{"id":153693,"date":"2021-07-22T11:58:54","date_gmt":"2021-07-22T15:58:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=153693"},"modified":"2021-07-22T12:11:07","modified_gmt":"2021-07-22T16:11:07","slug":"other-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/","title":{"rendered":"& Other Stories"},"content":{"rendered":"

In Eloghosa Osunde\u2019s column\u00a0Melting Clocks<\/a>, she takes apart the surreality of time and the senses.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Eloghosa Osunde, At the Beach in Your Dream<\/em>, 2020, mixed media.<\/p><\/div>\n

If you really think about it, we were all raised inside a giant dictionary. Society as we know it is simply a collection of shared definitions. Who is normal? What is beauty? Who is a criminal? What is a woman? What is a man? What is good love? What is sex? What is fair? Who is holy? What is evil? The more you agree with the definitions you\u2019ve been given, the more you belong. The more you belong, the farther away you are from punishment. And you want to be safe in this scary place, don\u2019t you? So you do what you\u2019re supposed<\/em> to do, and you avoid what leads to suffering. You don\u2019t want to be lonely either, do you, so you believe the rule: there\u2019s nothing but nothing for you outside the defined lines. You\u2019re told this from when you\u2019re little, that your questions will put you in trouble, that you are and will always<\/em> be too small to challenge a meaning. You\u2019re just one person and this is how it works: society decides, you obey. But is that true? Seeing as many of us are alive on the outskirts of definitions, seeing as that\u2019s the address that saved some of our lives, the place where we watch our safeties spring out of the ground, it\u2019s clear that whatever was defined can be redefined. Whatever was written by a person for a people, can be edited by a person or a people. We\u2019re proof. What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.<\/p>\n

Art making is my strongest argument for redefinition, because nothing shows you the lie of impossibility and the multiplicity of worlds better than a body of work standing where once there was nothing. You don\u2019t know how to turn Something into Something Else? Listen to what a remix does to a song: how in African Lady<\/em>, an ADM remix, TMXO lays Masego\u2019s music over a Lagbaja sample, rubbing two worlds against each other until they spark a three-minute-fifty-seconds long fire. Listen to the Red Hot + Riot<\/em> album made in honor of Fela\u2019s music and enter the rooms that appear when Meshell Ndegeocello, Manu Dibango, Sade Adu, Kelis, Common, Tony Allen, and D\u2019Angelo are invited to the same house party. Or watch Janelle Mon\u00e1e\u2019s Dirty Computer<\/em> and notice the world you hold too tight become subsumed in an alternate reality, another now. Watch the Greek film Dogtooth<\/em> and remember how you were taught to see; see how every manipulation has its genesis in language, how language reshapes the cornea and whatever stands before it. Read The Memory Police<\/em> by Y\u014dko Ogawa and register what feels familiar about the premise; where have you seen that before? It\u2019s strange, isn\u2019t it, to know that what we remember is also a collaboration. Find all five remixes to Rema\u2019s \u201cDumebi\u201d [Vandalized, Major Lazer, Henry Fong, Becky G, Matoma]. All these unalike branches, growing out of the same tree. You think language is set in stone? Listen to a Nigerian talk a person to the fringes of their own English using pidgin\u2014a genius composition. Strict binaries and genre are real until you watch DJ Moma play a New York club or DJ Aye play a Lagos night. Technically a thing like that should <\/em>be impossible\u2014continents ejecting you onto the same dance floor, that voice meeting this synth, the low wail of a bass guitar free-falling through the deep grunt of an ancient drum: jazz meets Afrobeats meets house meets alternative meets grime meets highlife meets soukous\u2014but there you are, all of a sudden, thinking, Wait, who said these things can\u2019t belong together? <\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Two months ago, when a fraction of my chosen family and I gathered to talk about the things we\u2019re often discouraged from saying in public, one of us named that space\u2014my living room couch\u2014The Womb. I didn\u2019t ask why because I didn\u2019t need to; I know Whose it was. It fit. We all belonged inside it in a way that everything outside my door claims is impossible. It makes sense to me to miss being carried in safewater, it makes sense to me to feel yourself being (re)made, (re)gaining realness\u2014later and now and before, all at once. Womb<\/em> is a word that made me wince for a long time. That time includes now, and the reasons are still just mine. But a word means one thing until it gets a chance to mean another. The promise of being born again appealed to me for a reason, after all. That February in twenty-fourteen, the church didn\u2019t even have to try hard. Said once as a promise, and I was already on my knees saying Yes Please, Yes. So, in the dark of The Womb, there were stories shared over palm wine and smoke that are still behind my ribs. Everyone was truth telling and the room shimmered with an earned sweetness. In response to one of those stories, we shuffled truth about our shadows, about the darker parts of ourselves we\u2019d folded away for at least two and a half decades because it was that urgent to be A Good Person. We admitted the reasons we all fight so hard for the word Good<\/em>, the reason we answer when it is called and try to claim it like a name, how frightened we are of Bad<\/em>. I\u2019m trying something new: asking myself if the choice I want to make is matched with a consequence I can live with, instead of if it\u2019s good or bad. We talked more about how much we tuck in, how even in grief, there is a correct way to feel the weight, there are feelings we\u2019re still not allowed to admit having. But not-allowed means hiding, even from yourself; and hiding is exactly why Yaa Gyasi\u2019s Transcendent Kingdom<\/em> insisted on disassembling me recently. A humbling feeling, being turned inside out like that. Also a kind of kindness. \u201cYou know when a story sees the things you\u2019ve been hiding from yourself?\u201d Yeah, that. This time, nothing was off the table, not even when it started shaking; not even when one leg fell off. So in response to \u201cWait, are we allowed to say these things out loud?\u201d I said, \u201cWell, here we are.\u201d I can\u2019t vouch for anywhere else in the world, but where I live, the only commandment is that there are no commandments. Be true, is the only rule. Put the lie on that rack, take off the uniform they insist you wear when you\u2019re outside\u2014and just be true. This is not always a beautiful or weightless thing. When you ask for truth, sometimes heavy things get said. Heavy things got said. So two weeks after The Womb had closed and we\u2019d all been born again, in response to: \u201cDo you ever get lonely?\u201d (living differently, living outside, fashioning a life), I played Obongjayar\u2019s \u201cCarry Come Carry Go\u201d to the person who asked this in my car. Even now, recalling it, I can see the road get stretched insanely by the hook. The answer is that feverish bridge; the answer is the way he moves on the track; it isn\u2019t just what is said, it\u2019s in how it\u2019s shivered onto the beat, almost wept. The answer to what helps and holds me, what restores me to myself is also inside sound: \u201cGood\u201d by Sutra, \u201cGet Free\u201d by Mereba, \u201cBordeaux\u201d by SuperJazzClub, \u201cNgeke Balunge\u201d by Mafikizolo, \u201cGiant Steps\u201d by John Coltrane, \u201cUnspoken Word\u201d by the Soil. More, more.\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

*<\/em><\/p>\n

There are multiple exits out of what is often referred to as Real Life on a daily basis, if you\u2019re really paying attention. You probably fall in and out of your life regularly: between deep belly laughs at the dining table, or in clubs, bass beating against the small of your back. You do it when you\u2019re watching a film that sucks you in or reading a book that pulls you deep into the corridor on the inside of your body, because imagination is a place. Distraction is a place. But you come back to, crawl right into the present so quickly, so casually that it\u2019s hard to know what you\u2019ve just done. Some of us have been there longer than others. I would know, having dissociated for years at a stretch, consistently moving at at least zero point zero two seconds ahead of myself, always catching up. I come to when I catch it, because I need me. Plus, you\u2019re meant to <\/em>snap out of stories and realms that are too fleshed out, too fantasy seeming, because people who believe stories and alternate realities too much and for too long see things that are not there, see things others can\u2019t see, are called insane. Well, I used to fear that word until I was that. Until people I love were that and my love still met them there. Now I can\u2019t care. There are a thousand reals vibrating in formation at any given moment and I\u2019m open to many. We choose what we plug in to. The rest is the rest.<\/p>\n

Words have synonyms and antonyms, for depth of meaning, yes\u2014the meaning of a word thickens next to its partner or companion, its opposite or opponent, because just like you, language needs company. But my favorite thing about language is that it responds to how it\u2019s used. It can be anything, really: from a cave or an obstacle to the bridge between lives, the road between worlds. Redefinition is<\/em> relocation. It\u2019s why the easiest way to get Somewhere Else is to name it like something real. I was raised to worry about right or wrong. I cared until I was labeled wrong and did not die. So I tell myself: don\u2019t worry about being good; just be as intentional about destruction as you are about creation. Do not create anyone, do not destroy anyone. Understand this and no need to run: nothing on the inside of you can swallow you from there if you keep an eye on it. Keep an eye on it. Anyone can change. Forgive your fumbling. People who don\u2019t change don\u2019t change because they trust the dark label like they would a name. Only your name is your name. When people tell you a word can only mean one thing, they are telling you\u2014subtly, too\u2014that change is impossible. It\u2019s not true. Destroy that idea. Create another truth. A word can mean something new because language is still and always being made. It\u2019s why you can take a word like Vagabond<\/em>\u2014weaponized by the law of your land in real time\u2014 name your work after it and still be here. It\u2019s a kind of rhythm making, this; the synthesis of your internal soundtrack. Another word that might fit here is: chaos<\/em>. And another: freeing<\/em>. You are free.<\/p>\n

Forgive yourself for acting like you\u2019ve never met yourself. Forgive yourself for sweating in the pursuit of importance, of acceptance. Forgive yourself for growing spikes when ashamed. Forgive your stubbornness. Forgive yourself for being more willing to die than fight, then forgive the defeats you stacked up inside. Forgive you for how tired you are. Forgive you for not knowing better. Then for knowing better and not yet being able to do better. For your hiding and running, for the suffocating disguises. For the secrets you still keep from you. For the times you unbecame yourself for someone else\u2014a partner, a parent\u2014because you were trying to become real, desirable, a shame to lose. Forgive you for the size of your love (you needn\u2019t repent). Forgive you for the hands (they weren\u2019t even yours). Forgive you for believing in anything that called you forbidden, for kneeling before whatever tagged you a sin. Forgive you for deceiving your head, for thinking the lie made you matter, more solid, more indestructible. Forgive you for breaking your heart, for lashing out, for falling apart, for losing your mind. You are here now. Let this matter more. A different now is close enough to exhale on you.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

What does fiction do for me? It allows me to see what has been made, just as it is. It reminds me that if there are seven billion of us, there are seven billion ways to experience the world, seven billion valid iterations. The systems do what the systems do, and the kindest thing I can think to do for anyone I love is to follow them to the end of their desire, is to go with them to the beginning of their imagination\u2014that place where I wish <\/em>turns into I want<\/em>. I listen to my loved ones when they say: I wish<\/em> this was a world in which I could decide not to have kids. I wish<\/em> I could decide not to get married. I wish<\/em> this world was kinder to queer people. I wish <\/em>we\u2019d all take friendships more seriously. I wish<\/em> this world was fair to neurodivergent people. I wish. I wish. There\u2019s so much I still wish for, too, but also so much I have now only because someone stayed with me past a question mark. What would you be like if you had room? <\/em>I try to ask that often. When they start describing it\u2014I\u2019d live with my friends; I\u2019d treat my partner more kindly because I\u2019ll at least be allowed<\/em> to love them; I\u2019d just not get married; I\u2019d just be an aunty or uncle instead of trying to be a parent; I\u2019d share resources with people around me; I\u2019d put way less emphasis on money and more on community building\u2014I watch what dawns on all of us. Maybe it\u2019s not possible for us to have everything right here right now, the world being what it is, but it\u2019s not true that we can\u2019t get closer to what we want. It\u2019s not true that none of it is accessible. Your hope is the perfect size, so no point waiting, sometimes. Because what is society anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We make it up.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s hard to remember this, because some feelings are so particular, so precise that you think no one will ever know what it feels like under your skin; but there\u2019s a song for every feeling and a story for every situation for a reason. It\u2019s how we get through. Maybe your life tells you that you\u2019re right about being unseeable at the moment. Maybe that\u2019s what you found to be true with people. Good thing stories can go everywhere then. Wasn\u2019t it a book that reminded me recently that I have the spine it takes to stand up to my life? This life is massive, and of course. Massive and on course. It was a song that reminded me, too, some nights ago what a privilege it is that what I call family without flinching is a fiction I made; that there is a group of people who bear the truest witness of my life; that I get to live out the impossible. It\u2019s only because of stories and music and art and love that I\u2019m able to remind me how free I am to act in favor of myself and how free I am to not. I\u2019m free to reach for more and I\u2019m free to not. When I put it that way, I know what I choose.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

One of the first definitions I remember learning is from primary school. \u201cCulture,\u201d the teacher said, \u201cis a way of life.\u201d We repeated it after her; a simple sentence. As long as we\u2019re alive, there\u2019ll be other ways of life being made as we breathe. Some of them can be ours. It\u2019ll just require us to take what we see and want and wish for seriously. If I say that I am free to dream and I\u2019ve dreamed a world with decentralized power, a much slower pace, more kindness, a timeline in which people can fall apart and hibernate, where rest isn\u2019t a luxury, where gender is an abundant harvest instead of two darkly rigid lanes, where sanity is not the measure of worth, where no one is an outcast and we\u2019re all responsible for each other, where friendships can survive mistakes and tension, where thick love is commonplace, where I can hold my love close no matter the skin they\u2019re in, then I\u2019m free to test run that way of life on myself and my relationships. I\u2019m free to do it now, because now\u2019s when I\u2019m alive. That won\u2019t always be true, but I\u2019m here now <\/em>and that hereness is sometimes a vehicle, sometimes a tool.<\/p>\n

We were all raised in a giant dictionary, yes, and<\/em> we\u2019re more able to move out if we can find somewhere else to go: a where, a how, and a who to be with there. We find somewhere elses by making up and living out freeing fictions\u2014even in small clusters. When we ground our faiths in the right not-yet-reals, when we look at the nonlinearity of time, we see how right here<\/em> the future has been since yesterday, how we\u2019re always practicing it in fractions now. Aliveness has always been a staring contest between us and time. We know that. No one blinks with you when you do. We know that. It\u2019s costly, this, always\u2014a life has to be\u2014but what I know for sure is this: there are always other words and other definitions, always other worlds and other locations. To know this is to see this, too: we can<\/em> grow the spines we need to stand up for our lives.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eloghosa Osunde is a writer and multidisciplinary artist. Her debut work of fiction, <\/em>Vagabonds!<\/a>, will be published by Riverhead Books in March 2022.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2095,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68284],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-153693","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-melting-clocks","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1000\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"667\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Eloghosa Osunde\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Eloghosa Osunde\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"16 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Eloghosa Osunde\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/6a997c56d59fd56530f5119d7ed4f4ad\"},\"headline\":\"& Other Stories\",\"datePublished\":\"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\"},\"wordCount\":3105,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Featured\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Melting Clocks\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\",\"name\":\"& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00\",\"description\":\"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"& Other Stories\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/6a997c56d59fd56530f5119d7ed4f4ad\",\"name\":\"Eloghosa Osunde\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/980128895d945e2b8f9c7ea974e14542ec3b3ee00314ac9477212f774f039fb7?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/980128895d945e2b8f9c7ea974e14542ec3b3ee00314ac9477212f774f039fb7?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Eloghosa Osunde\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/eosunde\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde","description":"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde","og_description":"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00","article_modified_time":"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1000,"height":667,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Eloghosa Osunde","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Eloghosa Osunde","Est. reading time":"16 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/"},"author":{"name":"Eloghosa Osunde","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/6a997c56d59fd56530f5119d7ed4f4ad"},"headline":"& Other Stories","datePublished":"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00","dateModified":"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/"},"wordCount":3105,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg","keywords":["Featured"],"articleSection":["Melting Clocks"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/","name":"& Other Stories by Eloghosa Osunde","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg","datePublished":"2021-07-22T15:58:54+00:00","dateModified":"2021-07-22T16:11:07+00:00","description":"July 22, 2021 \u2013 What is society, anyway? It\u2019s an anthology of someones. We make it up. We have always made it up.","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/at-the-beach-in-your-dream.jpg"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/07\/22\/other-stories\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"& Other Stories"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/6a997c56d59fd56530f5119d7ed4f4ad","name":"Eloghosa Osunde","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/980128895d945e2b8f9c7ea974e14542ec3b3ee00314ac9477212f774f039fb7?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/980128895d945e2b8f9c7ea974e14542ec3b3ee00314ac9477212f774f039fb7?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Eloghosa Osunde"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/eosunde\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/153693","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2095"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=153693"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/153693\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":153707,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/153693\/revisions\/153707"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=153693"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=153693"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=153693"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}