The ground freezes in winter and makes it hard to bury dead dogs and I think a new war will hit the Middle East before the snow melts and—sorry, I’m just telling you things. December is the season for things; this is the season for promises. Frozen to the cores of our appendixes, we grit our teeth and make pledges that we hope we’ll keep when the weather turns and we soften again and when it gets easy to sit on the stoop and when your neighbors and you get to talking and laughing at how seriously you took your shivering selves. But we don’t keep January promises, so screw ‘em.
Five years ago, blinded by the smoke of twenty tiny flames, the editors of the Indy made a promise to be loyal to fair Providence. These days we wouldn’t promise that, as much as we’d like to. We’re college students, class starts in half an hour, and we hate making promises we could never even keep.
This year will be our twenty-fifth so we’re arbitrarily putting in a moment of reflection. Nothing has stayed the same at the Independent in all these years. Our traditions always seem older in our minds. We think that sooner than we’re ready, nothing will be the same at the Indy we know now. So no promises from us, except this: we’re yours forever until further notice. We’re the climate change generation, after all. Welcome to Volume 30.—RS, SH & ZS