this one before”); who grapple with family
MOUNTAIN THAT IS YOUR BODY” by Victoria Pan. (Meera Sastry’s “blizzard baby”); who struggle with grief (Tristan Collins’s “Porch
Light”). Where are we going? Away from love? Toward it? Back home, to the self? Or
into a new landscape entirely?
Beyond this issue, our staff has been hard at work documenting the experiences of this
pandemic. From our bedrooms and dorm rooms, we reviewed the art, books, movies,
TV shows, and music that have kept us sane for our column “What We’re Loving:
Quarantine Edition.” We also began a new series, “Shelter in Place,” for student writing
and art in response to the COVID-19 crisis. We hope you will find those at nasslit.com.
Perhaps this new virtual world may never be enough. But art has a way of transcending
the bounds of an often fraught reality. During this period of instability, it has helped us
return to some semblance of ourselves.
Shortform Editor Katie Tam ’21 Art Editor Emma McMahon ’21 Resident Artists Charity Young ’20
Shazia Babul ’20
Prose Editor Nancy Kim ’21 Assistant Art Editor Alison Hirsch ’23 Sophia Cai ’21
Thomas Bogaev ’22
Assistant Prose Ashira Shirali ’22 Art Team Sydney Peng ’22 Savannah Kreuger ’22
Editor Savannah Kreuger ’23 Syndey Peng ’22
Annabel Dupont ’23 Alison Hirsch ’23
Prose Readers Natasha Thomas ’20 Annabel Dupont ’23
Noa Greenspan ’20 Design Editor Riya Singh ’23 Andrew Pugilese ’23
Michael Milam ’20 Carolina Moore ’23
Hamza Hashem ’21 Copyeditors Emily Weiss ’22 Ellie Makar-Limanov ’23
Cameron Dames ’22 Lindsay Li ’23 Juliette Carbonnier ’23
Nancy Diallo ’22 Abigail McRea ’23
Sandra Chen ’23
Benjamin Jude ’23 Social Chair Noel Peng ’22
AnneMarie Caballero ’23
Eva Keker ’23 Publicity Chair Emily Perez ’23
Sreesha Gosh ’23
Lindsay Li ’23 Community Savannah Pobre ’23
David Borts ’23 Outreach Chairs
Cassandra James ’23
Table
of Art 9 Anna Hiltner
22 Eric Tran
Haku
How Long Will You Love Me?
Contents
23 Eric Tran Complements
30 Sydney Peng Old Man with Pipe
34 Juliette Carbonnier Hydra
43 Sydney Peng Bloom
52 Juliette Carbonnier 42nd Street
54 Sydney Peng Flower Girl
58 Abby De Riel Frozen in Time
Poetry 8 Ayame Whitfield stop me if you’ve heard this one 62 Juliette Carbonnier 96th Street
before 73 Eric Tran Swipe Card to Play
11 Jeremy Pulmano Honey
24 Kadence Mitchell glimpses, toward knowing and
unknowing
31 Meera Sastry blizzard baby What We’re 10 Rebecca Ngu Collaborative Playlists and “Gwan”
42 Ayame Whitfield identity theft Loving: 32 Bes Arnaout Oh Jerome, No and It’s Bruno!
Quarantine
53 Kadence Mitchell running man 59 Julia Walton Tomorrow (2015)
Edition
57 Anna McGee third dirge
61 Thomas Dayzie borne back
72 Ayame Whitfield american love song
Essays 26 Simone Wallk A New World Order: Exit West
and the Evanescence of
Migratory Life
Prose 12 Natalia Orlovsky Fox Studies 44 Cammie Lee Sculptecture: Quelling the
35 Cassandra James Dolores Sculpture-Architecture Dialectic
55 Lowell Hutchinson A Letter*
63 Tristan Collins Porch Light
AYAME WHITFIELD
Collaborative Playlists
and “Gwan”
REBECCA NGU
Fox Studies
the time I get there. He is labeling how afterwards, when we went to
DNA gel scans in fine-tip red watch half a John Oliver episode, he
marker and drinking what looks shrank into the frame of our couch
like a half-gallon of black coffee. Ji- and missed most of the punchlines.
NATALIA ORLOVSKY hoon is a postdoc, a self-proclaimed I count out centrifugation times
insomniac, and (according to Jenny) in my head. I do not think about
an all-around “friendly lab gremlin.” warning signs.
Sometimes, he disappears for days on
end. Occasionally, he pulls sixteen- ***
hour shifts and we find him napping In the week following the
in the department mailroom. I wave transformation, I take out
On the day that Miles turns into a or fruit on special occasions. I hello. His gaze flickers over me, subscriptions to twelve zoological
fox, I wake up sneezing. I lay curled catalogue the relevant contents of contemplative. He nods once and journals and set up text notifications
on my side, facing the nightstand. our refrigerator—leftover peach turns back to his papers. for every fox-related keyword I can
According to my alarm clock, it is cobbler, a chicken sandwich think of. I read about kit-rearing
6:18 a.m. I switch on the lamp on Miles snagged from a work lunch, I check my email. I skim three behavior, wintertime metabolic
my nightstand. I think, God, who and three wedges of spreadable abstracts. I forward one of them to shifts, and the ways in which foxes
gets allergies in November, and then cheese. I stick a post-it to the Miles, for when he turns back into apparently interact with Earth’s
I notice that the topography of our freezer door: Grocery shopping a person. I do not Google arctic fox magnetic field. There is no precedent
mattress feels all wrong, and I think, ASAP. Also PetSmart? behavior, or woke up with a fox this in the literature for my situation.
Where is Miles, and then I roll over. morning???, or boyfriend transformation
For several seconds, I stare at the “Should I call in sick,” I ask the fox, help. I plate mutant yeast colonies I also register for a vulpine enthusiast
arctic fox on my boyfriend’s pillow. “or will you be fine for a couple on nutrient deficient media and do internet forum, which promises to
The arctic fox on my boyfriend’s of hours?” He flicks the tip of his not imagine the fox licking three- deliver daily fox facts to my email
pillow stares back. I try to build a tail, indifferent. I feed him another day-old peach cobbler straight out inbox. I read them out loud to the
reasonable sentence in my head. It cheese wedge and leave the cobbler of the Tupperware. I pour several fox every morning, and he snuffles
falls apart. I blink it back together. I sitting out on the edge of the coffee protein gels to run in parallel. I label politely in response. Arctic foxes’
need to say something, but for some table. On my way out the door, I seventy-two Eppendorf tubes and bones are 30% lighter than dogs’;
reason all I can think is, Well, at least hesitate. The fox has moved to the color-code all of them. their paws are meant to spread their
it’s not seasonal allergies. armchair. There’s something in weight out like snowshoes; the
his stillness that’s so Miles it almost Jenny takes one look at my army weird chuckling sound they make is
“How’d you sleep?” I ask, finally. hurts. “I’ll be home soon,” I say, “I of culture tubes and asks me if called a gekker. This last one makes
The fox doesn’t say anything. love you.” And then I step outside something is wrong. She is perched me smile, if only because it feels
as fast as possible, before his silence on the edge of the heating unit. kind of like a bad Geico product
I get up. I make coffee. I take catches up to me. Gusts of warm air lift her hair in placement attempt. Apparently,
antihistamines. I pour milk into golden clouds. “No,” I say, “of foxes gekker all the time, in a broad
two cereal bowls on autopilot *** course not.” She can probably tell range of social contexts, but the fox
before I catch myself. The fox On the day that Miles turns into a I am lying. She is hard to navigate who naps in my boyfriend’s favorite
watches me from our bed, his fox, the bus I take to work comes around these days. armchair has never gekkered in my
ears tracking my movements like seven minutes late. I stand at the presence. I am not sure what to
lazy, triangular satellite dishes. I stop and stare at my reflection in My cells have begun to run out of make of this anomaly.
Google, what do I feed a fox. The a shop window. I tell myself: it’s nutrients. I split all eight of my lines
Internet suggests chicken, tinned okay. These things happen. They into fresh culture plates. I do not
dog food, and maybe some cheese must happen all the time. think about how last night Miles
Complements
ERIC TRAN
Dumb kids my father says Dumb girls Windshield wipers keep time
splintering. February & undergraduates skid & my father counts beats, counts
their car into ours. years since the girls were born, counts
From the passenger seat years since I was,
& through both windshields maybe counts further.
I recognize silently Somewhere thirty years ago. His first
the tenderness in one’s hand as she touches college snowstorm, watching the world
the other’s shoulder. My father scatter & become new
swears, hits his wrist just to know it happened.
on the wheel. We step swiftly out & we can’t see our parents
into a world young, & I don’t want to. I just want
with more terror. to see
So so sorrys tumble from the my father
dumb girls’ mouths as they shake flakes in awe.
off their cherry Docs. Tonight, somewhere lost
My father says is a consideration for winter. &
don’t apologize, you’re admitting blizzards, a heartbreak
you’ve done something wrong unimaginable in California.
in a voice that means they’ve done something Pink, yellow, so
wrong, that means warm. Sunlight’s sister gliding.
he never apologizes. A twilight, soft,
Snow melts into his worn loafers a little peace.
& is replaced unstoppably. My father’s eyes
Cars keep swiveling on the ground,
past the stopped ignition Mazda, while up near the trees
its brake lights shuddering snow falls
red into the slick ice. real slow
like magic.
TESHIMA
“Teshima Art Museum.” Benesse Art Site Naoshima. Accessed March 6, 2020.
http://benesse-artsite.jp/en/art/teshima-artmuseum.html.
42nd Street
JULIETTE CARBONNIER
The story "A Letter," written in response to "Flower," was the winner of Nass
Lit's first Ekphrastics challenge.
Tomorrow (2015)
JULIA WALTON
Frozen in Time
so on. It also attacks the problems which depend on each other. It’s
at hand at the roots in order a tall order. But, as the filmmakers
to explore solutions. Through show, many potential solutions
interviews with innovative already exist, and they start from
ANNA DE RIEL farmers, economists, lawyers, the ground up.
in my skull of skulls.
Horse-hoarded home, where
the beasts paw at the ground
Art had a rough three days. On It was Tuesday. Art dressed, ate a
Monday, he broke a plate. On bowl of plain cereal, and prepared
Tuesday, he broke his ankle, and for work. As he had not been
on Wednesday his mother died. diverted from his regular schedule,
he was able to remain calm. He
The plate was fairly insignificant. tied his shoes, attempted to smooth
It was a piece in a collection— the wrinkles that burdened his
one of many. Art had no idea coat with neglect as dents burden
where the collection came from, a vehicle, and let his eyes wander
but it existed in his apartment. It to the window. It was an overcast
was his property and, however October day. Violent trees were
insignificant, it was an extension superimposed on an oppressive
of himself. Losing it was not so gray sky, the sort of sky that seems
painful, but at night he did have intent on disillusioning the world
trouble sleeping. How strange it to all objects able to inspire a thrill
is that the slightest aberration can of emotion. Against such a sky, the
disrupt peace—a pinched nerve, objections of the foliage earned
the imprint of a whistle on silence. only unnecessary stress.
And the damage inflicted was
incomputable; perhaps a year of Art worked for an insurance
his life had been lost, or a week, agency. He had dedicated himself
or just a day. Breaking a plate is to the peacemaking trade, the
something like losing time. trade of peace. On his first day
of work, Art had endured and
In the morning, the memory of eventually enjoyed a lecture on the